by Lee René
“Gee, thank you, Mr. Taylor. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”
Everyone had broad smiles on their faces. In fact, everything was copacetic until a roar came from the rear of the sound stage. “What the hell is happening? I heard those two almost came to blows.”
Mr. Roth strode over to the two actors, his blue eyes blazing. He acknowledged Leah, “Hi ya, Leah, glad to see you,” then pecked me on the cheek. “Hey, Mitzi, did you see your poster? Another accident this morning, two cars slammed head on. Nobody died, though. Swell, ain’t it?”
He turned to Buster and Dallas with a scowl. “Listen, you mugs, since the last supervisor quit, no one else will work with you crumbs. I’m bringing in the big guns. David, come in.”
Mr. Stein sauntered onto the set, acknowledging everyone with a chilly smile. A grip whispered, “We’re doomed. It’s the Icebox.”
Mr. Stein’s reputation had preceded him.
Chapter Twenty-One
An Education
That evening after the debacle on the set of The Golden Falcon, I sat alone in the Dorchester’s dining room framing Uncle Baron’s beautiful photographs. Leah walked in and tossed down the Society Page of the Los Angeles Times. “Mitzi, read this.”
A photo showed Miss Vassar smiling radiantly as she clung to Mr. Stein’s arm. He looked glum as usual. The caption read, “Regal Pictures Vice President David Stein enjoys a night on the town with actress Beth Cushing.”
Leah appeared upset. “The thought of a grand guy like David with that dizzy dame breaks my heart. I’ve seen the way he stares at you, Mitzi. That could have been you stepping out with him.”
Leah would have loved to mate me with that sex-crazed baboon, but thankfully, he had Beth, the Vassar slut. Unfortunately, my sister wasn’t the only one who loved sticking her nose into my personal life. Edna felt it her duty to wise me up about sex. I found out that she knew plenty in the most unpleasant way.
I’d finished work for the day and went searching for Edna on a deserted sound stage. I heard moans that sounded like some severely constipated fellow trying to relieve himself. Then a woman’s voice that sounded like Edna’s whispered, “Come on, big papa, show mama how much you like it.”
When I looked out from the darkness, I could barely believe my eyes. One of the producers, a perpetually horny young man, had dropped his trousers down to his ankles. Edna stood behind him, stroking his penis. I wanted to look away, but I’d never seen a schlong before and watched their hijinks out of curiosity. His member looked big, flushed pink and hard as a rock. One thrust of her hand, and he ejaculated with a grunt, sperm all over the place.
I called out, “Edna, oh, Edna!” The fellow pulled up his pants and rushed away.
Later I confronted her on the ride home.
“Edna, I saw you with your hand on his, uh, thing—you, a nice Christian girl!”
She giggled. “Where did it mention that in the Bible?”
After I witnessed her exploits, Edna decided to tutor me in all things of a sexual nature. Our talks usually occurred in the studio commissary. We sat near the extra girls, many of whom were no older than we were. All of them had painted their faces, lacquered their fingernails, and tinted their hair in hues that had nothing to do with nature. I’d watch them make goo-goo eyes at the producers and listened as they regaled each other with stories of their naughty adventures.
Edna filled me in on what fellow was “on the make” and which “hussy” had given in to him. She couldn’t stop talking about everyone’s carnal hijinks.
“Some of the gals sit on their fellows’ laps and call them ‘daddy.’ If they’re really fast, they let them touch their boobies too.”
Edna pointed to a group of girls she swore were all hot-ass mamas. “That one over there, the one with the platinum hair, is definitely loose. I hear she signals she’ll do it by hanging her douche bag on the shower where the fellows can see it.”
“What’s a douche bag?”
Edna wised me up about douche bags in her own unique style. “It’s a rubber thing you use to squirt warm water mixed with Lysol up your honey-pot. It kills sperm so you won’t get knocked up.”
How fascinating these Christian girls were. “It’s a vagina, Edna.”
My friend made a face. “Yeah, yeah, a vagina.”
Now I knew what a douche bag was, but the meaning of “do it” eluded me.
“She’ll do it? Do what?”
Edna seemed clearly exasperated. “You went to college and you don’t know anything. ‘Do it’ means they put out, and don’t ask me what they put out. It’s the ultimate, you ninny, screwing, how married folks make babies.” She scooted closer and whispered into my ear. “But there are other things a girl can do with a fellow so she can still be a virgin and not get in the family way.”
Then she elaborated on the nature of those “other things.” I’d taken hygiene in college, and I knew how men and women made babies, but I’d never heard such lurid descriptions in my life. Edna sprinkled her conversation with expressions I’d never heard at Barnard: “honey-pot,” “knocked-up,” “dong,” and a host of others. For nineteen years, I’d thought “dick” was short for Richard, and a “pussy” was a kitty cat. Edna let me know just how ignorant I’d been.
Edna pointed to a bosomy girl with henna-red hair sitting at a table across from us.
“See that girl over there? She has hot pants for this guy from Europe, and they do all kinds of fancy stuff. Wanna know what they do?”
“No, I don’t.”
Edna ignored me and went on to detail the grossest, most sickening and repulsive things I’d ever heard, in addition to being the most shocking and nauseating, with fingers, hands, mouths and tongues, licking, stroking, and sucking in the strangest places. She swore she’d never done any of these acts, so I assumed her prurient interest must have been the result of her deprived childhood.
“You know something, Edna? I could have gone to my grave and died a happy old lady without hearing such trash. You’re full of baloney, and I don’t believe human beings do such things.”
We stared at each other for a moment, but my curiosity got the better of me. “What happens to the sperm when she’s uh, finished?”
“She either spits them out or swallows them.”
I ended our revolting conversation. “Well, I hope they both gargled with Listerine afterwards and wore gloves. I don’t know why you listen to such filthy stories anyway. Some of us want romance, not just hanky-panky.”
Edna tossed her head in the nonchalant manner she’d learned from the more worldly extras. “Oh, I get it. You’re still waiting for Chick Hagan to give you a tumble. Well, it ain’t gonna happen, dearie. Besides, you-know-who sticks to him like glue.”
She would remind me that I hardly ever ran into Chick anymore, and on those rare occasions I did, Jill Carpenter attached herself to him like an extra appendage.
Edna ended our conversation by confirming my worst fears about Chick. “You don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell, and I’ll tell you why. Chick Hagan likes hot-ass mamas, so that leaves you out, toots.”
When I arrived home later that evening, I recited my conversation with Edna to my older sister. I didn’t leave out any of the sordid details. “People don’t really do all that vile stuff, do they?”
Leah gazed into my face long and hard. “Yeah, Mitzi, everybody does it, at least in Los Angeles and New York.”
Thank you, Leah.
****
Regal’s saucy silent dramas had brought the studio notoriety, but with David Stein at the reins, raunchiness rose to new heights. Whether a society drama, gangster flick or comedy, Mr. Stein managed to fit in half-naked girls, booze, and jazz music. He peppered the scripts with dialogue that made censors tear their hair out, but all of it ensured his theaters did boffo business.
The Golden Falcon highlighted all the elements of Mr. Stein’s signature touch in addition to opium dens, pansies, and risqué banter. I’d
be playing my role, half-caste innocent sold into white slavery, in my underwear and chained to a brass bed, something David Stein, the pervert, had added to the script.
What would the Barnard sisterhood think? The dean would probably blow a gasket, convinced the degenerate influence of Hollywood had destroyed the virtue of one of her flock. I doubted any of my school chums would care. The girls always snickered behind the old bluestocking’s back.
The costuming choice didn’t please Leah. She could never get used to the fact everyone in the movies paraded around in their skivvies.
“How could they ask you to lie there in front of a camera with no clothes on?”
“They’re paying me one hundred smackers a week. That’s how they could ask. Besides, I’ll have on a camisole.”
At times I wondered if looking at David Stein’s smirking face every day made the money worth it. He supervised other productions, but somehow he and his gold coin managed to show up every time I had to shoot a scene. Thankfully, he kept his distance, yet he treated the crew with his usual icy contempt. A gaffer might greet him with a simple, “Hello, Mr. Stein,” and he’d walk past as if the fellow were invisible. A soundman declared, “That guy must piss ice water.” I agreed.
I hadn’t counted on Mr. Stein’s taking a personal interest in every inch of celluloid they shot of me. He insisted on key lighting, soft-focus lenses, and more close-ups. When Willy complained about the additional expense, Mr. Stein responded with a frosty, “Willy, I didn’t ask your opinion. I told you to do it.”
Perhaps I should have been flattered. After all, close-ups were time-consuming and costly, but every time he showed up, I wanted to scream, “Go away, you two-timing pill. I hate you. Leave me alone.” I never uttered a word.
One day, Mr. Stein strolled onto the set just as the cameraman worked on framing my bondage scene. I sat chained to the bed in my camisole and panties, covered in makeup, a key light frying my scalp. No one had the courage to defend me against the Icebox, so I found myself on my own. He strolled up to the bed, looked down at me, and licked his lips. “For a girl who’s been chained to that bed for three days, she looks rather dewy, doesn’t she?”
Then the crumb yanked down the sheets and ripped my camisole before pulling the right strap so low my bosom nearly popped out. Willy, the gaffers, and the lighting men shuffled around, but no one said a word. Mr. Stein treated me like a cheap floozy, and the makeup fellow didn’t have to use glycerin drops to make tears. The nerve of the big lug!
Willy took me aside after we’d finished for the day. “I’ve seen the way Stein looks at you, the old Hollywood song and dance—a randy son of a bitch with power bullies a girl into submitting to him. We’re almost finished, so I can’t re-shoot your scenes. I need this job, and I don’t have the guts to fight the bastard, but I’m telling you, it’ll get worse unless you go to Ben.”
I knew Willy spoke the truth, but I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. For the next two days, I lay in that brass bed with my bosoms half-exposed, all because of that louse. He slunk around the set like a gangster, flipping his gold coin, and on more than one occasion I’m sure I heard him pant. David Stein might be the boss, but I wasn’t planning to take it lying down—except for right now.
On the final day, Willy yelled, “Cut. Print it. It’s a wrap.” The crew broke out in applause. He placed his arm around my shoulder. “Great work, kid! You really turned on the tears.”
Mr. Stein stood next to the camera, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. I appreciated the kudos, but I still wanted to knock his block off. Instead, I decided to take Willy’s advice and talk to Mr. Roth.
I pulled up the errant strap, slipped a kimono over my underwear, and walked off.
Mr. Stein had arranged for my own portable dressing room, a brightly painted caravan with running water and a toilet. The thought of having my name affixed to the door overjoyed me, but I remembered Clarice and Uncle Baron burned to death in one of those wooden boxes, a fact that took the thrill away.
Boy, would I give Mr. Roth an earful and the lowdown on what kind of a man David Stein really was. I’d be earnest, maybe shed a few tears. It would serve the bum right if Mr. Roth threw him out, right on his fat head.
Mr. Roth expected his contract players to look spiffy, so I refreshed my makeup and chose my loveliest frock. The one hundred simoleons Mr. Stein had left at the Dorchester sat on my makeup table. After I spoke to Mr. Roth, I’d make a dramatic entrance into his office and throw the money in his leering face. I couldn’t wait to see the worm’s reaction.
Without warning, the door swung open. Mr. Stein stood at the door without saying a word, staring at me. I stood in my brassiere and panties, my heart pounding out of my chest. Instead of panicking, I acted like a cool tomato, and wrapped myself in my kimono.
“Uh, Mr. Stein, I’m afraid I’m not dressed for company. Will you please excuse me?”
If Casanova made a move in my direction, I’d scream bloody murder. To my great relief, he stayed where he was.
“I just wanted to make sure it met with your approval.”
“Well, uh, thanks very much, Mr. Stein. It’s lovely and a swell surprise, like the beautiful poster on the studio wall. Thank you for that too.”
He didn’t smirk, just focused his cold eyes on me. “So I finally did some things that pleased you. Maybe you’ll do something to please me. It would make me happy if you’d call me David, and if you’d think about our last conversation at the Ritz. I’m not such a bad fellow. You could do a lot worse.”
With that, he closed the door. My hands shook so violently I had a hard time buttoning my dress. Boy, would I wise up Mr. Ben Roth about a certain David Stein—no, I wouldn’t. I’d confront the crumb myself.
On my way to the front office, I passed the floral alcove and thought of Uncle Baron. If Mr. Stein fired me, would I ever find his grave? I’d have to take the chance. I couldn’t let this goon run roughshod over me anymore. I sat in wait for him. He strolled in two hours later, cool and dapper in a blue serge suit. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. In fact, he grinned like a toad.
“Mitzi, this is a pleasure. Do come in.”
If the crumb thought he’d bullied me into submission, he had another think coming. He opened his office door and gestured for me to enter. My heart began to race when he closed it, but I refused to let him see how frightened I was.
He pointed to a chair, but I didn’t move. “Mr. Stein, Mr. Stein…”
From the way he smirked, I knew the bum enjoyed tormenting me. “Didn’t we agree that you’d call me David? So what have you come to say?”
I decided to let this crumb have it and have it good. To avoid losing my nerve, I looked down at my feet. “You bum, you worm, you sex fiend! I’m not afraid of you anymore, David Stein!”
I threw his money on his desk then dropped my eyes once again. “Here’s your lousy hundred bucks. Count it—it’s all there. I never spent a penny of it. I’m not some Polish whore you can toss a few shekels and use anytime you want.”
Suddenly, I felt emboldened enough to recite the litany of his sins, but I still didn’t look at him.
“After nearly breaking my arm in your office, you said if I stuck with you, I’d be ‘farting through silk panties.’ How disgusting. You grabbed me off the street like a common thug, you big gorilla. You touched my bosoms and humiliated me in front of everyone. How dare you open the door to my dressing room without knocking? You did it just to show me you were the boss, but all it did was make me hate you even more. I hate you. I hate your guts! I’ll make your movies and prance around half-naked because I need a job, but I’m not a whore. If you try any fresh stuff again, I’ll buy a gun and shoot you full of holes like a piece of Swiss cheese, and laugh all the way to the electric chair!”
My tirade left me exhausted. I wanted to sit but didn’t dare chance it. The room went silent. Maybe he’d walked out during my harangue.
I looked up. Mr. Stein stoo
d in front of his desk, staring straight at me. My stomach lurched, and I almost tossed my cookies right on the spot. Then I noticed his eyes had welled up.
“Mitzi, you hate me? You really hate me?”
For a smart guy, he was one dumb cluck. “What did you expect, my enduring gratitude? Yes, you lox, I hate you. I hate you a whole lot!”
A tear rolled down his cheek and took me by surprise. Suddenly, my anger subsided. “Well, maybe ‘hated you’ is more like it. Maybe I don’t hate you as much as I used to, but I still hate you a little bit.”
He took a step in my direction, but I backed away. “Make a move and I’ll scream.”
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry but, weak sister that I am, my own tears started. Then, I remembered how awful mascara looks when it runs. Maybe my lower lip quivered a bit, but I refused to sob.
“You scared me to death, Mr. Stein.”
He walked back to his desk. “I’m sorry.” For once, David Stein looked almost human.
“What were you going to do to me that night?”
Mr. Stein slumped onto his desk. “I wanted a kiss.”
How stupid did he think I was? “Aw, come on. You wanted to do more than just smooch.”
He bowed his head, and I really felt sorry for him. “No, no, no, I swear, I just wanted a kiss. My wife had died, and I went nuts. I needed you to make me feel better, but when you asked about her, I couldn’t go through with it. I sent the money as an apology.”
“You could have told me you were sorry, and it wouldn’t have cost you a dime.”
Mr. Stein looked at me with such a soulful expression, a wave of pity swept over me. I walked over to his desk and picked up his wife’s photograph. “You have my condolences, Mr. Stein.”
He took the photo from my hands, and I saw another flash of humanity—or perhaps regret.
“I married a sweet girl, but it wasn’t a love match. She was Ben’s niece, and our families wanted the marriage. Believe me, I cared for her, but I wasn’t in love with her. She had the misfortune of loving me.”