THE 1,999,999TH CIRCLE

At one time I thought of life as an unfurling ribbon along which we walked (hopped, skipped or jumped) until the spool ran out. But I’ve changed my mind. Now I think it is a series of circles, and round and round is how we go, like a bunch of whirling dervishes. Particularly since the other day.

The other day . . . I went on an acting interview. That’s right, a-c-t-i-n-g. It has got to be the one million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I have done that little chore.

Well, it is part of the acting package, but when I first heard about it this time, I felt . . . I don’t know, sort of funny. I . . . don’t think I can do that, I said to myself.

Why not? said this other voice of mine, speaking right up, not waiting a second.

Gee, I don’t know . . . . I squirmed a little. A . . . middle-aged woman going on an acting interview . It doesn’t seem . . . seemly, somehow.

Oh, honestly, the voice cut right in, you and your false pride. You want to work, don’t you?

Well . . . yes, I do .

Then, Ms. Nag went on, They’ve got to see what you look like now. You’ve been away for a long time.

That’s true, but. . . .

You’re not an ingenue anymore.

I know.

You’re not the girl-that-gets-the-boy anymore.

You don’t have to rub it in.

You’ll play mothers now, grandmothers.

Say . . . what about a doctor part, or--hey! I know! I could play the first female President of the United States--I would be perfect for that!

Oh, really . . . . The sigh was deep. You have wasted more time dreaming in your life than anybody I know.

Instantly I began to worry about what I should wear. Something nice, though not anything that might make them think I was still trying to look young--I wouldn’t want that. But I should look as good as I could. I mean, as good as I could under the circumstance. I didn’t have to look frumpy just because I wasn’t as young as I used to be, did I?

I ended up wearing all white. I look good in white. (I will never, ever, be able to get away from the trying-to-look-good habit--never, ever.) I put on a white cotton shirt, white cotton pants and white tennis shoes.

Then another problem. Hair.

I washed it, that’s all I could do. It’s straight and short and its own color. For some reason it hasn’t turned gray--I’m one of those freaks, like Ronald Reagan. Only recently am I beginning to have a few gray hairs, which I am not going to wash out. Gray will go with my tennis shoes.

Driving along, I began to feel the first tingle of nervousness.

And up spoke the voice, quite exasperated now. Just what are you getting up-tight about, Foolish Person!?

Just . . . reflex action, probably , I answered, immediately on the defensive, I always got nervous when I went on one of these things .

Stop clanking the chains of your childhood, my dear. You are not a kid anymore.

Stop reminding me!

I had been told not to bother with the freeway, but to go straight through downtown Hollywood (wasn’t it perfect!), over the old Cahuenga Pass down into the Valley and head for the old Warner Bros. Studio.

KEYES TO THE TOWN Busily watching for street signs and places to turn, not until the roofs of the sound stages came into sight below did I remember that I had been here before.

Let me quote from a book of mine, “Scarlett O’Hara’s Younger Sister”:

“I picked Warner Brothers (to go to first on arriving in Hollywood). . . . The wall surrounding the place was formidable, and I walked . . . some dozen miles before I saw a sign that made me catch my breath. CASTING, I read above the door.

“At last! Where the action was! I stepped inside. A large sign in bold red lettering greeted me there. WE HAVE 2,894 MEN, 4,704 WOMEN, AND 6,938 CHILDREN MORE THAN WE NEED. Not exactly a welcome mat.”

I had never gone back. That is, until this interview day, and to my amazement it looked just the same as it had all those years earlier.

But, of course, it wasn’t. It’s not even called Warner Bros. anymore. It’s called Burbank Studios. That’s because Columbia Pictures--which used to be in Hollywood--now shares space with Warners in Burbank. It was, in fact, the Columbia casting people I was on my way to see. Columbia Pictures, the studio that had laid out the welcome mat in the early days. The studio to which I had been under contract for some 11 years. My very own alma mater. How about that for a nice, round circle!

Getting inside was a little different this time. The gate person behaved as if he were glad to see me, pointed to a parking place and escorted my car to it, all smiles. Gatemen, in fact, treat me with such tender care these days that I’m wondering if they’re given a course on Old Hollywood upon being hired. And why not? Imagine going to work for Ford Motors and not knowing about a Model-T . . . or an Edsel.

On the other hand, I have been led to believe that the kind of greetings one can receive from the casting establishments often leaves something to be desired. For instance, I was told recently that someone asked Sylvia Sidney if she had any film on herself. (I understand that her answer was, “How much time do you have, Sonny?”)

However, I have no complaints. The two people I saw couldn’t have been nicer. Women, both of them--a gender unheard of in such a capacity in the gone-by days. One of them cast for Columbia Television (Doris Sabbagh), the other for Columbia Pictures (Jennifer Shull). They were warm; they were pleased I had come.

“You’re a legend,” Jennifer said to me.

Good God, I thought. Well, yes, I suppose so, I mean, anybody who dates back to the so-called Golden Years and still lives to tell tale(s) could sign in as “legend.”

“Your voice flows so beautifully.”

Well, dear lady who says nice things, I wonder if there is a part somewhere, for a legend with a voice that flows. . . .?

And then it was over. They had seen the latter-day Keyes, for what it was worth, after which I once again nosed my sporty little car into the Los Angeles traffic, to wend my way back from whence I had come. . . .

To begin the completion of the biggest circle of all.

To do the waiting. The waiting that is as much a part of an actor’s life as a flower’s is to a bee. I wouldn’t be surprised if the time spent waiting in my life has been more than the time spent living it. Waiting to hear from “them.” From “him.”

And now from “her.”

But hey, don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong with waiting. Because waiting is hope. Waiting is having a dream. Waiting means that phone over there has the possibility of ringing any minute now--and if not today, then for sure tomorrow--and I will hear someone telling me that the greatest part I have ever had is mine for the taking.

Hope. The thing that is said to spring eternal. If that is so, the trick, then, it would seem to me, is to keep a firm grip on its flapping coattails, as round . . . and round . . . and round it--and we--go.

We might as well, you know, if we stop to consider the alternatives.