Free The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier Page A

Hotel, suite such and such. There’s a gentleman who wants to see you about a part.”
    I went over. Two guys were there, the producer and the director. We had a very brief talk, they looked me over a bit, and one of them said, “We’d like you to read for us.”
    I said, “Certainly.”
    They gave me a script, asked me to turn to a particular page, and gave me a few moments to look over the scene. When I thought I was ready, I said, “Okay.” They had me read the scene with the producer while the director watched.
    I felt good about the reading, though they didn’t say much about it. They asked me things about my life and what I had done in the business, and I told them. They gave me a script to take with me and said they would talk to Marty Baum. They thanked me for coming as I left.
    I went back and said to Marty Baum, “They gave me a script.” He said, “Well, read it. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll work out something.”
    I went straight home—127th Street, near Amsterdam Avenue—and I read the script. I didn’t like it. The part they wanted me for was a man who was a janitor for a gambling casino in Phenix City, Alabama. He was a very nice man, but there had been some kind of murder at the casino, and it was thought that this janitor might have some information that could incriminate whoever was responsible. He received threats and warnings to keep his mouth shut, so he didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. Then, to augment the threat, the bad guys killed his young daughter, throwing her body on his lawn. He was enraged. He was tormented. Still, he remained passive. He didn’t do shit. He left it to other people to fight his battles.
    So the next day I went back to Marty Baum’s office.
    “What do you think of the script?” he asked.
    “Well, I have to tell you, I’m not going to play it,” I said.
    Disbelief etched his face. “You’re not gonna play it?”
    “No,” I said. “I can’t play it.”
    “What do you mean you can’t play it?” he asked, irritated.
    “I cannot play it,” I repeated.
    “It’s not a derogatory part,” he pointed out.
    “No, it’s not.”
    “What happens to this guy isn’t a racial thing,” he said.
    “Not necessarily,” I agreed. “It could happen to any guy in that particular set of circumstances.”
    “So what is it?” he said. “I mean, is it…?” He paused, apparently trying to make sense of my response. “They don’t call you names, they don’t—” He went on to say they’re not doing this to you, they’re not doing that to you.
    I said, “Yeah, that’s all true.”
    “Then what is it?” he urged.
    “I can’t tell you,” I said, “but there’s something about it. I just don’t want to go into it.”
    So he said to me, “Well, listen, that’s the way it goes. But I still don’t understand.”
    I thanked him and left. Then I went over to 57th Street and Broadway, one flight up, to a place called Household Finance Company, and I borrowed seventy-five dollars on the furniture in our apartment, because I needed the money. The birth of our second daughter was fairly near, and I knew that Beth Israel Hospital was going to cost me seventy-five bucks, so I had to line up the money.
    Six months later I got a call. “Hello, Sidney Poitier?”
    “Yes,” I answered.
    “This is Marty Baum.”
    “Oh, yes, how are you, sir?” I said.
    “Fine. How are you? What are you doing?” he asked.
    I said, “I’m still in the restaurant, working.”
    He said, “You haven’t had any jobs as an actor?”
    “No, I haven’t,” I said.
    He said, “Come down. I want to talk to you.”
    So I went down to the Baum and Newborn offices, across from the Plaza. They had two or three other agents, and three or four secretaries. I went into Marty Baum’s private office, and he sat me down.
    “I don’t have a job for you,” he said, “but I asked you to come down because I wanted to say something to you.” He stared at me in silence for a