Free Getting Garbo by Jerry Ludwig

Darnell was understudying had the flu, so Roy was going on and I could say hello when he came out.
    It was still a little early as I got to the Ethel Barrymore Theater. When I stepped out of the baking sun into the shadowy shelter of the stage door alley, there was one other person there. A mulatto girl with frizzy blonde-streaked hair, wearing dungarees and a black blouse. She was four, five years older than me, and she was perched on an orange crate, leaning back against the wall near the stage door. She was smoking a cigarette and softly singing Teresa Brewer’s hit song that you heard everywhere then: “Dum-dee-dum-dee-daddee-dum, all I want is loving you and music, music, music…” When she saw me, she stopped singing and offered me a cigarette. I told her I’d quit. “More like y’forgot t’start, right, missy?” She had a real nice smile. You had to smile back at her.
    Her name was Tamar and she asked me what I was doing there. Told her I was an autograph collector and that tickled her some more. She wanted me to show her my book and when she saw I had John Garfield and Lena Horne, that really kayoed her. Not that she didn’t see stars all the time herself. Tamar was the assistant wardrobe mistress on Streetcar and she was out here grabbing a smoke before going back in to collect the costumes after the performance.
    â€œJust gotta keep track of ’em,” she explained. “Hardly ever wash them clothes, them actors play some pretty gamy characters, know what I mean?”
    I nodded like I did. But I didn’t really know what Streetcar was about until I saw the movie a few years later. I seized the opportunity to get the inside scoop and asked Tamar what Roy Darnell was like backstage. She thought about it. “Little sloppy, Roy. Tends to drop his costume on the dressing room floor, but I chastised him, in a nice gentle way, o’course, and he’s a doll now.”
    That’s when the idea came up. Tamar glanced at her watch. “Gotta go in pretty soon, but—hey, wanna come with me? See what it looks like backstage, watch the curtain calls from the wings?”
    I couldn’t believe it. “Sure,” I said, “if I won’t be in the way.”
    â€œThen let’s go. But Doc, the snoopy ol’ doorman, won’t let you in here so we gotta go in the alley door on the other side of the theater.”
    We went around the front to the other alley, but before we went in there Tamar remembered that she’d promised to bring back a carton of cigarettes for Marlon Brando. “Got ’em upstairs.” She pointed at her apartment, over there, in one of the rundown tenements a few doors down the street. “Just take a second, c’mon, hurry girl, we don’t wanna miss the curtain call.”
    Tamar slapped her palm on the buzzer panel, pressing several of the buttons, and laughed. “Gets some of the neighbors pissed when I do this,” she confided, “oughta use my key, but this way be faster.” She got an answering buzz and shoved open the door. We went up to the second floor landing. From above, a voice asked who’s there? “Jus’ me, sorry t’bother ya,” Tamar called back. A door slammed. Tamar put her index finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and then she sat down on the top step. She patted a spot beside her. I didn’t know what we were doing, but I sat down. She looked deep into my eyes, like she was searching for something.
    â€œWhere y’live? What part a’ the city?” she asked.
    â€œBrooklyn. East New York–Brownsville.”
    â€œI hear you folks ain’t been treatin’ my people good out there. You been treatin’ ’em like they a buncha niggers!”
    â€œI—I—” I phumphed. Tamar slapped me across the mouth. Real hard, I tasted blood.
    â€œDon’ lie to me, you lil’ Jew bitch! Lemme see that watch.”
    I