One of the stipulations in Toby Temple’s contract was that he did not have to come to rehearsals. Toby’s stand-in would work with the guest stars in the sketches and dance routines, and Toby would appear for the final rehearsal and taping. In this way, Toby could keep his part fresh and exciting.
On the afternoon of the show’s premiere, in September, 1956, Toby walked into the theater on Vine Street where the show would be taped and sat watching the run-through. When it was over, Toby took his stand-in’s place. Suddenly the theater was filled with electricity. The show came to life and crackled and sparkled. And when it was taped that evening and went on the air, forty million people watched it. It was as though television had been made for Toby Temple. In closeup, he was even more adorable, and everyone wanted him in his living room. The show was an instant success. It jumped to number one in the Nielsen Ratings, and there it firmly remained. Toby Temple was no longer a star.
He had become a superstar.
20
Hollywood was more exciting than Jill Castle had ever dreamed. She went on sightseeing tours and saw the outside of the stars’ homes. And she knew that one day she would have a beautiful home in Bel-Air or Beverly Hills. Meanwhile, Jill lived in an old roominghouse, an ugly two-story wooden structure that had been converted into an even uglier twelve-bedroom house with tiny bedrooms. Her room was inexpensive, which meant that she could stretch out the two hundred dollars she had saved up. The house was located on Bronson, a few minutes from Hollywood and Vine streets, the heart of Hollywood, and was convenient to the motion-picture studios.
There was another feature about the house that attracted Jill. There were a dozen roomers, and all of them were either trying to get into pictures, were working in pictures as extras or bit players or had retired from the Business. The old-timers floated around the house in yellowed robes and curlers, frayed suits and scuffed shoes that would no longer take a shine. The roomers looked used up, rather than old. There was a common living room with battered and sprung furniture where they all gathered in the evening to exchange gossip. Everyone gave Jill advice, most of it contradictory.
“The way to get into pictures, honey, is you find yourself an AD who likes you.” This from a sour-faced lady who had recently been fired from a television series.
“What’s an AD?” Jill asked.
“An assistant director.” In a tone that pitied Jill’s ignorance. “He’s the one who hires the supes.”
Jill was too embarrassed to ask what the “supes” were.
“If you want my advice, you’ll find yourself a horny casting director. An AD can only use you on his picture. A casting director can put you into everything.” This from a toothless woman who must have been in her eighties.
“Yeah? Most of them are fags.” A balding character actor.
“What’s the difference? I mean, if it gets one launched?” An intense, bespectacled young man who burned to be a writer.
“What about starting out as an extra?” Jill asked. “Central Casting—”
“Forget it. Central Casting’s books are closed. They won’t even register you unless you’re a specialty.”
“I’m—I’m sorry. What’s a specialty?”
“It’s like if you’re an amputee. That pays thirty-three fifty-eight instead of the regular twenty-one fifty. Or if you own dinner clothes or can ride a horse, you make twenty-eight thirty-three. If you know how to deal cards or handle the stick at a crap table, that’s twenty-eight thirty-three. If you can play football or baseball, that pays thirty-three fifty-eight—same as an amputee. If you ride a camel or an elephant, it’s fifty-five ninety-four. Take my advice, forget about being an extra. Go for a bit part.”
“I’m not sure what the difference is,” Jill confessed.
“A bit player’s got at least one line to say. Extras ain’t allowed to talk, except the omnies.”
“The what?”
“The omnies—the ones who make background noises.”
“First thing you gotta do is get yourself an agent.”
“How do I find one?”