Free The Autograph Hound by John Lahr

it—the jingle of spurs. My neck aches. My palms go damp. I peek up the stairwell. Garcia! What’s he doing here? He’s handing cheroots to Victor and Anthony! They’re smiling. I have to get out!
    Luckily, my sneakers don’t clatter. I’ve got suction grip for fast starts. I back away. There’s no cashier at the entrance to the peep show, only a change machine and a black velvet curtain, otherwise I’d be too embarrassed to go in. It’s dark behind the curtain. But through the seam I can see Garcia coming closer.
    I feel a body.
    â€œWell, what have we here?”
    â€œSsssh, mister. I’m being chased.”
    â€œOh … a hush puppy.” The man puts his hand down my backside. “I suck cock,” he whispers.
    Garcia’s passing by. The machine’s breathing loud. “Oooh. Oooh. That’s good. Deeper.” He stops to listen. I freeze. The man’s hand’s on my shoulder now. “Pretend I’m your fairy godmother,” he says.
    Garcia and the boys walk away.
    â€œLook, my friend,” he says. He’s unzipped his fly. He’s pulling his corporal out to show me. “The magic wand.”
    I push the curtains aside and run towards the staircase. My Mets cap falls off. I stop to pick it up. The man’s waving me back into the dark. “Come back, darling. I’m good. I’m good.”
    Garcia’s cigar still stinks up the stairway. The sign reads—
    SCREEN FEMMES
    Direct Your Own Scene
    $25 an Hour
    Funny Fingers won’t follow me upstairs. There’s no talking on the set.
    Small production companies are springing up everywhere. It’s all you read in Variety . Not many of them are as well-equipped as Screen Femmes. The heart-shaped bed. The African jungle scene. The painted backdrop of the Vatican. There’s even a prop box—full of helmets, guns, ropes, coats. It’s the only way—begin on a shoestring and build it into an empire.
    â€œIt’ll cost ya, buddy,” the receptionist says.
    â€œBenny. Benny Walsh.”
    â€œThe price’s on the sign.”
    â€œI never pay for autographs. Stars don’t take money from strangers.”
    â€œMorrie, there’s a guy out here who wants to know if we’ve got any famous actresses on the set.”
    A Jew voice answers, the kind my mother dragged me away from on the beach. “O-sheeny-beach,” she’d say. “You wanna grow up like that? A belly so big you can’t see your wee-wee?”
    â€œTell him the guided tour starts at nine, Faye. I’m going out for a nosh .”
    â€œYou know why Jews are smart, miss? They read a lot as kids because nobody’ll play with them.”
    â€œListen, mister, we only have starlets at this hour of the day. The stars leave early, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œI bet you didn’t talk to Mr. Enrique Garcia that way.”
    â€œYou know that guy?”
    â€œWe work together at The Homestead.”
    â€œHe’s a long hitter.”
    â€œPuerto Ricans are better at baseball than acting.”
    â€œLook, you heard the boss—I just work here.”
    â€œI’ll tell you one thing, Miss Receptionist. When Screen Femmes hits it big, there’ll be changes. They’ll put somebody else behind the desk. Somebody who doesn’t chew, who knows language and the rudiments.”
    â€œOkay,” she says, swinging the wooden door open so I can pass through. “Look but don’t touch.”
    â€œI know better. Camera equipment’s very expensive.”
    â€œYou heard of Mitzi Gaynor? Joan Crawford?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThe girl in the corner’s been on location with them.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œThe blond in the long dress. With the ruffles. I’ll ask her over.”
    â€œI won’t take much of her time.”
    â€œLaurette, dear. Somebody wants to talk with you.”
    The actress