The Class

Madison makes Attila the Hun look like Saint Francis of Assisi. What do you think?”

“Well,” the poet confessed, “I’ve always had a soft spot for Saint Francis. But you’re the guy that knows the business.”

“Great,” Danny said, quickly signing off. “I’ll call Harvey at his house right now so he can start beating the drums. See you, Stu.”

Summer on Martha’s Vineyard is always glorious. But if you are the author of a show in progress that is destined for Broadway, it becomes the Island of the Blessed.

Stuart and Nina were invited to numerous star-studded barbecues, celebrity clambakes, and glittering soirees.

Of course, had he been merely a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, he might not have merited inclusion on the “A-List.” But he was also living in one of the most luxurious houses in Vineyard Haven, a sure sign that his balance sheet scanned as well as his verses.

Actually, he had Harvey Madison to thank for his good fortune. For it was their new agent who had set up the fateful meeting with Edgar Waldorf, undisputed king of Broadway producers. It had taken place at the only possible venue for such an encounter — over lunch at ‘21’.

Stuart, Harvey, and Danny had been waiting for twenty minutes when the rotund, flamboyantly clad producer made his grand entrance. Before he even sat down, he looked at the composer and lyricist and stated emphatically, “I love it.”

Stuart was somewhat confused. “But, Mr. Waldorf, we haven’t said a word yet. I mean —”

His polite response was strangled in mid-sentence by the strong under-the-table grip of Harvey Madison, who then interposed, “What Edgar means is he adores the concept.”

“No, what I adore is the chemistry of the authors. When Harvey called me about this, I literally frissoned right there in my office. The thought of two Harvard Pulitzer Prize winners writing for Broadway is absolutely fab-u- lous, By the way, have you thought of a title yet?”

Edgar had diplomatically used the plural but was really directing his question to Danny, whom he knew to be worth a lot of candle power on the marquee.

“Well,” the composer replied, “as you know, we’ve based it on Joyce’s Ulysses, just changing the locale to New York —”

“I love it. I love it,” Edgar murmured like a countermelody.

“Now, the novel is, in turn, based on Homer’s Odyssey,” Danny continued. “And since the essence of our piece is the hero’s trip around the city, we thought we’d call it Manhattan Odyssey.”

Edgar pondered for a moment, and popped a shrimp into his mouth before replying.

“It’s good, it’s good. My only question is — is it too good?”

“How can anything possibly be too good?” Stuart naively inquired.

“I mean relatively speaking,” Edgar responded, deftly backtracking. “After all, your average Broadway audience didn’t go to Harvard. I don’t think I could fill the theater with enough people who know what the word Odyssey means.”

“Please, Mr. Waldorf,” Danny disagreed, “it’s a common term in the English language.”

At which point Harvey Madison felt it opportune to refocus the conversation.

“Hey, guys, Edgar’s got a sensational idea for a title. Just wait till you hear it.”

The spherical producer waited until the spotlights of all gazes shone upon him. And then uttered, “Rejoice!”

“What?” asked Danny Rossi.

“Don’t you get it? The author’s name is James Joyce. We are bringing his property back. So it’s re-Joyce. Of course, we’ll add an exclamation point after it. And that’s it. Fab-ubus, huh?”

Danny and Stuart exchanged incredulous glances.

“I think it’s absolutely brilliant,” offered Harvey Madison, instinctively accustomed to praising anything uttered by a potential source of income. “What do you boys think?”

“You might as well call it Hello, Molly!” Danny Rossi commented sardonically.

“I like Manhattan Odyssey,” Stuart said quietly.

“But you just heard Edgar Waldorf —” Harvey Madison interrupted.

“I like Manhattan Odyssey, too,” Danny echoed.

Then, from an unexpected quarter, came the rather surprising panegyric, “I think Manhattan Odyssey is absolutely fabulous. And I, Edgar Waldorf, will be honored to present it.”

The producer then proceeded to elicit schedules from the authors, so that he could plan rehearsals, arrange a tour, and book a theater. Hearing that the boys could complete the work this summer if they could be isolated on Martha’s Vineyard, he magnanimously offered Stuart the use of his own unhumble abode on that island.

“Oh, I couldn’t, Mr. Waldorf.”

“Please, Mr. Kingsley, I insist. Besides, that will help me write the place off for taxes.”

Then, without having read a word or heard a note, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Who’re we going to get to star?”

“I think Zero Mostel would be great as Bloom,” Danny offered.

“Not great,” replied Waldorf. “Fab-u-bous. His agent’s a ballbreaker, but I’ll get to work on that monster this afternoon. Oh God, will Zero bring in the theater parties!”

In the midst of his own self-induced rapture, he suddenly chastised himself, “But —”

“But what?” Harvey Madison asked anxiously.

“Zero is great for the party crowd. But we need another name that will draw the out-of-towners. Someone with broader appeal. Is there a woman’s part in this thing?”

“Haven’t you read it, Mr. Waldorf?” Stuart Kingsley inquired.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, a college girl in my office did me a kind of summary.”

“Then you might remember that Bloom’s wife, Molly, is a rather important role,” said Danny Rossi, muzzling his impatience.

“Of course, of course, a great role,” the producer agreed enthusiastically. “So what about Theora Hamilton?”

“Unbelievable,” Harvey ejaculated. “That’s a genius idea, Edgar. But do you think she’d share the marquee with Zero?”

“You leave that to me,” boasted the producer, snapping his fingers. “The First Lady of the American musical theater owes Edgar Waldorf a favor or two, and I’m going to call in my marker.”

“Isn’t that great, boys?” Harvey bubbled to the authors. “Mostel and Hamilton. Or maybe it’ll have to be Hamilton and Mostel. Anyway, they’ll be lining up for tickets from here to Hoboken.”

“To be honest,” Stuart confessed shyly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

“You’d remember if you had,” Danny remarked. “She’s got tits like the Goodyear zeppelin. Unfortunately, her talent does not extend as far as her mammaries.”

Edgar Waldorf turned ingenuously to Danny Rossi and inquired, “Am I to infer that you do not respect the vocal gifts of Miss Theora Hamilton?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Danny replied quietly. “She doesn’t have any. Look, Mr. Waldorf, Stuart and I want to write a good show, a classy show, and, yes, a commercial show. But if you have so little faith in our ability to attract an audience without giving them — please excuse my pun — gross titillation, then I think we’d better find another producer.”

Harvey Madison coughed uneasily.

But Edgar Waldorf shifted gears as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce.

“Please, Mr. Rossi, let us forget the female lead for the moment and concentrate on what really matters in this enterprise — your two genius talents.”

And then he raised his hand in benediction.

“Go, boys. Go off to Martha’s Vineyard and create exquisiteness that will dazzle Broadway and that limey