Modern Screen (Feb-Dec 1959)

Gardner McKay: The Most Exciting Young Man in the World (Continued from page 21) we got?" the director said, turning to a secretary. "Gardner McKay," she said, reading the name from her book. "He still here?" the director asked. "I guess," said the girl. "Facts?" the director asked. "Twenty-six years old," the girl said, "born in Manhattan, hair brown, eyes hazel-gray, six-feet-five, one-eight-five pounds, experience — practically nil." The director shook his head. "Just what we need," he said. "A six-five giant who knows nothing about acting." "Call him, and let's get this over with," the producer said, shrugging. They did and saw walking towards them from the far end of the mammoth sound stage what one of them later described as "the tallest and best damn-looking guy we had ever laid eyes on. He was handsome — face it, he was a beautiful man — but with no pansy-shmansy about him. His jaw was strong, his lips were full, his eyes were what the ladies might call rugged yet gentle. He was Adonis, Lord Byron, Gregory Peck and Flash Gordon, all wrapped up in one big frame. He was too good to be true and we knew something had to be wrong with him, like maybe when he opened his mouth to talk he would sound like Margaret O'Brien or Mr. Peepers." "How do you do?" Gardner McKay said — his voice deep, resonant, perfectly modulated— when he reached the spot where the producer, director and secretary sat. They spoke with Gardner for a few minutes and then they led him to a prop ship that had been built in the studio, went over his lines with him a couple of times — "You're Adam Troy, an adventurous young sailor," they said, "in the heart of the South Seas, in search of excitement, money and romance. Got it?" — and then they stepped back, ordered the camera to roll and waited to see what would happen. Even before the scene was over, they knew they'd found their man. The producer took a deep breath. "Mr. McKay," he said, "you happen to be the forty-third young man we've tested for the role in the last eight days. And of the forty-three, you were not only the best, looks-wise, acting-wise, everywhichwaywise — but you're also the only one who looked as if he knew what he was doing with those ropes." "Lines," Gardner said, correcting him. "Ropes, strings, lines, whatever you call them," the producer said. "When the script called for you to make a knot, you picked those things up and made a knot'." Gardner laughed. Plenty of experience "Oh," he said, " — well, sir, I've had plenty of experience with boats and knots and things like that. My family, way back — they were clipper ship builders. And when I was a kid I spent quite a bit of time on China Boy — my own boat." "A little practical experience never hurts, eh?" the producer said. "No, sir," Gardner said. And as the producer continued speaking now, congratulating him, giving with the facts on the contract that would be ready to sign the next morning, talking about the big things ahead, Gardner found himself only half-listening. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, he had thought about and spoken about his boat. And, this long day over with finally — the studying, the waiting, the test, all 84 behind him now — he found it comforting, relaxing, nice, to -stand there and let his mind wander back to the past and to the best friend he had ever had . . . back to his boat, his China Boy. . . . There had been no other friends for Park-Avenue-born Gardner McKay when he was a boy. Mainly because he was never in one place long enough to make any. His folks were wealthy people who liked to travel, who liked their boy to travel with them. And so by the time Gardner was fifteen he had attended thirteen schools, in three countries — the United States, Switzerland and France. In the European schools he was known to the other students as the kid with the funny American accent. In the American schools he was known as the kid with the phony European ways. To say that he was insecure and lonely would be putting it mildly. It was, in fact, because of this insecurity and loneliness that Gardner developed an uncontrollable stutter. It happened at a sub-debutante dance in swanky Newport, Rhode Island, the night before Gardner's sixteenth birthday. A girl, young and small and pretty, a friend of the hostess' from down South somewhere, noticed tall, good-looking Gardner standing on the other side of the room, alone. "My gosh," she said to the boy with whom she was dancing, "who is that?" The boy looked. "Him?" he asked. "You're dancing with me. Why do you want to know about him?" "Because I think he's awful cute," the girl said. The boy laughed an annoyed laugh. "Well, what's so funny?" the girl asked. "You want to meet him, I suppose?" the boy asked back. "Yes," the girl said, annoyed now, too, "I believe I do." Meeting G-g-g-gordner The boy took her by the hand to where Gardner was standing. He bowed, mockingly. "Linda Sue," he said, "I'd like you to meet G-g-g-g-gardner Mc-c-c-c-Kay. We're old buddies. We went to the same s-s-s-s-school together once." The girl stared up at Gardner for a moment, then over at the other boy. "What in the world are you talking like that for?" she asked. " 'Cause that's the way G-g-g-g-gardner talks," the boy said. "Go ahead, Gard. Linda Sue here thinks you're real cute. Show her how cute you can t-t-t-t-talk." The girl looked back at Gardner. She saw the perspiration forming on his forehead, the look of hurt and fury coming into his eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to say something — something dreadful, something violent, something stumbling and awkward and full of all the terrible anger inside him. But instead, after another moment, she saw him turn away, then walk quickly towards the door. Gardner says "I felt alone in the world, absolutely alone, as if not a person in the world cared if I lived or died. I felt I wasn't worth anything, couldn't do anything right, was frightened of everything, that I would never amount to a pot of beans. Somehow, I knew, I had to change, had to prove myself . . . Except that I didn't know where to begin." He got into his car and drove home from the party. His folks were away on a trip and the house was empty. The first thing he did was to take off the tuxedo he was wearing and change into some sloppy clothes he'd hardly ever worn before. That, at least, was some kind of beginning. And then, after a while, he got this idea about the boat. He went into the kitchen and packed a boxful of canned foods and got into the car again and drove down to Mystic, Connecticut, where the boat was stashed. He looked at it sitting there, running his hands along its smooth hull. And he thought, "You and I are going to go away to the sea together, China Boy. And maybe while we're away, we'll be able to prove something. But what, I don't know. . . ." The stutter cure It was in mid-August, exactly eight weeks later, when the storm came crashing down on the boy and his boat. They were in the Atlantic, three long miles from the Long Island shoreline. For these past eight weeks they'd been sailing up and down the coast, alone, pulling into tiny ports once in a while for provisions, taking children on rides once in a while, but mostly sailing out in the open waters, just the two of them, together, far from the rest of the world, wallowing in their solitude, their awayness, in the vast and silent and challenging world of the sea. And then, this day, the storm came. It began with the rain, heavy and cold. Then huge lightning flashes charged the sky and the thunder roared. . And then the winds came, blasting upon them from every direction, causing the waves to lash furiously against the sides of the little boat, causing the boat to roll crazily from port to starboard, starboard to port, way over, back and forth, more and more and more. For what seemed like seven lifetimes, the boy struggled to keep his boat from capsizing. Even though it was early afternoon it had grown dark and he could barely see what he was doing. But he worked the lines that worked the straining sails until his fingers bled, and for a while he even thought that everything would be all right. For the thunder had begun to lessen a little and the sky had begun to clear a little and the boat was rocking a little less. But then, again, suddenly, the sky turned dark and from out of nowhere, it seemed, a black, gigantic, spray-spitting wave came rushing towards the boy and the boat. It was upon them in a moment, enveloping them in its grip, tearing them loose from one another with its overwhelming power. It cracked the boat in two, easily, as a big old man might crack a toothpick simply by pressing it between his fingers. And it sent the boy flying through the rain-swept air, then down into the water, only a few yards from the spot where China Boy had just gone under. For a second, Gardner panicked. He gasped for air and opened his mouth and it came filled with the stinging taste of the cruel water that seemed to have set out to lick him. His limbs turned weak. His heart pounded heavily inside him. He felt that he was going to die. And then, almost without realizing it, he found himself beginning to swim. He knew that he was an impossible three miles from shore. He knew that he had no idea which way that shore lay. But still he found himself swimming now, one tired arm cutting into the water, then the other, his legs kicking wearily but steadily, steadily, steadily, through