by Troy Soos
Chapter Two
I pushed my way out of Ebbets Field through a door in the bent right field wall. I was still dressed for the game but not comfortable about it. Bedford Avenue was not the place to be wearing a Giants uniform.
At least there weren’t many people on the street. Charlie Ebbets had built his ballpark on a filled-in swamp known as Pigtown in a desolate area of Flatbush near Crown Heights. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much since he opened the park in the spring of 1913. A small cluster of shanties across the street was the only nearby habitation. Four scruffy goats nibbling at a pile of garbage next to the shacks were the only visible inhabitants.
Casey Stengel soon joined me; he popped out of the gate whistling with great gusto but no melody. Like me, he had his gear in one hand and folded street clothes in the other. I thought if we were making a comedy, Stengel would be sure to steal the picture. He wouldn’t need the baggy pants of Charlie Chaplin or the roly-poly build of Fatty Arbuckle. Nature had given him an audacious nose and jumbo ears that were guaranteed to generate laughs.
“Good game,” I said.
“Well, I never really had a problem with Mathewson. See, that fadeaway pitch he throws, well there was this fellah in Kansas City—Piano Legs Donlin I think his name was—and he threw the exact same thing, except I think he had a different name for it. But the way I figure, it’s nothing more than a curve ball that takes a wrong turn. Now me being left-handed, when a righty like Matty throws that fadeaway it breaks away from me the same as if a lefty threw me a regular curveball—”
With a screech of tires, a shiny blue Pierce-Arrow touring car swung around the corner from Montgomery Street. As it raced toward us, I saw Florence Hampton in the driver’s seat. She pulled over in front of us, stopping the car so sharply that she almost stalled the engine.
Stengel hopped into the front seat, still talking, something about a pitcher in Memphis I think. I hoisted myself from the running board onto the back seat, laying my clothes on the soft white leather upholstery and my equipment bag on the floor. Unlike Stengel, I had kept my cleats on. I twisted my feet sideways so as not to damage the thick carpeting on the floor.
Miss Hampton hastily looped a red silk scarf over her bonnet and knotted it under her chin. In the sunlight, she looked younger than she did on screen, probably not more than thirty.
“We’re off!” she yelled as she deftly threw the car into gear. Picking up speed, she made a hard right onto Sullivan Place. The main entrance of the ballpark was coming up on our right, and people were still flowing out of it. Stengel sat up and turned a little so the large blue B on his left breast could be seen. Then he took his cap off and waved it at the fans. A few cries of “Casey!” went up from the crowd. I quickly removed my own cap and tucked the red bill into the crease of the seat. Then I folded my arms across my chest and laid my hand over the NY on my left sleeve.
Florence Hampton slowed down in the heavy traffic, driving cautiously now. Without once using her horn, she carefully negotiated the car ahead, patiently giving right-of-way to pedestrians and horses.
Until we got to the tracks, the crisscross of trolley tracks that gave the Brooklyn team its original name of Trolley Dodgers, where she suddenly turned into a race car driver, zipping along with a speed and daring that Barney Oldfield would envy. She seemed to view the trains as jousting competitors, and she challenged them to beat her to the crossings. Conductors rang warning bells at her; she squeezed blasts on her horn in reply as she raced ahead. Each time she won, a smile of victory flashed across her face. Fortunately, she didn’t lose.
After the trolley maze, she turned south on Ocean Avenue and sped along as fast as the bumpy road and the wind resistance from Stengel’s ears would allow.
We passed neat frame houses with striped awnings over their front doors and closed shutters to keep out the heat. Evenly spaced maple and poplar trees lined the road. The journey started to seem an idyllic summer automobile outing, and I was lulled into a warm tranquil state.
Then it struck me how peculiar this situation really was. I’m a utility baseball player on my way to be filmed for a moving picture. I’m going to be in it with Casey Stengel, one of baseball’s biggest stars. And I’m being chauffeured by Miss Florence Hampton, who before today had seemed so ethereal, so unreal—a radiant image on a movie screen.
There was almost a daily mention of Florence Hampton in the newspapers and every month an item in the movie magazines. From these I knew something of her past. As a Ziegfeld Follies chorus girl she’d married showman William Daley and then had gone on to success on the stage and in the movies. Earlier this year, she’d inherited Daley’s share in the Dodgers when her husband died. And there was more: some of the less reputable papers hinted at scandat—that the young widow had a fondness for wild parties and young ball players.
As we approached the intersection of Locust and East 15th Streets, I spotted a towering smoke stack with Vitagraph Co. painted down its side. It was at the comer of a massive factory complex that occupied an entire block.
Florence Hampton turned into an open gate, and we entered a courtyard surrounded by three-story buildings of yellow brick.
The yard was filled with an odd assortment of vehicles parked about haphazardly—a fire engine, a stagecoach, a milk truck, and enough tin lizzies to start a taxi company.
She killed the engine and we eased out of the car. As she undid her scarf, I asked, “Is all this for making movies?”
“Oh yes. There’s a lot that goes into making movies nowadays.” She removed her hat and shook her hair. “Vitagraph has hundreds of people working here.”
The largest two buildings were at the east and west ends of the yard; except for their sloped glass roofs, they looked like enormous warehouses. “What are the buildings with all the glass?” I asked.
“That’s where we shoot the pictures. The glass is to let the light in. We have two companies here.” She pointed to the east building. “That’s Studio A, where they make the prestige pictures—costume dramas, really.” She laughed and started toward the west building. “This is Studio B. We do the lowbrow pictures—comedies, westerns, the things people really like. We’re the fun company.”
Stengel looked like a kid seeing his first circus. He had a dazed grin on his face, but no word came out of his mouth.
When Miss Hampton opened the door of the “fun” studio, a splash of scalding air smacked me in the face. The glass roof let in plenty of light, but it also made the building a hothouse.
The cavernous interior was laid out more like a factory than a studio. Along one wall was a row of open-fronted movie sets partitioned by flimsy pasteboard walls. A row of cameras, looking like a cinematic firing squad, was in front of the sets, with one camera aimed at each scene. The rest of the building was a clutter of light stands, white reflector sheets, odd props, and building supplies. The room echoed with the din of production: directors bellowing through small hand-held megaphones, a piano and a violin playing two different tunes on two different sets, carpenters hammering at partially constructed walls.
Treading our way over ropes and cables, I looked into the first set where four men dressed as Confederate officers huddled in what was supposed to be a tent. There was a Western barroom, a bakery with a stack of pies, a jailhouse cell—
Suddenly my right foot snagged, and I started to fall. Trying to catch myself, I grabbed hold of a spotlight—a hot spotlight. I burned my hand and quickly let go, falling to the floor. The light stand wobbled teasingly. Then it tumbled after me, shattering with an explosion and a puff of acrid smoke.
All sounds in the studio ceased. The silence was absolute until a workman in coveralls broke it. “Why don’t ya watch where yer walkin’! Ya stupid...”
Stengel reached for my collar and helped pull me back up. “You trying to get us kicked out of here?” he muttered.
Florence Hampton yelled back at the workman, “If you didn’t leave those wires all over the floor, people wouldn’t trip on them
.”
The man grumbled, “Yeah, well, he’s crazy for walkin’ around in here with those shoes, anyway. He puts one of them spikes through a wire, he’s going up the same as that Klieg light.” I quickly pulled off my cleats.
Miss Hampton gently laid her hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry,” she told me. “It happens all the time. I’m surprised we don’t have more accidents. Did you hurt yourself?”
I said no, which was nearly true.
From the farthest end of the building Elmer Garvin called, “Down here, Miss Hampton!” Through his horn he bellowed, “All right! Everybody back to work!”
We walked over to him, I in my stocking feet.
“We just got it ready,” Garvin said proudly, pointing to the set.
I couldn’t see any reason for his pride. A glove and a few bats were the only props. What was supposed to be a baseball diamond was crudely painted in bold purple on a pale yellow canvas backdrop. I knew the camera couldn’t pick up the hideous color scheme, but I didn’t at all like the idea of a yellow and purple baseball field.
“Now don’t touch anything,” Garvin said. “The paint’s still wet.” He directed the warning at me for some reason. Then he called a gangly boy, who took our gear and clothes to the dressing room.
Garvin gently pushed Stengel and me until we were standing where he wanted. He took a close look at my head and scowled. “Blond hair doesn’t film good,” he said. “Put your caps on.”
“Light brown,” I muttered, as we complied.
Garvin then seated himself on a stool next to the camera. “We don’t have much time,” he announced to the crew. “So let’s get this going.” Although we were within easy hearing distance, he put a megaphone to his mouth and barked at Casey and me, “Okay, here’s the story. You two are both wooing Miss Hampton. She can’t choose between you. So you argue and try to settle it between yourselves. Now, let’s see you argue.”
Casey started gesturing wildly with his hands. I pantomimed yelling with exaggerated mouth motions.
“What the hell is that?” Garvin squawked.
“Arguing?” I suggested.
Garvin stood up and shook his head. “You look like a couple of monkeys. You look like you’re trying to act. That’s no good. Let me see...” His pocket change started to rattle. “I’ve got it! Who’s the better team: the Dodgers or the Giants?”
“The Giants,” I said quickly.
“The Dodgers,” snapped Casey. A chorus behind the camera echoed, “The Dodgers!” The crew broke into laughter.
Garvin’s face reddened. “Very funny!” he barked. “Now quiet while I try to teach these two how to act.” He turned back to us, “Just argue about who’s got the better team. And do it out loud. Nobody’s gonna know what you’re really saying. Start camera!”
Stengel and I started to argue heatedly while the cameraman crouched behind his machine, turning the crank and recording our argument on celluloid.
“Stop camera! That was good. Now you’re going to decide who gets her.”
“How?” Stengel asked.
Garvin dug into his pocket and flicked a dollar at him. “Flip a coin,” he said.
I suggested, “How about with a bat? You know, like to see who gets first pick when you choose up sides.”
“Fine,” Garvin agreed. “A bat would be better. Start camera! Go ahead, boys.”
I picked up a bat and tossed it in the air. As it came down, Stengel caught it at the label, and we went into the old routine as easily as if we were kids back on a sandlot. We alternated his fists and mine as we put them on top of each other climbing to the knob of the bat. Acting suddenly seemed easy.
“Wonderful! I love it!” yelled Garvin.
I got a fist almost to the top of the bat, then Casey capped his palm over the knob. Damn! This was just make believe, but I wanted to win.
“Stop camera! Very good, boys. Now step back a little.”
Stengel and I shuffled back to the painted canvas. Garvin turned to his left. “Are you ready, Miss Hampton?” She was out of my sight, behind one of the side walls, but she must have indicated yes because Garvin said, “Start camera!”
She came into view, walking slowly across the front of the set. With one hand she twirled a parasol; with the other she held the arm of Tom Kelly, her usual leading man. I was jealous. And when I saw how Kelly was dressed, I was shocked.
Garvin barked, “Okay, boys. You’ve both lost her. Try to look surprised.”
No problem there. Kelly was wearing a chest protector over a dark suit and he carried a mask. We lost out to an umpire? My mouth gaped in disbelief. Who the hell is going to believe she’d pick an umpire over a ball player? Hell, I’d rather lose her to Stengel than to an umpire.
“Stop camera! Perfect! That’s it for today!” Miss Hampton immediately removed her hand from Kelly’s arm. I remained immobile, staring at her.
My mouth was still open when it was suddenly filled and everything went white. I clawed at my eyes, scooping out white goo. I spit the same stuff out of my mouth.
When my eyes cleared, I saw in front of me a wiry young lady dressed in brown jodhpurs, knee-high boots, and a man’s khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a long thick braid. She was serial star Marguerite Turner. Two nights ago I had seen her in episode six of Dangers of the Dark Continent. I deduced from her clothes that she was probably filming the next installment in the series. In her right hand she held an empty pie tin. I was now wearing its contents.
“Oops,” she said innocently. “Sorry, but when I saw the Giants uniform it just slipped.” Her voice was low and a little husky.
She looked at me with dark, heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to pop out of her head. On her tawny round face was a smirking half-smile that could be taken as either annoying or endearing. I must have found it to be the latter because I suddenly didn’t mind having lost Florence Hampton to an umpire.
Then I noticed the crowd was laughing and I felt myself blushing through the meringue that caked my face.
Lights started to click off and the crew dispersed. Turner still stood in front of me, her smile turned quizzical. I was probably supposed to say something, but all I could think of was that my acting debut was far from what I’d hoped it would be.
One of the Civil War generals came over, his white goatee bobbing. “Well, Mr. Rawlings, I see Miss Turner has initiated you into our little family.” It was Arthur V. Carlyle. I hadn’t recognized him at the ballpark, but now I remembered him as one of Vitagraph’s stock character actors. He usually played proper butlers or kindly grandfathers. “I’m one of the few who hasn’t been subjected to Miss Turner’s little joke,” he said. He looked at her with stern eyes. “Of course, if she ever tried it, I would put her over my knee.”
Marguerite Turner shrugged and walked away. Carlyle said to Stengel and me, “I’ll show you to the gentlemen’s dressing room. You can clean up and change your clothes there.”
In a cluttered room that was more of a storage space than a dressing area, Casey and I stripped out of our uniforms and Arthur Carlyle and the other actors out of their costumes. We were all crowded together before a long low table that held a hodgepodge of mirrors, hair brushes, and makeup boxes.
While I wiped my face with a towel, Carlyle stood on my left, carefully peeling off his fake beard. He put it away in a makeup kit the size of a mechanic’s toolbox.
It reminded me of when I used to play semi-pro ball for factory teams. I’d be given my own toolbox and a set of work clothes, but my real purpose was to play baseball on the company team. I was never really a carpenter or a pipe-fitter, just a ball player in disguise—an imposter. The same as I’d been on the movie set. I wasn’t an actor. I was a baseball player.
Yeah... a baseball player. And that’s a wonderful thing to be.
Feeling better now, I decided I was going to leave this place with my dignity intact and looking good. I donned one of my more fashionable outfits: a blue can
dy-striped blazer, cream-colored trousers, and a scarlet silk necktie speckled with fine white polka dots. I took extra care to make sure everything was right, retying the four-in-hand three times until I was satisfied with the knot and buffing my brown patent leather shoes with a handkerchief.
Stengel patiently waited for me to finish my primping, then we left the dressing room together.
Marguerite Turner was waiting outside the door. She had changed into a pale yellow frock with a low-cut square neckline. The dress looked a size too large and hung lopsided from her shoulders. Her half-smile was gone and she looked contrite. She said, “I’m sorry about the pie, Mr. Rawlings. I really didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t,” I lied. “I was just a little surprised is all.”
Stengel snorted.
“We have a party on Saturday nights,” she went on. “To celebrate the end of the work week. I’d be very happy if you would join us.” She appeared to notice Casey for the first time and added, “Of course you’re invited too, Mr. Stengel.”
He answered before I could put my mouth in gear. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have another engagement this evening. See, there’s a few other fellahs and me who get together for a friendly little game of poker. And Saturday being our regular game night—”
“I’d be happy to go the party,” I said.
Chapter Three
While digging a tiny fork into a colossal oyster, my perspective on the day suddenly reversed. Never mind our loss to the Dodgers or my mishaps in the Vitagraph studio. The day was actually quite a success. I’d had a single in one at bat, bringing me closer to the .250 mark. I’d made a movie. And now what was starting to seem the highlight of the day: I was on a Saturday night date. Well, maybe not a date exactly, but I was having dinner with a young lady. As well as with fifty or sixty other guests of the Vitagraph Company.
We were in the dining hall of the Sea Dip Hotel on Coney Island. The hotel was right on the ocean, and the open windows of the room let through a cross-breeze that carried the sharp scent of salt air and the faint odor of decomposing sea creatures. The smell wasn’t all that appealing, but the cooling draft made it possible to sit still without working up a sweat.