I dug up my old copy of the iconic book and began to leaf through it. What I discovered revived memories of the night Tony Randall seized the opportunity to become a hero. Really. Sort of.
It wasn't the book, but the postcard I found tucked inside it that brought the story to my mind.
The incident began with a phone call I expected and did not want to receive.
"When are you coming to see the play?" Tony asked. He and Jack Klugman were doing "Odd Couple" in the theater.
I wanted to say, "Never!" I can't help it; I don't like plays. I usually get bored, or annoyed. I feel trapped. And you can't really get up and walk out. Although, this time...
"I can't afford the theater," I whined.
"Silly girl! You don't pay when you're with The Star," he said. He often called himself, "The Star." It was a role he played for our amusement. His caricature of the self-important celebrity also provided a usefully commanding persona capable of controlling every situation. It put him in charge. Like this time.
Tony picked me up the next evening. And he was right--I didn't have to pay for a ticket. Neither did he. Inside the theater, we approached a small crowd that had gathered. It looked like the casting call for a beach party movie. I definitely didn't belong.
The gorgeous, sun-tanned group was crowding around the young man Tony knew, who was either the stage manager of his assistant. I've forgotten which. A lovely blonde who spoke with a soft Scandinavian accent was the focus of his attention as we joined them. We learned that Carina had been an exchange student who lived with the family of the stage manager, or he was the exchange student with her family in Sweden. I've forgotten that too.
She and her friends were taking time off from school to work on a ship which transported cars to foreign ports. The stage manager had invited them to see the show when they reached Los Angeles.
Tony played official greeter to the foreign visitors and impressed them with his charm, even though they had no idea who he was. Then he bade us farewell, leaving firm instructions with the stage manager to accommodate us with good seats. Which he did. We just didn't have them for long.
When the play started, the Swedish group was delighted to see their greeter appear on stage. "He's the actor!" one of them murmured.
Hans, a shy, but exceptionally good-looking member of the crew, leaned over to me and whispered, "Is he your father?"
Without warning, a grim-faced older man in a suit loomed over us, making a gesture with his hand that strongly implied we shouldn't get too comfortable.
"You can't stay in seats you didn't pay for," he growled in low, menacing tones.
The young Swedes were mortified. It didn't bother me; I was happy for the chance to move around. What I bitterly resented was the embarrassment my new friends were suffering. And why? There was no queue waiting for those seats.
Before we knew it, we were being marched to the rear exit--like naughty grade-schoolers herded to the principal's office--then around to the stage area. This cold-hearted official deposited us at the side of the stage, where, remarkably, we had the best seats in the house. Except, we were standing. The whole stage was visible and we were closer than anyone in the audience. I actually preferred it, but...
This didn't last long either.
Tony's character, the famously anal-retentive, fastidious Felix Unger, was delivering a line when his head turned to the side for a moment. He noticed me. His eyes flashed. The Star was angry.
When the scene ended and the curtain went down, Tony stormed off the stage.
"I will not go on until my friends are seated!" he thundered. And off he went to his dressing room.
The Star was imperious. The Star was autocratic. The Star was also a hero to us exiles. Moments later, we were being escorted back to our seats by a contrite official whose only wish was to be worthy of our forgiveness.
My friends beamed with relief as we finally settled down to enjoy the rest of the show. None of it, however, could have been as memorable as the performance Tony gave for our benefit off-stage.
I had been re-reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" when the postcard arrived from Japan. Carina wrote, "...We were pleased to see Tony Randall starring in one of the movies we had on board the ship...Please say hello to him for us."
I did. He feigned modesty and waved off my praise, but I could see how much he relished the reminder of his heroic--if somewhat theatrical--rescue of the Swedish visitors.
Carina's postcard remained a forgotten bookmark near the end of "To Kill a Mockingbird." Now I remember why I didn't finish it. I didn't like it all that much. The character of Atticus wasn't as convincing as he had been to an impressionable high school girl. He seemed contrived.
Harper Lee's "new" book was actually written before "To Kill a Mockingbird," but it gathered dust for decades. Is it possible that the Atticus of "Go Set a Watchman" is the character written from the author's heart? And was "Mockingbird" written grudgingly--cynically--just to please her publishers? Or was Truman Capote really the author after all?
I won't read the "new" book. And I'll try to resurrect the Atticus of my early high school days. Heroes are hard to come by.
