MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Read online

  Throckbottoms and Worthingtons had trod the boards at Stratford-on-Avon, or so everybody believed, with William Shakespeare. Patience had inherited from her father, Benjamin Worthington, the famous Worthington profile. From her mother, Eleanor Culpepper Throckbottom, had come the famous Throckbottom eyes and soft, quivering speech. From both of them she had inherited not only a classical actor’s manner of speech but also an affinity for the grape that had to be paid for to be believed.

  In the belief he was picking up the tab for some cold chicken and a couple of bottles of wine, Wesley St. James had approved a paragraph in her contract which stipulated that “while on the set, Miss Worthington will be provided with such meals as may be necessary, provided by a caterer satisfactory to Miss Worthington, and including such wines and spirits as she may feel appropriate.”

  Certainly, he had figured, keeping Miss Patience T. Worthington in the best possible frame of mind was worth the price of a catered lunch and a bottle of wine. He believed (as it turned out, correctly) that Miss Patience T. Worthington would lend an aura of class to “Life’s Little Agonies” that no other daytime drama could hope to match. Her dignified, warm (some said “saintly”) features were world famous. Her cultured, gentle voice (she has for thirty years read “ ’Twas The Night Before Christmas” on Christmas Eve to a television audience numbering over 100 million) was nearly as well known as her soft eyes and gently curled silver-white locks.

  “If she wants a bottle and a bird,” Wesley St. James had announced, “Wesley St. James will be honored to make them available to her.”

  Wesley first cast Miss Worthington as kindly Mother Howard, a role in which she had ample opportunity to gather various deeply troubled members of the cast to her breast, to comfort them, and to send them off to face philandering husbands, drunken wives, lecherous doctors, embezzling accountants, and crooked lawyers ad infinitum with the strength that comes from wisdom and godly purpose.

  Wesley had, to tell the truth, been rather surprised when Miss Worthington showed up the first day on Sound Stage Three accompanied by a house trailer.

  “You, theah, you dahling little man,” she said, pointing at him. “Take care of the truck driver, will you?”

  He knew now that he should have put his foot down right there and not only refused to pay the truck driver for hauling the trailer but barred the house trailer itself from the set. At the time, however, he had thought that since she was a big star, she would naturally have a big dressing room. Certainly, Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington would not actually live in a house trailer, like ordinary mortals; it had to be a dressing room.

  He had had no way of knowing, of course, that “Bird’s Nest,” the world-famous Worthington “cottage” overlooking the Pacific, all thirty-six rooms of it, had long since been sold for nonpayment of taxes and that the trailer in which Miss Worthington arrived on the set represented to her a considerable step upward from the Volkswagen bus in which she had for the past two years, “between engagements,” been living. He learned this only three weeks later, when the Hollywood Mobile Home Company sent him a bill for the trailer. It was only then that he took another look at the contract and found the clause in which he had agreed to provide the actress “with a suitable dressing room [or trailer] of her choice, said dressing room to become the property of Miss Worthington upon completion of her engagement.”

  Wesley St. James, in the quaint cant of the trade, had been “schnockered” by the contract, for there was still another provision in the contract which read that “in the case of unresolvable artistic disagreement between the artist and the producer, it is agreed that Miss Worthington will be released from any obligations under this contract and that the producer will pay, in cash and in full, immediately upon demand, all sums of money which would have, been paid to Miss Worthington had there been no disagreements over the life of the contract.”

  In other words, he could fire; her, but he would have to pay her.

  A lesser man would have either caved in or gone crazy, but Wesley St. James was not on his way to becoming the Napoleon of Daytime Drama without a certain stiff backbone of his own.

  What saved their relationship was the simple fact that Patience Throckbottom Worthington was congenitally unable to give a bad performance. It didn’t matter if she had to be dragged from the trailer to the set, propped on her feet, and pushed before the cameras, to stand there bleary-eyed and weaving. Once the words “Action, lights, roll ’em” were heard, a remarkable transformation took place. Miss Worthington straightened, symbolically tossed the bottle of whatever she happened to be drinking out of camera range, shook herself, and began to emote.

  Chapter Nine

  Kindly Mother Howard was an instant success. Within two weeks it was necessary to hire six stenographers to reply to her fan mail, most of which sought advice for the most intimate of family problems. Wesley St. James read the most interesting of the letters and turned over the best of what he read to his writers, who incorporated the fans’ problems into the scripts of “Life’s Little Agonies,” giving it a realism that was frequently cited as the reason for its success.

  Soon, although he never quite grew accustomed to being referred to as “bleeping little four-eyed blap” by Miss Worthington, Wesley St. James came to understand that he was still getting the best of the bargain, even taking into consideration the fact that Miss Worthington and her circle of friends could consume champagne, twelve-year-old Scotch, roast pheasant, and pâté de foie gras nearly as fast as the Beverly Hills Gourmet Eppes-Essen’s fleet of Buick station wagons could deliver it to the set.

  Within a matter of months, in fact, Wesley St. James came to understand that the phrase “Patience Throckmorton Worthington would rather act than eat” was more than a press agent’s imaginative little gem. She really would rather act than eat. Since when she was not acting she was eating (and drinking), the obvious thing to do was give her more roles. That would not only cut down on the bills from the Beverly Hills Gourmet Eppes-Essen but would, additionally, get more work out of her for the same price.

  Soon, Miss Worthington, in addition to dispensing motherly advice as kindly Mother Howard on “Life’s Little Agonies,” was dispensing sisterly advice (as good Sister Beth) on “The Globe Spinneth”; quasi-religious advice (as Sister Piety, a nun of unspecified religious affiliation) on “Guiding Torch”; medical advice (as Nurse Jones) on “One Life to Love”; and neighborly advice (as Mrs. Olson, the lady-next-door) to the one-legged mother of three illegitimate children on “All These Children.”

  She was so good, in fact, that Wesley St. James, whenever he could spare the time, actually went to the sound stages to watch her work. Normally, he stayed as far away from actors and actresses as he could.

  He was on the set, in fact, the day Miss Worthington dropped her bomb.

  He had entered the set itself through a private door and climbed high into the flies, so that his presence would not be known to anyone but the grips and other technicians who work high over the set.

  It was a scene from “Guiding Torch,” the very popular daytime drama that asked the question if a man of the cloth could find happiness in being simultaneously king of the pulpit and queen of the closet.

  Wesley St. James was glad that no one could see him, for his eyes misted over as Sister Piety (Miss Worthington) laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of the Reverend Bobbin (Mr. C. Walton Cowpens) and assured him that God still loved him, even if the police were about to come and ask some rather embarrassing questions about what he had been doing in the men’s room at the YMCA with the junior high school boys’ soccer team.

  “God loves each of us,” Miss Worthington/Sister Piety said. “No matter how weak we are.”

  “Oh, thank you, Sister Piety,” the Reverend Bobbin replied, “for your kind and gentle understanding.”

  “Feel free to come to me whenever you need me,” Sister Piety replied.

  A tear ran down Wesley St. James’s cheeks.

&nbs
p; “Cut,” the director called. “Print it. First class, Miss Worthington, thank you very much.”

  “It’s about bleeping time,” Miss Worthington replied. “I’m not used to having to make four bleeping takes, you bleeping jackass.”

  “But wasn’t it worth it, Miss Worthington?” the actor who played the Reverend Bobbin inquired. “I really felt that scene.” He grabbed for her hand.

  “Keep your bleeping paws off me, you bleeping faggot,” Miss Worthington said. “You make my bleeping skin crawl!”

  “She didn’t really mean that,” the director said, trying to pour oil on soon-to-be troubled waters.

  “The bleep I didn’t,” Miss Worthington replied. “And just who the bleep do you think you are, you bleeping ignoramus, to tell this bleeping no-talent blap what Patience T. Worthington means?”

  “No offense, Miss Worthington,” the director said, quickly.

  “Where’s the little blap?” Miss Worthington asked.

  “Who do you mean, Miss Worthington?” the director asked.

  “How bleeping many little blaps have you got?” she asked, as she swept grandly off the set toward her trailer. “The bleeping four-eyed little blap, the one with that silly bleeping haircut, that’s who I mean.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Wesley St. James, Miss Worthington?”

  “That’s the one,” she said. “I never can remember that silly bleeping name. Tell him I want to see him, and now.”

  “I’m not sure that Mr. St. James is available, Miss Worthington. He might not be in the studio.”

  “In that case, you stupid blat, you better bleeping well send for him,” Miss Worthington said. She jerked the door of her trailer, stepped inside, and slammed it closed.

  Five minutes later, after first having hastily procured a dozen long-stemmed red roses and a half-gallon bottle of Miss Worthington’s favorite digestive, Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon, Wesley St. James marched up to Miss Worthington’s trailer and, after a moment’s hesitation, knocked.

  The door was flung open a moment later.

  Miss Worthington had not yet removed her costume; she was still dressed as Sister Piety.

  “Why,” she cooed, her hands folded in front of her, as if in prayer, “if it isn’t Mr. St. James!”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Worthington,” Wesley said.

  “Isn’t this a coincidence!” Miss Worthington replied. “I was just a moment ago thinking how nice it would be if you could spare a minute or two from your busy schedule to have a little chat with me. And then, here you are.”

  Wesley bobbed his head. Miss Worthington snatched the bottle of Old White Stagg from his hands. “For me? How sweet of you, you dahling man! Just the right thing for a little pick-me-up. Please come in, dear Mr. St. James, and have a drop with me!”

  “Thank you,” Wesley said. He was sweating profusely. He had been associated with Miss Worthington long enough to know that when she simply oozed charm and grace, she wanted something.

  Miss Worthington poured four fingers of Old White Stagg into a glass, downed it, smacked her lips in pleasure, and then refilled the glass.

  “That’s the real thing,” she said. “You really know the way to a girl’s heart, don’t you, you old rogue?”

  Wesley St. James blushed but immediately regained control of himself.

  “Is there any way at all, any way at all, in which I might be of some service to you, dear lady?” he asked. “Your happiness means a great deal to everyone at St. James Productions.”

  “Yes, darling, I know,” Miss Worthington said. “I read those bleeping rating reports, too. And since you have brought it up, darling, there is.”

  “How may I be of service?” Wesley asked. Miss Worthington reached out and pinched Wesley St. James’s cheek.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” she asked.

  She turned away from him, filled her glass again, walked to the couch, hoisted her nun’s robes up above her knees, and placed her feet on the coffee table.

  “Here’s the bottom line, Wes,” she said. “Mother wants her own show.”

  “I see,” Wesley St. James said.

  “I mean, Wesley-Baby, here I am, Patience Throckbottom Worthington, grande dame of the theater, super-star of motion pictures, playing bleeping second banana to a bunch of bleeping no-talent blaps on the bleeping boob tube. Now I ask you, you’re a fair man, is that bleeping fair?”

  “You have raised an interesting question,” Wesley St. James said.

  “I knew you’d understand, you darling man,” she said. “Just looking at you, one can tell that you’re of the theater. Grand Guignol, perhaps, but the theater.”

  “Thank you, Miss Worthington,” Wesley St. James replied.

  “No hurry,” she said, grandly. “I understand that it will take some time to develop a vehicle in which my humble talents may be most advantageously displayed. Get back to me within two weeks, Babykins, O.K.?”

  “Well...”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Patience said, in her familiar, soft, refined tones.

  “You do?”

  “You’re going to say that hardly gives you enough time.”

  “I was thinking along those lines, Miss Worthington,” Wesley said.

  “And you know what I’m going to reply to that?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a reply but went right on. “I’m going to tell you that two bleeping weeks is all the bleeping time you get, dahling. Mother has been patient as long as Mother intends to be patient. You either come up with something, dahling, or else!”

  “I see your point,” Wesley said.

  “You bleeping well better see it, dahling,” Patience said, and then she took pity on him. “Here, have a little snort. You look a little pale.”

  She had him, Wesley realized, in the apt vernacular of the profession, by the short hairs. He might be the Napoleon of Daytime Drama, but there were Wellingtons in the business, too, filthy, rotten, no-good, characterless creeps who would like nothing better than to steal Patience T. Worthington away from St. James Productions, just as he had stolen C. Walton Cowpens away from Magnum Op Productions to play the Reverend Bobbins.

  In the following two weeks, the writers of St. James Productions came up with no less than seventeen different ideas for a daytime drama starring Miss Worthington. None of them, in Miss Worthington’s succinct phraseology, “were worth a blap.”

  “Wesley, dahling,” Miss Worthington had telephoned him to say, “I hate to tell you this, precious, but you’re becoming a bleeping disappointment. I’ll give you one more week, and that’s it!”

  “Not to worry, Miss Worthington,” Wesley had replied. “I’m flying to the East Coast this very afternoon to confer with someone who will, I’m sure, come up with something suitable.”

  “He bleeping well better,” she had replied and hung up.

  That was problem Number One. Problem Number Two was also an actress, this one named Zelda Spinopolous, who had chosen (more precisely, whose mother had chosen) the professional name Daphne Covington. Mrs. Spinopolous was a typical stage mother, with one major exception. Like most stage mothers, Mrs. Spinopolous had had an interrupted theatrical career and was determined to experience a vicarious show business success through her daughter. Mrs. Spinopolous, in her young womanhood, had been the third high kicker from the left in the second row of the Corps de Ballet of Sidney Katz’s Maison de Paris in Cicero, Illinois.

  Had she not entered the bonds of holy matrimony with Mr. Gustaphalous “Gus” Spinopolous, as she often reminded Mr. Spinopolous, there was just no telling how far, how high she might have traveled in what she chose to call “the world of theater.” The fruit of their union was educated by her mother in the theatrical arts from the time she first toddled erect across the living room carpet. There had been tap dance lessons, ballet lessons, and elocution lessons, and the child had been exposed to the theatrical world at every opportunity.

  Mr. Spinopolous, who wasn’t, frankly, too anxious to see h
is only child become a world-famous star and would have much preferred that she find some nice Greek Orthodox boy whom he might bring into the business and with whom she could make him a grandfather, only put his foot down once. It was entirely possible, he said, that Zelda might not wish to be a world-famous star, and in that case she would need a good education. He would make his wife a little proposition. If she laid off Zelda while Zelda attended the University of Chicago, he would “do what he could” to get her a chance in show business when she had graduated.

  It was his belief that Zelda would be diverted from the path her mother had laid out for her by a young man. The young man would march her to the altar, come into the business, and make him a grandfather, and what he privately thought of as “this movie star crap” would be forgotten.

  To her father’s delight and her mother’s bafflement (what possible use would a movie star have for a degree in analytic biology?), Zelda spent five years at the University of Chicago, deeply enmeshed in her studies. There were, however, no young men in her life. Her father believed this to be because Zelda was a good girl and knew she was too good for those unshaven bums and general all around ne’er-do-wells who obviously dominated the student body. Her mother believed her lack of apparent interest in the opposite gender was because Zelda was saving herself for the dashing and handsome young men who would gather at her feet once she had climbed the glittering staircase to stardom.

  The truth was that Zelda was regarded as something of a bore by the young gentlemen of her acquaintance, mainly because they did not share her fascination with protozoa, baccili, and germ cultures. The feeling was somewhat reciprocal. Zelda had learned early on that she really preferred to spend her evenings with her microscope to spending them standing around a smoke-filled apartment with a limp shrimp in one hand a lukewarm bottle of Dr Pepper in the other, conserving her strength for the wrestling match that invariably followed. Zelda was possessed of a frame that inflamed the reproductive urges of young male homo sapiens. While Zelda-the- Biologist understood this as a perfectly natural, indeed essential, portion of the life cycle, Zelda Spinopolous was not quite ready, as she thought of it, for fertilization.* Consequently, her dates grew less and less frequent, until they finally disappeared altogether from her social calendar.