SAVAGE: Chapter Three

"All right, people! Your attention, please." It was Malcolm Thorn calling from a corner of the rehearsal room. A group of young men and women in dance clothes, faded denims and tennis shoes looked up from where they sat huddled over Styrofoam coffee cups and cans of diet soda from the vending machine in the hall.
Malcom spotted Savage peering nervously into the room and waved him inside. Savage entered and walked over to Malcom, trying to ignore the dozens of pairs of eyes focused on him.
Once he had the group's full attention, Malcolm began his speech.
"As you all know, we will be using all of you for the one week performance at The Greek Theatre. Unfortunately, the rumors you've been hearing are true. We will not be taking this entire ensemble when Miss Rawlings begins her world tour."
There were audible groans from the assembled dancers. "I want you to know," he paused dramatically, "up front, that we have not made the final choices yet. There's still hope for some of you. The final selections will be made by opening night at The Greek, I can promise you that much."

Savage stole a glance around the room. He wondered if anyone knew that he was the replacement for one of the nine young men in the room. Malcolm stepped over to Savage and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Now, I want you to meet this hunky number. His name is Savage and he's going to be with us for The Greek. He's coming in a week late so I want all of you to help him as much as possible. He's primarily a singer, not a dancer, so show a little consideration. We've got just one week to make this boy dance like he knows what he's doing."
Savage was acutely aware of seventeen pairs of eyes assessing him and wondered if they would help him or try to sabotage his entry into the world of professional show business. Malcom continued.
"I'll give you five more minutes break time so you can introduce yourselves and then I want you ready to take it from the top. That is a show business express meaning from the top!"
There was a burst of laughter from the assembled group at Malcolm's inference that they knew nothing about the language of their profession.
Three girls who had been huddled together, whispering, came forth to introduce themselves.
The first was a slim, lanky brunette named Dianne. She had a sensational body and tomboy manner that made her horse-face appear charmingly pixyish. Her eyes were large and blue, offset by black hair cut so short that, from the back, she might have passed as a boy.
The second girl, Judy, was a bleached blonde with a wide smile and zesty personality.
"Don't let old Malcolm scare you," she offered. "I can help you with the dance routines. I'm a dancer, really, who's been taught to sing. Somewhat."

The third girl came forward and, instead of shaking Savage's hand as Dianne and Judy had done, slipped her arm around his waist.

"I'm Erika," she said with a disarming smile. She was the tallest girl in the room, imposing and intimidating at the same time but exuding a friendliness and warmth that caught Savage off guard. She was a beauty all right, but not in the conventional manner. Her eyes were riveting. Savage had never seen eyes so decidedly green. They were wide and large and magnificently shaped and set like two fabulous gems, through which she viewed her world. Her hair was a multiplicity of colors blending into a chestnut blonde. It was pulled tightly back from her face but a few renegade strands had pulled loose from her ponytail during rehearsal. Savage noted that her nose, though fine and aquiline, was just a tad crooked, as was her sensuous mouth. Her smile was very broad and slightly uneven. The blending of these minor imperfections combined with her overall aura of sensuality made her one of the most stunning girls Savage had ever met.
Erika kept a possessive grip on Savage's waist while she introduced him to other members of the group. Several young men turned their backs on Savage and walked away, not wanting to meet their possible replacement. Savage was hardened to the fear in their eyes and wondered whom it was he had been hired to replace.
Malcolm was once again clapping his hands and calling for attention. Everyone scrambled to their places and lined up facing the floor to ceiling mirror that ran the length of the room. Savage stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do.
Erika gave him a gentle push from the waist and said, "Go sit with Hitler and watch us until he tells you otherwise."
With that, she was off, taking her place in line with the others.
The first day of rehearsal was a confusing blur of new faces, dance steps and songs. Malcolm Thorn continued to put the group through their paces unrelentingly. He counted out the steps over the pounding of the upright piano, "Five, six, seven, and eight! Step right, two, three kick! Then step, two-three-four. Forward step two-three and turn!" Over and over it was repeated until, by the end of the day Savage could think of nothing but getting back to his tiny apartment and going straight to bed. One day old in show business and he was exhausted.
When the magic hour of five o'clock finally arrived he was anxious to bolt to the bus stop.
"You did well for your first day," Malcolm said. "I know it's confusing now, but just stick with it and it'll all fall into place. By the end of next week I'll have you looking like a dancer."
Erika walked past and waved goodbye. She winked at Savage and flashed her wide, pronounced smile over her shoulder as she passed.
Standing in the doorway was a very tall, swarthy young man with reddish hair and the body of a linebacker obviously there to pick her up. Savage's suspicions were confirmed when Erika walked up to the massive fellow and gave him a fleeting kiss on the mouth. He took the rehearsal bag from her hands, placed his bulky arm around her waist and they disappeared into the hallway.
Savage's longing gaze wasn't lost on Malcolm. He clasped his hands together and said, "Ah, the beautiful Erika. Isn't she something? You know, she's been with this show longer than anyone. She'll be on the World tour, don't worry. And don't worry about the boyfriend, either," he added conspiratorially, "She keeps him around for protection when we're in L.A., but she's no vestal virgin when she's on the road, I can assure you."

Malcolm gave Savage a look of close scrutiny and then asked, "By the way, do you swing?"
Savage was flustered. "Swing?"

"Go both ways. Girls and boys."
Savage blushed. "Oh, that kind of swing."

Oh, Christ! Was Malcom asking a personal question or was he going to make a pass? Savage would practice his diplomatic rule. Never say yes and never say no. Walk the tightrope.

"Malcom, if I ever decide, you'll be the first to know. Right now I'm so bushed I couldn't think about jerking off. I can't think about anything but getting home and going to bed." Then he pointedly added, "Alone."

Malcom took the rebuff with good grace. He gave a small shrug, "I seem to remember that, somewhere in the Bible it says, 'Ask and thou shalt receive'."

"I'm not the Bible."

Malcom threw his arm over Savage's shoulder and said, "C'mon, you gorgeous Hunk, I'll give you a ride home so you can get to bed. Alone. I want you fresh in the morning. We have a lot of work ahead."
Riding along crowded Hollywood Boulevard in Malcolm's Jaguar, Savage thought for a moment about the man's homosexuality. Although Savage was not at all intrigued about going to bed with another man, he had come to view it as a perfectly natural alternative for some. After all, there were only two sexes on this planet. If a person couldn't relate to one, what choice did he have but to turn to the other?

The week passed in a whirlwind of activity. In addition to learning the complicated dance routines came vocal arrangers, costume fittings, and photographic sessions.

Savage had to notify his landlord that he would be away for six months, but would continue paying rent. He was told it was a good idea to maintain a permanent address in the United States. That way, any money he spent more than forty miles away from home became a tax deduction.

Lillian Dalton cut short her last session with him to offer her own words of wisdom. "This is a wonderful opportunity for you, dear." She was puffing on her ever-present cigarette. "I don't need to tell you that I have very high expectations for you."
Savage listened intently. This kind of speech was not in character. What was she saying? She paused dramatically in the center of her dimly lit music room, clouds of Emeraude cologne wafting forth. With her right arm she gestured toward the unseen Hollywood Hills, "But just go up into those hills and see the hearts of those who've been broken by this business. Hundreds of people with just as much talent. Just as good looks. They all come to this town thinking they'll make it. They spend their lives pursuing a dream and never realize it's only that. Slowly along the way their dreams outrun them, leaving them further behind with each passing year until they're too old and tired to try anymore." She took another puff of her cigarette and looked off into space, as if carefully weighing her words. Savage dared not interrupt. Finally, she looked carefully at him and said, "But I feel that if anyone ever had a chance," another thoughtful pause, "a chance, mind you. It's you."
Savage was stunned. In his entire life he never expected to hear such words from her. She was as hard on him as any marine drill Sergeant and had been relentless from the beginning. This tiny, ancient old woman had taught him everything he knew about the techniques of voice placement. Over and over she had repeated her drill that "Singing is nothing but sustained speech."
She had taught him breath control and exercises for achieving it. She had taught him voice placement and how to get it by humming until the cleft from the upper lip to the base of the nose vibrated. She taught him to stand as if an invisible line ran from the top of his head through his spine. She taught him how to relax the vocal chords when going for the high note by visualizing it as low as the baseboard of the floor. In short, Lillian Dalton taught Savage that the art of singing is as much a display of physical force as any athletic competition. She taught him that the voice is as delicate as the finest violin and must be properly tuned and cared for. That meant daily vocal exercises with religious fervor. And all that she had taught him over the years had not gone wasted. He fulfilled her every requirement. Now, he was hearing from her words so sweet, so unexpected that it made him want to cry. He had to resist the impulse to gather her in his arms and dance around the room with her. She, the most respected vocal coach in the business, was admitting that he had a chance!