THE FAIRER SEX

Short Stories on Male Privilege

No. 8

The Casting Couch

'It’s long overdue that we expose this behaviour

and create environments where everyone feels safe

and can be productive at work.'

- Mikaela Kiner

Janie Barlow let the long-legged blonde enter first, then slipped inside while the doorman ogled the blonde's backside. Nearly there. She looked around. A few props; some chairs. Piano music. Thumping feet. Heigh-ho, the gang's all here, so let's have pretzels and let's have beer.

'No More Dancers Wanted' said the sign. Well, they needed Janie Barlow.

A mirror. She patted her hair, then entered.

A chorus line: arms swinging; legs kicking. Heigh-ho, the gang's all here, so let's have pretzels and let's have beer. A man was shouting instructions. He paced back and forth, his right arm swinging to the music. He was peremptory; exclamatory; impatient.

'Just a minute, where do you think you're going?' said a male voice. The owner of the voice stepped in front of her, hands on hips.

'Are you, er, Harley Winestone? The, er, dance director, I mean.'

'I'm Ted Healy, the assistant dance director.'

'Well I'm here to see your boss, Harley Winestone.'

'Sure you are, sister.

'I'm here for an audition.'

'Can't you read? No more dancers wanted! Pray allow me to escort you to the egress, milady.'

He mock-bowed, right forearm across stomach, left arm behind.

'Is that Harley Winestone over there?' Janie asked, squinting slightly, 'I can't see clearly from here; I'll need to get a bit closer.'

'You can see that he's awful busy, easily enough. It's the sign you need to get closer to - the one on the other side of that door. Try reading it this time.'

Janie Barlow removed her annoyed expression, and replaced it with one of adulation.

'Oh, so you're Ted Healy! I love your work! Anything Goes, right? How come you're an assistant? You can recognise talent for yourself, you don't need Harley Winestone. You're every bit as good as Winestone. Better. I wouldn't let Harley Winestone get all the credit.'

During this praise she fingered his jacket's lapel, as if admiring the herring-bone weave.

He grasped her roving hand by the wrist; it freed itself with a violent shake.

He looked her up and down.

'You're too long-in-the-tooth and too broad-in-the-beam', he said. Out you go'.

He took her upper arm.

'Don't touch me', Janie said, shrugging him off.

Back in the antechamber she sat down.

It was a tough grind. She was a natural dancer; a natural talent. She belonged on stage. She'd get there eventually. And she'd get top-bill eventually. All she needed was her Big Break. Persistence counted in the end. Don't take no for an answer.

'Alright, break it up, break it up!' clapped Harley Winestone.

The thumping feet and piano music ceased abruptly.

'Lunch one hour!' shouted Ted Healy.

Janie heard a male voice approaching the door from the other side. It said this: 'I don't agree - Dancing Lady's a tad old-fashioned, but it's got a cult following and should do rather nicely.'

This man entered the antechamber and came to an abrupt stop, so startled was he at the sight of the sobbing convulsions before him.

He sat down beside her.

'What on earth's the matter?' he asked.

Janie turned to look at the man.

'Oh. I thought you were Harley Winestone.'

The sobbing convulsions ceased, and she stood up.

'I'm Bob Casey, the producer of this show.'

She sat down, and the sobbing convulsions returned.

'Can I possibly be of any help?' asked Casey. 'Men hate to see a woman crying.'

Avuncular and imbued with old-world courtesy, Casey proffered the kerchief from his jacket pocket.

She took the kerchief and held it to her face, but turned from him.

'I've never been so humiliated', said Janie. 'That man was so rude.'

'Which man?'

'Ted Healy, the assistant dance director.'

Bob Casey grimaced at the door.

'You're a dancer?' he asked.

'Yes - I came here for an audition. He said I was too broad in the beam', she said, looking down at herself. 'And too long in the tooth.'

'Outrageous! You're entitled to your dignity. Now you just wait here, while I go and have a word with Harley Winestone.'

Bob Casey proceeded in high dudgeon to Winestone's office, where he found the man eating sandwiches at his desk.

'Harley, there's a dancer I'd like you to take a look at.'

'Don't you think I'm capable of picking my own dancers?'

'Take it easy. You just need to give her an audition. An honest audition, that is. No brush off.'

'I'm busy; I haven't got time to indulge your latest - '

'I resent that.'

'What's her name?'

'Janie Barlow.'

'Never heard of her.'

'I found her crying because of what that oaf of an assistant said to her.'

'You want me to give her an audition because she was crying. Ted probably caught her sneaking in here. They're always doing that. Interrupting rehearsals.'

'Well I don't know about that, but I'm sure some minor role will do.'

'I thought you said just give her an audition.'

'That's right. Audition her - and then give her a job.'

'Now look here. Remember what I told you when I took this job? I expect a free hand. I'll make an exception just this once, but there'll be no elephants in my show. If she's an elephant, she's out. All right.' Harley stood up, walked to the office door and shouted 'Ted!' The man came into the office. 'Send this Janie Barlow in here.'

After a couple of minutes, the aspiring chorine duly arrived.

'So you claim you're a dancer, huh?' Harley asked her.

She looked at Bob Casey, who laughed uneasily and opened his eyes to Harley.

'Don't let him intimidate you', said Bob, patting Janie on the shoulder. 'I'm sure you'll be fine. Well, I have a meeting to go to.'

Bob Casey left.

Harley motioned Janie to sit down.

She did so and crossed her legs, left over right, then after a few seconds it was right over left. A few more seconds, and it was again left over right. Her skirt struggled to cover the thighs that were sheathed in black nylon.

'I've got good legs', she said.

'So I've noticed.'

'Oh, it's so stuffy in here', she said, leaning toward the whirring fan that sat on Winestone's desk. She closed her eyes, exposing her purple eye shadow, bathing her face in the cooling draught. She beckoned to the air, her hands moving in slow motion. Strands of her hair stirred, and lifted to right and left. She tilted her head and smiled.

Harley watched her for several seconds with arms folded, then chuckled.

He said, 'You do realise there's only one thing that'll get you in this show, don't you.'

'What do you mean?' she said with an indignant tone.

'You like to dance?'

'More than anything in the world.'

'You have a résumé, I suppose?'

She took two sheets of paper out of her bag and handed them over.

Harley had seen this so many times - vagueness and euphemism. It usually meant exotic dancing of one sort or another. A high-school pageant as well. He suppressed a smirk.

'You've taken classes at the Contemporary Dance School across town.'

'Yes.'

'A rather bohemian place; I know it. You realise we're looking for tappers?'

'Of course. That's my speciality.'

'I wouldn't expect anything else. You may be a natural; you may be a flop. You never can tell. You might give everything you have, and still find it isn't enough.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Well, I tell you what. Let's see what you can do. You go on upstairs and get into you audition clothes.'

A few minutes later they re-assembled by the piano.

'Music?' asked the pianist.

'Forty-Second Street' said Janie.

Harley sat back and watched.

Come and meet those dancing feet . . .

Well, not too bad, thought Harley. Not as bad as he'd feared. She wasn't an elephant, at any rate. But not a gazelle either.

On the avenue I'm taking you to, Forty-Second Street . . .

She knew what she was doing. She'd studied dance, at least.

Hear the beat of dancing feet . . .

There was something just a little bit ungainly. Could he improve it? He wasn't sure. The routine also had some rough edges; it needed polish.

It's the song I love the melody of, Forty-Second Street.

Yes, ungainly was the right word. She tapped as if her feet were slightly bigger or slightly heavier than they truly were. Ruby Keeler came to mind. Not so obvious on shuffle, but wings might be a problem. Occasionally she lost timing. She also tended to look at her feet. That always annoyed him, dancers looking at their feet. Well, practise would put that right. Probably. He could work with her. Probably.

Naughty, bawdy, gaudy, sporty, Forty, Forty-Second Street.

She came to a stop, bending to rest her hands on her thighs and breathing noticeably. Out of condition; not an encouraging sign.

He was tempted to ask if she'd been clog dancing, but thought better of it.

A few seconds of silence ensued.

'Okay. I'll give you a chance', said Harley.

'Thank you!' said Janie, jumping up and clapping her hands.

'How soon are you available?'

'As soon as you like.'

'Okay, report for rehearsals 10am tomorrow. Ted, stick her in the middle line.'

'Yes, boss.'

Harley returned to his office, picked up his jacket and put his right arm into the sleeve.

Janie entered, and helped him on with his jacket.

'I want to say thanks for my big break', she said.

'You might not think it's so great once I've started working with you.'

*     *     *

By the end of the following week Harley thought he'd made a mistake; that her big break was in fact a damp squib; that he'd have to fire her. She dropped her heels. She leaned back too far. She forgot her steps. She wouldn't stop looking at her feet, no matter how many times he complained. She didn't smile enough. You can't tap dance unhappily, that's impossible; you've got to smile, but somehow she didn't. She concentrated on technique, rather than presentation and communication. Above all, she learned too slowly.

He raised his concerns with her.

'A dancer's allowed to make mistakes now and then', she said.

'In rehearsals.'

'These are a rehearsals.'

'You aren't making them now and then, either.'

Harley demonstrated the move. 'Let's run through this once more. Two shuffles to the right, spring on that, do a single shuffle step on the left and a cramp roll on the right foot.'

'There's no need to mansplain', she said tersely.

By the third week, though, he was pleased to discern a professional sheen appearing.

'I've been thinking things over', he said. 'I want to try you out in the Powell number'.

He'd cooked up a short homage to Eleanor Powell.

Janie managed the double pullbacks and leaps admirably, but she couldn't do the high kicks and she couldn't do the turns. She also had a rather obvious problem with the tacets. Then on the third attempt she staggered away, holding her right calf and with her face twisted in agony.

Picking her up, he carried her to his office where he placed her in a chair. Taking the other chair from behind the desk, he sat beside her and took her shoe off. He squirted some liniment on his hands, then raised her leg and ran his hand up and down her calf.

'Straight now', he said. 'That's it. Come on, keep it straight. This'll hurt a little. Let it go easy now. Wiggle your toe. Do some ankle circles.

She winced.

'Routine on that number's not too bad', he said.

'Thank you.'

'Even so, I'm sorry I asked you to do it. I don't think you're ready for something like that.'

'I know I can do it.'

'I'll use Judy for the Powell number, as I'd originally planned.'

'But you said I could have the Powell number.'

'I did not say that you could have the Powell number. I said that I'd try you out for the Powell number, but I don't think you're up to it.'

There were tears, then she ran from his office.

*     *     *

Two weeks before opening night.

Harley entered the café and sat at the breakfast bar. He opened the newspaper, but just sat there thinking.

There was tap on his shoulder.

'Well fancy seeing you here', said Janie as she took the neighbouring stool and sat down. 'Just a coffee, please', she said to the waitress.

'How's you calf?' he asked, looking down.

'As good as new', she said, smiling, looking down and twirling her foot..

'And remember, an advanced technique makes an advanced technician, not an advanced dancer.'

'Got it. I'm ready for another try at the Powell number, anyway.'

'It's too late now', he said. 'I've given it to Judy. You shouldn't feel like you've failed. You've come a long way, you ought to be content with that. Remember, the show has priority above everything else.'

'Oh, don't patronise me', she said, rolling her eyes.

'It's true nevertheless. The show is more important than anyone in it. That includes you and it includes me.'

That afternoon the whole cast watched as Judy danced the Powell number; when it concluded they all clapped. Once the chorus of appreciative comments had died down, Janie said: 'That was great, Judy. Then turning to Harley she added: 'What you said today at breakfast makes so much sense now.'

There were giggles among the assembled chorines.

Harley glanced at Ted: he found a salacious, impious, revolting grin. Well, he wouldn't give Ted the satisfaction of an embarrassed expression. Harley turned to look at Bob, to find embarrassment there instead.

That afternoon Harvey was sitting in his office talking to Ted, when Bob entered.

'You've found another crying dancer?' asked Harley.

'Not exactly', said Bob. 'A different matter entirely. I'll cut to the chase, Harvey. We can't afford a whiff of scandal. Any funny business may ruin Dancing Lady's prospects.'

'Funny business?' laughed Ted.

'After all the hoo-ha over #MeToo, we must all be extra vigilant. Men have all the power, and they mustn't misuse it - to manipulate women, I meant. We must remove these miscreants from the world of show biz once and for all. And to do that, we must believe what women say. That's what #MeToo has taught us. If there's anything between you and Janie - '

'There ain't.'

'Well, if there is - '

'There ain't.'

*     *     *

It was the day before opening night, and a party for all the cast was being held at the Hilton.

Janie approached Harley, smiling.

'I want to thank you for all you've done', she said. 'I've learned so much.'

'Shucks, it's all part of the job, ma'am.'

He saluted.

She spoke not to his face, but to the kerchief of red silk in his jacket pocket. Her fingertips teased the limp silk that, folded so carefully, formed three distinct peaks and which, plucked slightly, sprang back into place.

She bit her lower lip, while turning her gaze on Harley's mouth.

'It's just a pity you won't consider me for the Powell number.'

'I have considered you.'

'Well, re-consider me I mean.'

'It's a done deal now, anyway.'

'Not necessarily. Parts can still be changed after first night. I've seen it happen loads of times. It just depends. Things happen. Priorities change.'

She continued looking at his mouth. Several seconds of silence went by.

'I love my wife', he said.

Janie laughed affectedly.

'A man can play away from home, now and then', she said, her fingers returning to the silken pocket square.

She brushed some fluff from his jacket's shoulder.

Bob walked up to them.

'Hello, please excuse me for this vulgar but pleasingly brief excursus', he said to Janie, placing his hand on her shoulder. 'Harley, there are a few financial details about those costumes we need to finalise. I brought the paper work.'

'That's fine', said Harley. 'You'd best come up to my room. Shall we say 10pm?'

'What's your room number?'

'Four-fifty.'

'There, it was soon over', said Bob, turning to Janie. I say, that's a lovely dress. It's really quite exquisite.'

Janie's evening dress, which was lime-green, covered her right but not her left shoulder. A long glove of the same lime-green covered her left arm.

Harley looked her up and down, making an obvious display, inclining his head and leaning slightly, first to left, then to right.

'Do you like it?' said Janie, turning to Harley and twirling slightly.

'It's not too small - but I'd say you're in it rather a long way', he said. 'I wonder what the girl looks like who got the other half of it.'

A champagne cocktail  splashed across Harley's face.

Janie walked away.

Harley took the red-silk kerchief from his jacket pocket and began mopping his face.

'Why is it', said Bob, ' that when a woman is confident and self-assured, men feel free to denigrate her as immodest. I've warned you about sexism more than once - and that includes lewd jokes.'

'I heard that joke on a 1940s radio show featuring Bob Hope and Betty Grable. It got a good audience response from what I recall, although Bob Hope's delivery was doubtless better than mine.'

'Well, now we know better. There's a continuum of sexual malfeasance. There's no essential difference between lewd jokes at one end and sexual coercion at the other. If a man makes lewd jokes, then he's more likely to engage in other forms of harassment, too. Inappropriate comments. Jokes can be extremely damaging. That's because a joke is not just a joke. Lewd comments are a form of sexual harassment.'

'So are compliments about a woman's dress. Nowadays. After #MeToo.'

Bob's eyes closed for a whole second.

Harley laughed uproariously at Bob's discovery that he, too, was guilty of sexual malfeasance.

'Have you heard of Schrödinger's cat?' he asked.

'What on earth's that got to do with it?'

'It's a concept from quantum physics. Schrödinger's cat is alive and dead at the same time. Only when observed does this cat enter a precise state, dead or alive, one or the other.'

'Meaning?''

'Well, today we have Schrödinger's feminist. She's confident and self-assured; but she's also vulnerable and fragile - at the same time. She can look after herself because she's strong, but needs protecting because she's weak. Only when men speak, does she adopt one state or the other. Feminists loathe the distressed-damsel trope, until they hear a risqué remark that is, then off they go to the fainting couch. Fetch the smelling salts! Those histrionics with the cocktail were put on partly for your benefit, partly to gain the moral high-ground, and partly to exert political leverage. If you weren't such a White Knight - '

'Let's just calm down and enjoy the party', said Bob. 'We're all a bit tense. Change the subject.'

Later on in his room, Harley left the shower with a towel around his waist while drying his hair.

There was a knock on the door. Cursing, he picked up his watch.

'Come in!' he shouted, then took his clothes into the bathroom. 'I sure hope you don't want any further changes to the costumes', he shouted.

Returning, he stopped in amazement.

'You shouldn't be here', he said.

'I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier', said Janie.

'Never mind. It's all forgotten. Consider me suitably chastened.'

'It's also a pity you won't reconsider me for the Powell number.'

'Janie, we've already - '

'I know, but you tried me out for the Powell number, then put Judy in it instead. It might look a bit - well, odd.'

'Odd?'

'Well, we both know our conduct is entirely innocent, but others may see it differently. Do you remember the day of my audition, when I was in your office and you said: "You do realise there's only one thing that'll get you this job, don't you." Now, I know what you meant - that only dancing would get me the job - but others might think that you were implying - well, other things. Obviously you were looking at my legs with the eyes of a dance director, but if you look at my legs while saying that, well, it takes on a different meaning. Then there was the time I took a spill, you caught me when I fell, it was all very funny and all that, everyone saw it and laughed, but your hand did end up on my backside. Ill-inclined people might say you contrived it that way. And remember when I got cramp? You massaged my calf yourself. We have an official masseuse, you know that. I understand that you were only trying to help, and I know there was nothing to it; I'm only pointing out what people might say. Ted Healy saw you running your hands up and down my leg. As it happens I didn't care for it, I didn't say you could do that, but it wasn't my place to say so - I didn't object, because dancers like me have no power, and we must do as we're told. We both know there was nothing to it of course; I only say what others might think. The massaging did go on for rather longer than necessary though, I thought. I'm now here in your room uninvited of course, but others might say that you invited me here to offer me the Powell number, provided I was - well, nice to you. As we know from the #MeToo movement, nowadays a woman's say-so is all that's necessary to wreck a man's career. Not that I'd ever do that to you, of course.'

Harley Winestone listened inattentively to this speech; he was in and out of it, as he was also thinking about his wife and children.

He already knew what his wife would say. 'Is this the girl you've been mooning about? She's half your age. You silly, silly man.'

There came a second knock on the door.

'It's Bob, here', shouted Bob from the corridor.

Endnotes

Derek Hartley, The essential guide to tap dance.

Allen Rivkin, P.J. Wolfson (script, 1933), Dancing Lady, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. 

(c) Cufwulf

Cufwulf@aol.com