“What happened?”
“Well, you know Vinnie’s trademark has always been his high, quavery voice. We started rehearsing and every time Vinnie opened his mouth and tried to be serious, everyone began to laugh. It destroyed the old guy.”
“He was counting on this part, wasn’t he?” Toby asked.
The director shrugged. “Every actor counts on every part.”
Toby took Vinnie Turkel home with him and stayed with the old comedy star, sobering him up. “This is the best role you’ve ever had in your life. Are you gonna blow it?”
Vinnie shook his head, miserable. “I’ve already blown it, Toby. I can’t cut it.”
“Who says you can’t?” Toby demanded. “You can play that part better than anyone in the world.”
The old man shook his head. “They laughed at me.”
“Sure they did. And do you know why? Because you’ve made them laugh all your life. They expected you to be funny. But if you keep going, you’ll win them over. You’ll kill them.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon restoring Vinnie Turkel’s confidence. That evening, Toby telephoned the director at home. “Turkel’s all right now,” Toby said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“I know I haven’t,” the director retorted. “I’ve replaced him.”
“Un-replace him,” Toby said. “You’ve got to give him a shot.”
“I can’t take the chance, Toby. He’ll get drunk again and—”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” Toby offered. “Keep him in. If you still don’t want him after dress rehearsal, I’ll take over his part and do it for nothing.”
There was a pause, and the director said, “Hey! Are you serious?”
“You bet your ass.”
“It’s a deal,” the director said quickly. “Tell Vinnie to be at rehearsal at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
When the show went on the air, it was the hit of the season. And it was Vinnie Turkel whose performance the critics singled out. He won every prize that television had to offer and a new career opened up for him as a dramatic actor. When he sent Toby an expensive gift to show his appreciation, Toby returned it with a note. “I didn’t do it, you did.” That was Toby Temple.
A few months later, Toby signed Vinnie Turkel to do a sketch in his show. Vinnie stepped on one of Toby’s laugh lines and from that moment on, Toby gave him wrong cues, killed his jokes and humiliated him in front of forty million people.
That was Toby Temple, too.
Someone asked O’Hanlon what Toby Temple was really like, and O’Hanlon replied, “Do you remember the picture where Charlie Chaplin meets the millionaire? When the millionaire is drunk, he’s Chaplin’s buddy. When he’s sober, he throws him out on his ass. That’s Toby Temple, only without the liquor.”
Once during a meeting with the heads of a network, one of the junior executives hardly said a word. Later, Toby said to Clifton Lawrence, “I don’t think he liked me.”
“Who?”
“The kid at the meeting.”
“What do you care? He’s a thirty-second Assistant Nobody.”
“He didn’t say a word to me,” Toby brooded. “He really doesn’t like me.”
Toby was so upset that Clifton Lawrence had to track down the young executive. He called the bewildered man in the middle of the night and said, “Do you have anything against Toby Temple?”
“Me? I think he’s the funniest man in the whole world!”
“Then would you do me a favor, dear boy? Call him and tell him so.”
“What?”
“Call Toby and tell him you like him.”
“Well, sure. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow.”
“Call him now.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s waiting for you.”
When the executive called Toby, the phone was answered immediately. He heard Toby’s voice say, “Hi.”
The young executive swallowed and said, “I—I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re great.”
“Thanks, pal,” Toby said, and hung up.
The size of Toby’s entourage grew. Sometimes he would awaken in the middle of the night and telephone friends to come over for a gin game, or he would awaken O’Hanlon and Rainger and summon them to a story conference. He would often sit up all night running movies at home, with the three Macs and Clifton Lawrence and half a dozen starlets and hangers-on.
And the more people there were around him, the lonelier Toby became.
22
It was November, 1963, and the autumn sunshine had given way to a thin, unwarming light from the sky. The early mornings were foggy and chilling now, and the first rains of winter had begun.
Jill Castle still stopped in at Schwab’s every morning, but it seemed to her that the conversations were always the same. The Survivors talked about who had lost a part and why. They gloated over each disastrous review that came out and deprecated the good ones. It was the threnody of losers, and Jill began to wonder if she were becoming like the rest of them. She was still sure that she was going to be Somebody, but as she looked around at the same familiar faces, she realized they all felt the same way about themselves. Was it possible they were all out of touch with reality, all of them gambling on a dream that was never going to happen? She could not bear the thought of it.
Jill had become the mother confessor to the group. They came to her with problems, and she listened and tried to help; with advice, a few dollars or a place to sleep for a week or two. She seldom dated because she was absorbed in her career and she had not met anyone who interested her.