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run of 55 consecutive years of one-night stands on Broadway may sound like quite an accomplishment, but when you consider that I have no talent – I can neither sing, dance nor act – the feat becomes mind-boggling.
Beginning in 1952 and continuing until last year, I appeared in the New York Financial Writers' Association's annual Financial Follies, a lampoon of business, finance and government leaders, in the main ballroom of a hotel in the Times Square area. The Follies, held every year since the organization was founded in 1938 (except for a couple of years during World War II) takes place the Friday before Thanksgiving and attracts a thousand or more media, business, government and PR revelers. Proceeds from the Follies support scholarships for college students interested in a career in financial journalism. Last year, the Association presented ten awards totaling $30,000.
For the first 30 years or so, the performers in the Follies, who were present or former financial writers, were all male, as was the audience. That led to some interesting developments, since there were always scenes with men in drag. Some of them – not I, though – were so artfully made up that on occasion, an inebriated male guest would make an untoward advance. One young writer nearly panicked when the financial editor of a major newspaper made a serious pass at him.
Among other roles I had in that persuasion were those portraying women of ill-repute. One year, when I picked up my script for the first time, I found I was cast as a madame, a clear sign of my advancing age. During that skit, Gene Boyo, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune and now a fellow Silurian, was cast as a Western Union messenger who was supposed to hand me a telegram. I considered this very fortuitous since I could write my lines on the form, rather than struggling to memorize them. Gene was very obliging and I typed my lines on the message form. But when I opened the telegram Gene handed me at the show, it read: "Screw you, George. You're on your own." Naturally, I burst out laughing, as did everyone else on stage who was in on the joke. Fortunately, I had attended enough rehearsals to fake the lines, and the rest of the cast was sharp enough to figure out when they were cued in.
One Follies night I had to work late at The Times, where I was a financial reporter. I rushed out the back door of the paper, which opened on 44th Street, dashed across the street to the side entrance of the Astor Hotel, which was near the backstage of the main ballroom, and yelled to the waiter for a glass of Scotch. (I didn't have time to visit any of the many pre-Follies parties that served libations.) The waiter, who was always assigned backstage to serve sodas, coffee or tea to the cast members before the show and alcoholic beverages only afterward, reminded me that he couldn't serve liquor before or during the show. I explained that I had to be on stage in ten minutes dressed as a whore and go through my songs and dances. This, I told him, I couldn't do cold sober. He reached under the bar, poured me a generous glass of Scotch and said loudly, "Here is your ginger ale, sir."
One of the most ardent followers of the Follies was John L. Lewis, the legendary president of the United Mine Workers union. One year, Mr. Lewis phoned early Friday, the day of the show, to say he was testifying before a Congressional committee, but expected the session to adjourn in time for him to hop a plane to New York, jump into a waiting limousine and get to the Astor in time. But if there was a delay, he asked, could we hold the curtain a bit for him. He did reach the hotel in ample time, and he came backstage afterwards, as he always did, for a drink with the cast. He then apologized for not being able to stay for the after-the-show parties because he had to continue testifying in the morning and needed to go over some points with his lawyer beforehand. He was only one of the many bigwigs before whom I and my fellow financial writers and editors performed over the years.
One memorable scene in which I participated took place in 1979. I played Mr. Goldman, alongside Mr. Sachs, portrayed by Ed Swietnicki, another former financial reporter. Before the show started, the Association presented its Ellliott V. Bell Award honoring someone who had made a significant long-term contribution to the profession of financial journalism. The award, named after the group's first president, who had been the long-time editor of Business Week magazine, went to Sylvia Porter, the esteemed consumer-affairs columnist. The award was well-deserved, but Sylvia's acceptance speech went on way too long. After the show began, Ed and I were pushed on stage in wheelchairs. I had the first words, and threw them to Ed. He had his eyes closed and didn't respond. I didn't know if he had fallen asleep or had forgotten his lines. But after what seemed like an interminable pause, he opened his eyes, looked around in surprise and, with impeccable timing, said, "Oh, is Sylvia finished already?" It brought the house down.
The shows over the years were filled with nuggets like those. I skipped the Follies last year, breaking my 55-year streak. But now I'm thinking of returning to hold a spear next November. After all, grease paint can get into your blood, just like printer's ink.
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