"I am ripping up this application."

"Then enjoy it because it will be the last thing that you do."

"My ass, what ever happened to acting?"

"You know the story, Finkie, I choked. I can't get over it. I don't want to do it anymore."

"How can you be such a pussy? Get back on the horse, and if you can't then get help."

"Maybe I just want to quit one thing and try something else. Anyhow, it's more than I can say for you, Finkie. You just dropped out of film school, end of story."

"Excuse me but I beg to differ. You dont need  a degree to make movies, you need experience. And that's what I'm doing now. Maybe shooting weddings and bar mitzvahs isn't glamorous, but it's a start."

"A start for what? Cinema de la grotesque?"

"I prefer to call it Fellini-inspired."

"Like the Rappaport wedding with forty-two minutes of close-ups of men with bad toupees."

"Williard on balding heads. Would've killed at the box office!"

"Or the Luden bar mitzvah video with thirty-five minutes of close ups of the dwarf aunt."

"A dwarf in a horah! Golden, fucking golden!"

"then what was the Fenster Sweet Sixteen?"

"Platinum, fucking platinum!"

"Of course her father tried to run you over with his Lincoln after you took a bush-shot of his daughter at her own Sweet Sixteen!"

"That just happened..."

"Just happened, Finkie? Just happened?! You shot that from under the table."

"An angle shot, that's all. It's not my fault the chick doesn't use Neat

Conversations in B Flat

"What you going to do with a B.A. in theater, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wipe your ass with it? Snicker, snicker.

"Are you going to get a job or continue in school, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wake up and smell the coffee, dream boy.

"So what are you going to do with your life, Harry?"

"I have a few ideas."

Like, ahhhh...maybe do something bohemian, live abroad, get an earring. 

"Go into business, Harry. Make some money. Do that and everything else will fall into place," sayeth cousin Joey Prager.

"I'd like to write."

"You want to write? Write orders. Write enough orders, you can write anything you like."

"Yeah. Maybe?"

"Maybe what, Harry? Maybe what?"

I wish I knew. I wish I knew.

"Harry. You're all grown up, time to jump on the train of life or get left behind. Just remember this, no money, no honey..."

"...blah blah blah...this guy is killing me..."

"What are you drinking, Harry? It's on me."

"A double of anything."


****


A few days later hanging out in the basement with Harry's best friend, Finkie.

"Why would you listen to your cousin, Joey Prager? He's such a prick!"

"Who says I'm listening, Finkie? I'm just telling you what he said."

"And coincidentally, the next day you applied for an MBA."

"I still have to write my GMATs and get recommendations..."

"For business school, Harry, for business school. When have you ever expressed an interest in business?"

"What about our comic stand, Finkie? By age six, I was already buying and selling."

"And what a head for business. We bought the comics for twenty-five cents and sold them for a dime."

"But we read them first. We got our money's worth."

"Put that in your MBA application, Harry. I can even give you a recommendation, because you made all the  money. I never saw my share of the profits."

"What profits? We sold at a loss."

"You know what, Harry? Maybe you will do well in business. You've always had a streak of larceny."

"I like to think so."


****


Outside Dutchie's Music Emporium on a Saturday:

"Stiff?..Stiff Rosenfeld!..Man, it's been a while."

"Indeed, Harry Starr, indeed."

"So like, what're you up to these days, besides using the word indeed ?"

"Well, first of all, I'm a different person."

Harry eyeballed Stiff from head to toe. "Looks like Stiff." Harry sniffed him. "Smells like Stiff...pee-yew!" Harry touched Stiff's shoulder, then licked his finger. "Sho" 'nuff tastes like Stiff...Holy mama -- it's Stiiiiiii-ffff!"

"Still working the same routine, Harry. Whatsa matter, no new material since the old camp days?"

"You're new material, person formerly known as Stiff Rosenfeld,"

Stiff dipped his hand into his breast pocket, plucked out a business card and handed it to Harry.

"Don Roosevelt, Chartered Insurance Broker. Don Roosevelt? You?"

"Yeah, that's me, youngest broker in the company. Don Roosevelt, a name that will take me into the innermost corridors of power. Sounds better than my old Sheldon Rosenfeld name. I'm in to self-improvement and if that means tinkering with a few letters in my given name at birth, then so be it."

"I agree with you, Stiff. But I can still call you Stiff, can't I? You were after all, a walking-talking erection back at Camp Maniwake."

"Proud to report that I have the old chronic boner under control. I'm involved in a pretty serious relationship with my girlfriend, Tammy."

"Does she call you Don?"

"Actually no, but we've been going out for two and a half years now. We even have our own baby-talk names. I'm Mookie and she's Shmookie...Oops, embarrassing. Why did I say that?"

"Don't worry, Mookie, I'm with you. Everyone should be able to name themself. Why accept some ridiculous name your parents gave you?...I always wanted to change my name to Dash Riprock...Speaking of Dashes, are you still close to Stevie Dash?"

"Not really, Harry.  In fact, we haven't spoken in over a year. Stevie couldn't respect the fact that I changed my name. He said I was being "inauthentic." The judgmental asshole. Then his sister is getting married and he addresses my invitation to the wedding as Shlomo Rosenfeld, my Hebrew name. He thinks he's making a point."

"Maybe he was just trying to be funny?"

"Maybe he's just a jerk."

"Maybe you're right..."

"Yeah."

"He never called back," Harry muttered. "He never called back."


****


Harry was lying on the corduroy couch in his basement and watching Jeopardy. Finkie barged in -- no knock, no doorbell. So Finkie.

"Harry, Harry," Finkie said, gasping for air.  "Stevie Dash...Stevie Dash..."

"Is he dead?"

"No, no, not at all...Stevie Dash just won first prize at Cannes in the student film category."

"...!"

"Harry? Harry? Are you okay?"

Conversations in A Minor

"What you going to do with a B.A. in theater, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wipe your ass with it? Snicker, snicker.

"Are you going to get a job or continue in school, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wake up and smell the coffee, dream boy.

"So what are you going to do with your life, Harry?"

"I have a few ideas."

Like, ahhhh...maybe something bohemian, live abroad, get an earring. 

"Get into business, Harry. Make some money. Do that and everything else will fall into place," cousin Joey Prager said.

"I'd like to write."

"You want to write? Write orders. Write enough orders, you can write anything you like."

"Yeah. Maybe?"

"Maybe what, Harry? Maybe what?"

I wish I knew. I wish I knew.

"Harry. You're twenty-one already, time to jump on the train of life or get left behind. Just remember this, no money, no honey. What are you drinking, Harry? It's on me."


****


A few days later hanging out in the basement with Finkie, Harry's best friend.

"Why would you listen to your cousin, Joey Prager? He's such a prick!"

"Who says I'm listening, Finkie? I'm just telling you what he said."

"And coincidentally the next day you applied for an MBA."

"I still have to write my GMAT and get recommendations..."

"For business school, Harry, for business school. When have you ever expressed an interest in business?"

"What about our comic stand, Finkie? At age six, I was already buying and selling."

"And what a head for business. We bought the comics for twenty-five cents and sold them for a dime."

"But we read them first. We got our money's worth."

"Put that in your MBA application, Harry. I can even give you a recommendation, because you made all the  money. You never paid me my share of the profits."

"What profits? We sold at a loss."

"You know what, Harry? Maybe you will do well in business. You've always had a streak of larceny."

"I like to think so."


****


Outside the record store:

"Stiff?..Stiff Rosenfeld!..Man, it's been a while."

"Indeed, Harry Starr, indeed."

"So like, what're you up to these days, besides using the word indeed ?"

"Well, first of all, I'm no longer Stiff Rosenfeld."

"You look like him." Harry sniffed Stiff. "You smell like him." Harry touched Stiff's shoulder, then licked his finger. "You sho' 'nuff taste like Stiff...Holy mama -- it's Stiff!"

"Glad to see you've still got a routine going, Harry. You haven't lost a beat since those camp days."

"So who are you now, person formerly known as Stiff Rosenfeld?"

Stiff dipped his hand into his breast pocket, plucked out a business card and handed it to Harry.

"Don Roosevelt, Chartered Insurance Broker. Don Roosevelt? You?"

"Yeah, that's me. Just a modification of my birth name, Sheldon Rosenfeld, I'm trying to get into corporate insurance and thought I'd do better to have a more corporate sounding name...like Don Roosevelt. A name that spells trust."

"I agree with you, Stiff. I can still call you Stiff, can't I? Camp Wyowon's human erection."

"Proud to report that I have that under control. Things are getting pretty serious between me and my girlfriend, Tammy."

"Does she call you Don?"

"Actually no, but we've been going out for three and a half years now. We have our own baby-talk names. I'm Shmoopie, she's Shwoopie...right....But I have officially changed my, name to Don Roosevelt. Look in my mailbox and you'll see."

"I agree with you. We should all be able to name ourselves. Why accept some ridiculous name your parents gave you?...Say, are you still friends with Stevie Dash?"

"Actually, we haven't spoken in over a year. He couldn't respect the fact that I changed my name. Stevie thought I was being a fake. Then his sister is getting married and he sends me the initiation addressed to me as Shlomo Rosenfeld. Fucking guy! My bar mitzvah teacher was the only one who ever called me Shlomo. Stevie, ever the asshole, was mocking me."

"Maybe he was just trying to be funny and you took it badly?"

"Maybe he's just a jerk."

"Maybe you're right..."

"Yeah."

"He never called back," Harry muttered.

" What are you gonna do with a B.A. In theater, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wipe your ass with it? Snicker, snicker.

"Are you going to get a job and continue in school, Harry?"

"I have no idea."

Wake up and smell the coffee, dream boy.

"So what are you going to do with your life, Harry?"

He doesn't have a clue.

"I have a few ideas."

Like, ahhhh...do something bohemian, live abroad, get an earring. Just don't tell anyone. 

"Who do you think you are, Henry Miller?" cousin Joey Prager asked.

"I dunno," Harry said.

"I dunno, he answers. It's all about the money, Harry. Wake up, drop the earring, go to business school. Go mainstream already." When cousin Joey Prager talks, you listen.

"Maybe."

"Well you better start moving your ass, Harry. You're twenty-one already, time to jump on the train of life or get left behind. Just remember this, no money, no honey. What are you drinking, Harry? It's on me."

And that's all it took. A seemingly innocuous conversation in a bar with cousin Joey Prager, the kid who figured things out early on.


Going mainstream, why not? Never thought of that. Start wearing buttoned down shirts and khakis, dress like a Kennedy. A new role. That could be pretty cool.

And that's all it took. Six months later Harry was doing an MBA, hating it with all those numbers, but liking the idea of it. "I'm doing my MBA." Sounds so good, so serious. Going mainstream. Flowing with the current instead of swimming upstream.


It's the night before the last exam of the first semester. . No need to kill himself studying, Harry's going into the Macroeconomics final with an A- average and a special relationship with good ole boy, Dwight Evans,the unabashed beer-swilling professor of the course and subject of Harry's acclaimed caricature in the college newspaper.

Harry nailed him dead on; the beer gut, the bushy Fu Manchu moustache, although drawing a blast of air blowing from the professor's behind wasn't exactly tasteful. Actually Harry thought that the rear blast would've been edited out of the cartoon. But the professor was a notorious hard marker and scores of students had axes to grind with him, including the editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

So Harry's confident that he's got the course material under control and a good shot at maintaining his A- grade. A quick review of the material and a good night's sleep should seal the deal. Then there's a knock at the door. It's Leslie, the loud-mouthed, big-assed gal with the glass eye from across the hall knocks at his dorm door. She's holding a bottle tequila with Katie, her hottie redhead friend visiting from back home.

"How'd ya like to do shots with us, Harry? We can play swallow the worm..."

Harry contemplates the wormy innuendo: True, Leslie's glass eye has always made him queasy, but yum yum on the Katie side. He'd have to stick handle his way around Leslie--

Of course there's that annoying exam the next day at 9 AM, you'd have to be an idiot to party the night before.

"Sure, why not? It might help me sleep better."

Maybe Katie the redhead knew something about economics? Harry thought he overheard that she majored in it in college, or at least had taken an economics course. He could review some of the material with her.

Choking at Godot 

Screw Stevie Dash and his son-of-Hitler movie. With one semester left to graduate, Harry had his own big role lined up. The setting:

The McGill Theater Department's major annual production, a three-night run of the Samuel Beckett classic, Waiting For Godot, co-starring Harry as Estragon and Hazen Bones, a Barishnikov wannabe who preferred wearing leotards over pants, as Vladimir. 

Stars were born at the vaunted McGill theater production. The stuff of legends, like Lionel Wolfe, who went on to strike fame and fortune as Captain Merkel on the hit TV series, Space Cadets. Lionel showcased his remarkable range by playing Lady Macbeth in an experimental transgender version of Macbeth. Phil Ferns, the fey programming director of the CBC television drama department, was in the audience opening night and was smitten with Lionel's campy performance. And it paid off big time with the young actor's first television appearance in the starring role of Spuds McGee for the acclaimed CBC mini-series, The Potato Farmer.

Waiting For Godot's opening night was a celebrated tour de force. Montreal Gazette theatre critic Gaston Bumstead wrote that Harry's performance was, "Mesmerizing, spell-binding, the virtual embodiment of alienation and unarticulated angst that defines the futility of our existence." Second night met with more critical raves. I.F Sheinhart, the chatty entertainment critic of The Suburban wrote, "Harry Starr's haunting performance as Estragon kept me up all night questioning the meaning of my own existence...Harry Starr, what a talent! The next Lionel Wolfe!!  p.s. Just between us: thesp Lionel's mother, Doris, was my prom date way back when. What a kisser, what a gal!"

Final show: Harry's Big Break was sitting in the audience chewing on a fat wad of bubble gum was New York's enigmatic talent agent, Peewee Ludwig. The man, all five-foot-two of him, was a living legend who discovered the likes of Oscar-winning Justin Guffman, Tonight show host, Ray Benzo and scores of other working actors.

Peewee Ludwig wasn't there just by chance. Personal matters led him to hightail it out of New York and seek refuge with his old friend, Professor Chet Baxter, head of the McGill theatre department and director of the play. Peewee was hoping that a little amateur theater would raise his battered spirits. The little man was going through a depression after suffering the shame of a bitter divorce from his ex-wife, Tessie Baker, a shrewish foot model who owned the corn and bunion market. Tessie wiped out Peewee financially and dragged his good name through the mud by spreading vicious rumors that were unfortunately, completely true:

That Peewee was involved in a bogus invoicing scheme.

That Peewee would only make love to her feet.

That Peewee had been carrying on a passionate affair with Pena Petosa, New Jersey's great baloon-folding artist.

But the wheel of fortune turns round;  Peewee's woes opened a door of opportunity for Harry Starr. Professor Baxter, who was also Harry's academic advisor, told Manny that, "The kid reminds me of a young Cary Grant. Dashing, elegant, yet funny. True leading man material. After you see the show, Peewee, you should sign him up as a client."

"Fair enough, Harvey. The timing is right. Ray Benzo, that ungrateful S.O.B -- ten minutes after he became the new host of the The Tonight Show, dumps me for a posh Fifth Avenue agency. And to think that when I discovered the big piece of lard, he was still doing magic shows at bar mitzvahs."

It was widely accepted that Peewee Ludwig was a bird-dog for ferreting out talent, but his devotion, his absolute devotion to his clients was legendary. He'd do everything for them from picking up their clothes at the cleaners, to spotting them a few bucks when they were broke, to actually helping to deliver a baby. The problem was that Peewee couldn't keep his clients once they made it. They took him for granted, they wanted glamour, something that Peewee couldn't deliver running his shoe-box office out of his rent-controlled apartment and driving his '69 Chevy Nova with his "McGovern for President" bumper sticker.

On the last night of the Godot event, Peewee sat there in the first row nodding approvingly, transfixed with Harry's every move. And while the scene where Estragon sucks on chicken bones whetted Peewee's ravenous appetite,  Harry almost choked. Literally. A greasy chicken bone accidentally slipped out of his fingers and lodged itself in Harry's throat.

Fortunately there was a doctor in the audience who bolted onto the stage and dislodged the bone from the back of Harry's throat. Choking, figuratively speaking however, was familiar territory for Peewee Ludwig Fortune had slipped away from him many a time, usually on the cusp of great success. Sadly, misfortune allowed him to look beyond Harry's stage disaster. Bungled performance or not, Harry was a talent that he needed to bolster his dwindling roster.

"The kid's got it," he confided to Baxter over s heaping plate of barbecued chicken. "He's young, as my late Uncle Williard would say, 'Life is like a rubber ball, it's all about bouncing back.' I'm ready to sign Harry and to schlep him around Broadway on auditions. In fact, as luck would have it, I know of a few upcoming productions auditioning at this very juncture in time."

A month later, Peewee was making the rounds with Harry on Broadway.

The first audition was for Hello Babe, It's Him, a new play by Tony award winning playwright, Sim Neilson. The director handed Harry the script, patted him on the back and wished him good luck. Harry sucked in a deep breath, cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. But when Harry opened his mouth to read, his throat constricted and he gagged. A glass of water, several deep breaths later and the same result.

"Sorry, Peewee the director said.

Next stop,"Todd and Carol", a play about doomed lovers, a sixty-five year old char lady in the twilight of her career who falls in love with a hunky young janitor with big ambitions. And despite the apparent chemistry between Harry and the leading lady, Harry gagged again.

"It was the Lysol on her breath," Harry swore to no avail.
"Sorry, Peewee," the director said.

"I need to shake him up, " Peewee told Baxter over the phone. "He's thinking too much on stage and like my late Aunt Carmella, may I say a wonderful woman who looked disturbingly like a trout, used to say, 'Thinkers never prosper.'  I'm sending the kid on an audition for the chorus in "O Bombay were they dance buck naked! Let Harry worry about his dong shrinking on stage instead of his throat. "

It did and he still gagged.

Later that night at Captain Mack's over bowls of fish soup, Peewee came clean with Harry. "Sorry kid, but I can't take you on. As my late fencing instructor Gabor Honig -- a wonderful man, who despite refusing to trim his curling nostril hair -- used to say, 'Not now, but maybe later. Who the hell knows?' "

Harry mumbled something seemingly unintelligible while a stream of fish soup dribbled from his his mouth.

"Excuse me Harry, I didn't quite catch what you were trying to say."

Harry coughed up a mouthful into his napkin and sipped on his glass of water. A hard fish tail had been caught in his throat.
    

Screw Stevie Dash and his son-of-Hitler movie. With one semester left to graduate, Harry had his own big role lined up. The setting:

The McGill Theater Department's major annual production, a three-night run of the Samuel Beckett classic, Waiting For Godot, co-starring Harry as Estragon and Hazen Bones, a Barishnikov wannabe who preferred wearing leotards over pants, as Vladimir. 

Stars were born at the vaunted McGill theater production. The stuff of legends, like Lionel Wolfe, who went on to strike fame and fortune as Captain Merkel on the hit TV series, Space Cadets. Lionel showcased his remarkable range by playing Lady Macbeth in an experimental transgender version of Macbeth. Phil Ferns, the fey programming director of the CBC television drama department, was in the audience opening night and was smitten with Lionel's campy performance. And it paid off big time with the young actor's first television appearance in the starring role of Spuds McGee for the acclaimed CBC mini-series, The Potato Farmer.

Waiting For Godot's opening night was a celebrated tour de force. Montreal Gazette theatre critic Gaston Bumstead wrote that Harry's performance was, "Mesmerizing, spell-binding, the virtual embodiment of alienation and unarticulated angst that defines the futility of our existence." Second night met with more critical raves. I.F Sheinhart, the chatty entertainment critic of The Suburban wrote, "Harry Starr's haunting performance as Estragon kept me up all night questioning the meaning of my own existence...Harry Starr, what a talent! The next Lionel Wolfe!!  p.s. Just between us: thesp Lionel's mother, Doris, was my prom date way back when. What a kisser, what a gal!"

Final show: Harry's Big Break was sitting in the audience chewing on a fat wad of bubble gum was New York's enigmatic talent agent, Peewee Ludwig. The man, all five-foot-two of him, was a living legend who discovered the likes of Oscar-winning Justin Guffman, Tonight show host, Ray Benzo and scores of other working actors.

Peewee Luwig wasn't there just by chance. Personal matters led him to hightail it out of New York and seek refuge with his old friend, Professor Chet Baxter, head of the McGill theatre department and director of the play. Peewee was hoping that a little amateur theater would raise his battered spirits. The little man was going through a depression after suffering the shame of a bitter divorce from his ex-wife, Tessie Baker, a shrewish foot model who owned the corn and bunion market. Tessie wiped out Peewee financially and dragged his good name through the mud by spreading vicious rumors that were unfortunately, completely true:

That Peewee was involved in a bogus invoicing scheme.

That Peewee would only make love to her feet.

That Peewee had been carrying on a passionate affair with Pena Petosa, New Jersey's great baloon-folding artist.

But the wheel of fortune turns round;  Peewee's woes opened a door of opportunity for Harry Starr. Professor Baxter, who was also Harry's academic advisor, told Manny that, "The kid reminds me of a young Cary Grant. Dashing, elegant, yet funny. True leading man material. After you see the show, Peewee, you should sign him up as a client."

"Fair enough, Harvey. The timing is right. Ray Benzo, that ungrateful S.O.B -- ten minutes after he became the new host of the The Tonight Show, dumps me for a posh Fifth Avenue agency. And to think that when I discovered the big piece of lard, he was still doing magic shows at bar mitzvahs."

It was widely accepted that Peewee Ludwig was a bird-dog for ferreting out talent, but his devotion, his absolute devotion to his clients was legendary. He'd do everything for them from picking up their clothes at the cleaners, to spotting them a few bucks when they were broke, to actually helping to deliver a baby. The problem was that Peewee couldn't keep his clients once they made it. They took him for granted, they wanted glamour, something that Peewee couldn't deliver running his shoe-box office out of his rent-controlled apartment and driving his '69 Chevy Nova with his "McGovern for President" bumper sticker.

On the last night of the Godot event, Peewee sat there in the first row nodding approvingly, transfixed with Harry's every move. And while the scene where Estragon sucks on chicken bones whetted Peewee's ravenous appetite,  Harry almost choked. Literally. A greasy chicken bone accidentally slipped out of his fingers and lodged itself in Harry's throat.

Fortunately there was a doctor in the audience who bolted onto the stage and dislodged the bone from the back of Harry's throat. Choking, figuratively speaking however, was familiar territory for Peewee Ludwig Fortune had slipped away from him many a time, usually on the cusp of great success. Sadly, misfortune allowed him to look beyond Harry's stage disaster. Bungled performance or not, Harry was a talent that he needed to bolster his dwindling roster.

"The kid's got it," he confided to Baxter over s heaping plate of barbecued chicken. "He's young, as my late Uncle Williard would say, 'Life is like a rubber ball, it's all about bouncing back.' I'm ready to sign Harry and to schlep him around Broadway on auditions. In fact, as luck would have it, I know of a few upcoming productions auditioning at this very juncture in time."

A month later, Peewee was making the rounds with Harry on Broadway.

The first audition was for Hello Babe, It's Him, a new play by Tony award winning playwright, Sim Neilson. The director handed Harry the script, patted him on the back and wished him good luck. Harry sucked in a deep breath, cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. But when Harry opened his mouth to read, his throat constricted and he gagged. A glass of water, several deep breaths later and the same result.

"Sorry, Peewee the director said.

Next stop,"Todd and Carol", a play about doomed lovers, a sixty-five year old char lady in the twilight of her career who falls in love with a hunky young janitor with big ambitions. And despite the apparent chemistry between Harry and the leading lady, Harry gagged again.

"It was the Lysol on her breath," Harry swore to no avail.
"Sorry, Peewee," the director said.

"I need to shake him up, " Peewee told Baxter over the phone. "He's thinking too much on stage and like my late Aunt Carmella, may I say a wonderful woman who looked disturbingly like a trout, used to say, 'Thinkers never prosper.'  I'm sending the kid on an audition for the chorus in "O Bombay were they dance buck naked! Let Harry worry about his dong shrinking on stage instead of his throat. "

It did and he still gagged.

Later that night at Captain Mack's over bowls of fish soup, Peewee came clean with Harry. "Sorry kid, but I can't take you on. As my late fencing instructor Gabor Honig -- a wonderful man, who despite refusing to trim his curling nostril hair -- used to say, 'Not now, but maybe later. Who the hell knows?' "

Harry mumbled something seemingly unintelligible while a stream of fish soup dribbled from his his mouth.

"Excuse me Harry, I didn't quite catch what you were trying to say."

Harry coughed up a mouthful into his napkin and sipped on his glass of water. A hard fish tail had been caught in his throat.
    

Choking at Godot 

Screw Stevie Dash and his son-of-Hitler movie. With one semester left to graduate, Harry had his own big role lined up. The setting:

The McGill Theater Department's major annual production, a three-night run of the Samuel Beckett classic, Waiting For Godot, co-starring Harry as Estragon and Hazen Bones, a Barishnikov wannabe who preferred leotards over pants, as Vladimir. 

Stars were born at the vaunted McGill theater production. The stuff of legends, like Lionel Wolfe, who went on to strike fame and fortune as Captain Merkel on the hit TV series, Space Cadets. Lionel showcased his remarkable range by playing Lady Macbeth in an experimental transgender version of Macbeth. Phil Ferns, the fey programming director of the CBC television drama department, was in the audience opening night and was smitten with Lionel's campy performance. And it paid off big time with the young actor's first television appearance in the starring role of Spuds McGee in the acclaimed CBC mini-series, The Potato Farmer.

Waiting For Godot's opening night was a celebrated tour de force. Montreal Gazette theatre critic Gaston Bumstead wrote that Harry's performance was, "Mesmerizing, spell-binding, the virtual embodiment of alienation and unarticulated angst that defines the futility of our existence." Second night met with more critical raves. I.F Sheinhart, the chatty entertainment critic of The Suburban wrote, "Harry Starr's haunting performance as Estragon kept me up all night questioning the meaning of my own existence...Of course it also could have been the post-show pickled brisket I had at  Delly Boys, but oy! this Harry Starr, what a talent! The next Lionel Wolfe!!  p.s. Just between us: Thesp Lionel's mother, Doris, was my prom date way back when. What a kisser, what a gal!"

Final show: Harry's Big Break: Sitting in the audience scarfing down a juicy smoked meat sandwich was New York's enigmatic talent agent, Manny Bloom. The man, all five-foot-two of him, was a living legend who discovered the likes of Oscar-winning Justin Guffman, Tonight show host, Ray Benzo and scores of other working actors.

Manny Bloom wasn't there just by chance. Personal matters led him to hightail it out of New York and seek refuge with his old friend, Professor Harvey Dorfman, head of the McGill theatre department and director of the play. Manny was hoping that a little amateur theater would raise his battered spirits. The little man was going through a depression after suffering the shame of a bitter divorce from his ex-wife, Tessie Baker, a shrewish foot model, who owned the corn and bunion market. Tessie wiped out Manny financially and dragged his good name through the mud by spreading vicious rumors that were unfortunately, completely true:

That Manny was involved in a bogus invoicing scheme.

That Manny would only make love to her feet.

That Manny had been carrying on a passionate affair with Pena Petosa New Jersey's great baloon-folding artist.

But the wheel of fortune turns round;  Manny's woes opened a door of opportunity for Harry Starr. Professor Dorfman, who was also Harry's academic advisor, told Manny that, "The kid reminds me of a young Cary Grant. Dashing, elegant, yet funny. True leading man material. After you see the show, Manny, you should sign him up as a client."

"Fair enough, Harvey. The timing is right. Ray Benzo, that ungrateful S.O.B -- ten minutes after he became the new host of the The Tonight Show, dumps me for a posh Fifth Avenue agency. And to think that when I discovered the big putz, he was still doing magic shows at bar mitzvahs."

It was widely accepted that Manny Bloom was a bird-dog for ferreting out talent, but his devotion, his absolute devotion to his clients was legendary. He'd do everything for them from picking up their clothes at the cleaners, to spotting them a few bucks when they were broke, to actually helping the delivery of a baby. The problem was that Manny couldn't keep his clients once they made it. They took him for granted, they wanted glamour, something that Manny couldn't deliver running his shoe-box office out of his rent-controlled apartment and driving his '69 Chevy Nova.

On the last night of the Godot event, Manny sat there in the first row nodding approvingly, transfixed with Harry's every move. And while the scene where Estragon sucks on chicken bones whetted Manny's ravenous appetite,  Harry almost choked. Literally. A greasy chicken bone accidentally slipped out of his fingers and lodged itself in Harry's throat.

Fortunately there was a doctor in the audience who bolted onto the stage and dislodged the bone from the back of Harry's throat. Choking, figuratively speaking however, was familiar territory for Manny Bloom. Fortune had slipped away from him many a time, usually on the cusp of great success. Sadly, misfortune allowed him to look beyond Harry's stage disaster. Bungled performance or not, Harry was a talent that he needed to bolster his dwindling roster.

"The kid's got it," he confided to  Dorfman over s heaping plate of barbecued chicken. "He's young, as my late Uncle Menachem would say, 'Life is like a rubber ball, it's all about bouncing back.' I'm ready to sign Harry and to schlep him around Broadway on auditions. In fact, as luck would have it, I know of a few upcoming productions auditioning at this very juncture in time. The emesse, my hand to God."

A month later, Manny was making the rounds with Harry on Broadway.

The first audition was for, Hello Babe, It's Him, a new play by Tony award winning playwright, Sim Neilson. The director handed Harry the script, patted him on the back and wished him good luck. Harry sucked in a deep breath, cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. But when Harry opened his mouth to read, his throat constricted and he gagged. A glass of water, several deep breaths later and the same result.

"Sorry, Manny," the director said.

Next stop,"Todd and Carol", a play about doomed lovers, a sixty-five year old char lady in the twilight of her career who falls in love with a hunky young janitor with big ambitions. And despite the apparent chemistry between Harry and the leading lady, Harry gagged again.

"It was the Lysol on her breath," Harry swore to no avail.
"Sorry, Manny," the director said.

"I need to shake him up, " Manny told Dorfman over the phone. "He's thinking too much on stage and like my late Aunt Bessie, may I say a wonderful woman who looked disturbingly like a carp, used to say, 'Thinkers never prosper.'  I'm sending the kid on an audition for the chorus in "O Bombay were they dance buck naked! Let Harry worry about his schlong shrinking on stage instead of his throat. "

It didn't.

Later that night at The Carnegie Deli over bowls of matzah ball soup, Manny came clean with Harry. "Sorry kid, but I can't take you on. As my late bar mitzvah teacher Gabor Schmeltzer -- a wonderful man, who despite refusing to trim his curling nostril hair -- used to say, 'Not now, but maybe later. Who knows?' "

Harry mumbled something seemingly unintelligible while a stream of chicken soup dribbled from his his mouth.

"Excuse me Harry, I didn't quite catch what you were trying to say."

Harry coughed up a mouthful into his napkin and sipped on his glass of water. A small chicken bone had been caught in his throat.