The Class

Why were the critics so vicious? That music was the best he had ever written. He was sure of it. At least, until this moment.

There was a knock at his door. He glanced quickly at his watch. It was twenty minutes past midnight. But, as his New York friends had often reminded him, when a show is out of town it’s like an obstetrics ward. There is no night and no day.

His nocturnal visitor was Edgar Waldorf, their no-longer-ebullient producer.

“Did I wake you, Dan?”

“No, I was just about to jump out the window.”

“Then you’ve seen Variety?”

“Yeah.”

Edgar flopped onto a couch and breathed a histrionic sigh.

“You know, Dan, we’ve got trouble.”

“Edgar, I’m aware we have problems. But isn’t that what out-of-town tryouts are for?”

“Stu has got to be replaced,” he replied quickly. “I mean, he has big talent, a huge talent. But he’s too inexperienced. He’s never worked under the gun like this.”

Danny did not know how to react. His friend and college classmate — a fine and intelligent writer — was going to be summarily fired.

He brooded silently for a moment, and then said softly, “He’s a sensitive guy, this’ll kill him.…”

“No,” the producer replied. “He’s a big boy. He’ll live to write another day. And when we save the show he’ll have royalties to live very well. But right now we need to play doctor — somebody who writes great, funny, and fast.”

“Uh, who’d you have in mind?” said Danny, dreading what might now become of Stuart’s elegant dialogue.

“My wife is calling New York to see who’s available.”

“But Stu’ll still stay on as lyricist….”

“God knows, we still need work there, too,” Edgar commented, a perceptible tinge of uneasiness in his voice. And then quickly added, “Stu’s back in New York. I don’t want him on the lyrics, either.”

“Dammit, Edgar, the least you could have done is let me tell him! Aren’t you being a bit brutal?”

“It’s not me who’s brutal, Dan, it’s the business. Broadway is strictly sink or swim, either one night or ten years! It’s a goddamn war between the artists and The New York Times!”

“Okay, okay, I’m getting the idea,” Danny acquiesced. “But who’m I gonna work with on the lyrics?”

Edgar now took a prodigiously deep breath. It was as if the entire hotel suite had suddenly become an oxygen tent. He squirmed, clutched his heart, and in his most mellifluous lower register said, “Daniel, we have to talk about the music, too.”

“What about it?”

“It’s terrific, sensational, brilliant. It’s just maybe a little too brilliant.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, not everybody can appreciate such quality. I mean — you’ve read the reviews.”

No, thought Danny Rossi, this can’t be happening. He doesn’t want to fire me!

“We need some songs,” Edgar explained. “You know, tunes.”

“I’ve read Variety, Edgar. I’ll simplify the stuff. I’ll write catchy melodies.” Panic had gripped him, and his tone of voice had involuntarily become a plea, a supplication.

“Danny, you’re a classical composer. God knows, you may be a modern Mozart!”

He seized the feeble compliment to use as a weapon for his own survival. “That’s just the point, Edgar. Mozart could write in any style — from Requiem Mass to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ ”

“Yeah,” replied the producer. “But he’s not available. And listen, baby, you need help.”

There was a frightening pause. What was this ignoramus going to propose?

“You’ve gotta understand there’s nothing personal about this, Dan. It’s for the show. We’ve gotta do this to save the show. Ever hear of Leon Tashkenian?”

Indeed, to his ineffable distress, Danny had. Tashkenian was known among his serious musical friends as “Trash-canian.” A two-bit, Tin Pan Alley hack!

“He writes shit, Edgar, pure unadulterated shit!”

I don’t give a damn what you call it,” Edgar retorted. Leon’s got it and we need it. Do you hear me? Does reality ever pierce your magnificent ego? Like the fields need manure, this show needs some shit!”

Daniel Rossi was choking with rage and humiliation.

“Edgar, I know my rights under the Dramatists Guild contract. You can’t bring in a new composer without my consent. And I hereby refuse to consent.”

“Okay, Mr. Rossi,” Waldorf said calmly, “I know my rights, too. This show sucks. Your music is putrid. The people hate it. So if you don’t want the helping hand of Mr. Leon Tashkenian, you have a simple alternative. You can die in Boston and be buried in your beloved Harvard Yard, Because if you say ‘no Leon,’ I’ll go right over to the theater and post the notice.”

He stormed out in a melodramatic huff, knowing Danny was already vanquished.

In fact, Edgar went straight to the downstairs telephone to call Leon Tashkenian, who had already been working in a suite at the Statler since early that morning.

Danny swallowed a tranquilizer, which seemed to have no effect. Then he began to seek consolation from every possible source. First, his agent, Harvey Madison, who had been expecting a call and who was quick to reassure his distinguished client that during a long battle with Edgar Waldorf earlier that evening, he had preserved Danny’s integrity in every way. Leon Tashkenian would receive no billing whatsoever.

“Listen, Dan,” Harvey philosophized, “this is how every Broadway show gets on. It’s patched together with a dozen different shmatas from a dozen different people. And if you’re exceptionally lucky, the critics decide it’s silk and not the same old toilet paper.”

Danny was seething with betrayal.

“Harv, you haven’t got a shred of integrity,” he shouted.

“Danny, wake up. In the theater, ‘integrity’ is what closes on Saturday night. Stop playing Goody Two-Shoes and be grateful Tashkenian was willing to ghost for you. Look, we’ll talk, babe. As soon as the new stuff is in, I’ll fly up to Beantown and we’ll have a quiet meal and a good heart-to-heart. Stay loose.”

As he slammed down the phone, Danny thought of getting drunk. But then suddenly realized that, for all his moral indignation, he had forgotten the devoted Stuart Kingsley, now so brutally banished.

He dialed New York. Nina said her husband could not come to the phone.

“Danny, you’re a ruthless, cold-hearted bastard,” she hissed. “Is there anything or anyone you won’t sell out? He thought you were his friend. God knows he would have protected you —”

“Nina —”

“I hope this show goes down the sewer and you with it. That’s where you all belong!”

“Please, Nina, let me speak to Stuart. Please.”

There was a slight pause. She then replied with subdued fury, “He’s in Hartford, Danny.”

“What the hell’s he doing in —?” But it dawned on him before he had finished his sentence. “You mean the sanitarium?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He got knifed in the back by his friend.”

“I mean, what did he do?”

“Washed down a few dozen pills with a bottle of scotch. Luckily, I came home early —”

“Thank God. Nina, I —”

“Oh, console yourself, Daniel. The doctors understand his case completely —”

“Good,” said Danny, genuinely relieved.

“— They think he’ll probably succeed next time.”