Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1951)

“You mean my little measly raise?” “That’s right. This is a big organization.” “It’s too big for me. Good-bye.” Lesson No. 1: you can’t knock ’em dead at eighteen dollars a week or even thirtysix dollars. The thing was to free lance. He free lanced. “It developed,” says Jeff, “into a tremendous nothing. I went back to art school as an instructor.” One of the students was also studying dramatics at the Feagin School in Rockefeller Center. She invited half a dozen chums, including Jeff, to a school play. Sitting there in the darkness, the forces working within him fused to decision. As if a clock had chimed, he knew that this was the hour. No more fooling around, wasting good time, good youth. “Make up your mind what you want to do and do it.” Next day a young man appeared at the Feagin School. “Hello. I want a scholarship— ” Not quite so abruptly, but he doesn’t recall the preamble. Only his own sense of urgency. “I’ll do anything — paint scenery, sweep floors — ” HE’D picked his hour better than he knew. Classes were overloaded wtih aspiring Juliets, and men were at a premium. They asked him to read and withdrew in a huddle, out of which one of them broke. “Well, young man, you won’t have to sweep floors. Mr. Rockefeller does that — ” It was a great year, both for the training he got and the friendships he made. Sheila Stephens was there, who later changed her name to MacRae. So was the guy you now know as Jack Carter. Jack used to bring two huge seeded rolls for lunch, filled with everything in the icebox. These he shared with Jeff, who held up his end by investing a dime in two candy bars. Art still came in handy. He drew at night to pay for his room and board. When it came to leaving, however, he and the school held clashing views. Jeff was offered room, board and ten dollars a week at the Millpond Playhouse in Long Island. To him, this was heaven-sent opportunity. To the school, it was a run-out. “Either finish your work here now or don’t come back.” He chose to follow his star to Millpond. There it shone for a while. Though he slept on an Army cot, which his visiting mother regarded with horror, he was happy. Though they didn’t always get the promised ten bucks, he and the others were having the time of their lives, developing into an all-year stock companv. Food, shelter and the theater sufficed till the cold winter of 1940 set in, and they found themselves craving a certain degree of warmth. Each weekend the producer took off for his cozy hearthside, abandoning them to their heatless dorms. On one such occasion they raided the cellar. Led by Jeff as supervisor of the troupe, they gathered a bucketful of coal, piece by priceless piece, built a meager fire and tried to get the deep-freeze out of their bones. Monday restored the producer to their midst. He called them into conclave, and he wasn’t kidding. “I understand you used some coal over the weekend. Are you resnonsible, Ira?” “Used it?!” exploded Jeff. “We mined it.” “You had no business to. That coal was supposed to heat the theater for the first two performances.” Allergic to being shoved around, Jeff blew his top, packed his bag and went to visit his mother. For six weeks he stayed put in New Jersey. Big things, however, were brewing. At Millpond he’d met Bill Bryan, whom he still refers to smilingly as “my brother,” so close was their friendship. Bill’s folks were starting a summer stock company in Marengo, sixty miles from Chicago. “I’m To banish "tattle-tale gray/' and always have your wash look cleaner, smell cleaner and be^ cleaner, nothing succeeds like Fels-Naptha Soap. FELSO, the All-Purpose White Detergent, is also made by FELS & CO.