The Stand-In Read Online Free
Author: Evelyn Piper
you could put on the head of a pin, but her English accent sounded good to the tourists, or else she serviced Mr. Kline; probably both, he thought.
What other mother would tell her son he was a square for saying heâd rather be shot than be a female impersonator? How about Julian Eltinge? He was an actor, wasnât he? Desmond still wanted to be an actor, didnât he? Female impersonation was only acting. So instead of acting a man, heâd be playing a woman. All actors used to play women in Shakespeare. (What did she know about Shakespeare?) Being such a good actor, he would wow them. Why, this was his chance! Someone might see him! A big director!
If he made such a big stink about being a man, what kind of man lived off his old mother? (The first time she had supported him, but she forgot that. She always said there was nothing left of all his money, but he knew about her bank accounts.)
She went to the My-Oh-My Club and then there was no holding her. All he had to do was audition and heâd have the number-one spot in the show, which needed something new. She had it all worked out. He would do a singing striptease.
Maybe when his mother got the great idea she knew, maybe she didnât, how the others on the bill would hate his guts for not being one of them and how far their jealousy would go. Because he was an actor, he was much better at their stuff than they were. He was the one the suckers went for, and the others knew he could really make it really big anywhere as a female impersonator and couldnât believe he didnât want to. Jesus, how it had bugged him! The better he was at it, the more it bugged him. He got goose pimples every show when the M.C. in his blue evening dress finally handed him out with only a jock on to prove to the suckers he really was a man.
Maybe when his mother got the great idea she really believed the line she sold him about it being his big chance, but after hearing even his cleaned-up version of how they ganged up on him, after seeing the shiv he had to carry, wouldnât any other mother have begged him to get the hell out? But no, by that time Mr. Kline had told her she could buy into the business, and since he could pull down all that bread at the Club, she begged him to stay on for her sake, for his poor old mum. Her only concession had been driving out to the Club nights after the last show, and that was only because she couldnât take his throwing away six bucks taxi fare. The My-Oh-My Club was all the hell out by Lake Pontchartrain. The one thing he wasnât about to do was get a lift home with the others. He would rather go into a cage of lions than do that, so his mother had to call for him like a kid. She, of course, needed the car evenings to go round trying to pick up stuff for the antique shop when people were home, so he couldnât have it, and two cars were out of the question. Natch. How could she buy into Klineâs and have a comfortable old age if they had to keep up two cars?
The My-Oh-My Club, Jesus, that cruddy, crummy barn with the shaky little tables with chairs that didnât match, always in darkness not only to hide the crumminess but because the show was so raw the suckers didnât want to be spotted there. The piano was always too loud because the others sang falsetto and needed all the help they could get. They had the worst set of traps south of Canadaâand then the pansy waitersâbut he pitied them, the musicians; even, when they werenât riding him, the âgirls.â It was the suckers he hated. Most of them were on the six-dollar tour. They got in all the New Orleans hot spots and had to buy one drink in each. Most of them nursed the one drink and drank him instead. They sucked him into their foul mouths, they dirtied him with their dirty teeth.
Enough of that. That had finished the night in January just before the twelve-thirty show when he was called to the telephone. It was in the entrance
What other mother would tell her son he was a square for saying heâd rather be shot than be a female impersonator? How about Julian Eltinge? He was an actor, wasnât he? Desmond still wanted to be an actor, didnât he? Female impersonation was only acting. So instead of acting a man, heâd be playing a woman. All actors used to play women in Shakespeare. (What did she know about Shakespeare?) Being such a good actor, he would wow them. Why, this was his chance! Someone might see him! A big director!
If he made such a big stink about being a man, what kind of man lived off his old mother? (The first time she had supported him, but she forgot that. She always said there was nothing left of all his money, but he knew about her bank accounts.)
She went to the My-Oh-My Club and then there was no holding her. All he had to do was audition and heâd have the number-one spot in the show, which needed something new. She had it all worked out. He would do a singing striptease.
Maybe when his mother got the great idea she knew, maybe she didnât, how the others on the bill would hate his guts for not being one of them and how far their jealousy would go. Because he was an actor, he was much better at their stuff than they were. He was the one the suckers went for, and the others knew he could really make it really big anywhere as a female impersonator and couldnât believe he didnât want to. Jesus, how it had bugged him! The better he was at it, the more it bugged him. He got goose pimples every show when the M.C. in his blue evening dress finally handed him out with only a jock on to prove to the suckers he really was a man.
Maybe when his mother got the great idea she really believed the line she sold him about it being his big chance, but after hearing even his cleaned-up version of how they ganged up on him, after seeing the shiv he had to carry, wouldnât any other mother have begged him to get the hell out? But no, by that time Mr. Kline had told her she could buy into the business, and since he could pull down all that bread at the Club, she begged him to stay on for her sake, for his poor old mum. Her only concession had been driving out to the Club nights after the last show, and that was only because she couldnât take his throwing away six bucks taxi fare. The My-Oh-My Club was all the hell out by Lake Pontchartrain. The one thing he wasnât about to do was get a lift home with the others. He would rather go into a cage of lions than do that, so his mother had to call for him like a kid. She, of course, needed the car evenings to go round trying to pick up stuff for the antique shop when people were home, so he couldnât have it, and two cars were out of the question. Natch. How could she buy into Klineâs and have a comfortable old age if they had to keep up two cars?
The My-Oh-My Club, Jesus, that cruddy, crummy barn with the shaky little tables with chairs that didnât match, always in darkness not only to hide the crumminess but because the show was so raw the suckers didnât want to be spotted there. The piano was always too loud because the others sang falsetto and needed all the help they could get. They had the worst set of traps south of Canadaâand then the pansy waitersâbut he pitied them, the musicians; even, when they werenât riding him, the âgirls.â It was the suckers he hated. Most of them were on the six-dollar tour. They got in all the New Orleans hot spots and had to buy one drink in each. Most of them nursed the one drink and drank him instead. They sucked him into their foul mouths, they dirtied him with their dirty teeth.
Enough of that. That had finished the night in January just before the twelve-thirty show when he was called to the telephone. It was in the entrance
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