There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  By the time we touched down in LA, I didn’t know whether or not the name of the man who was supposed to meet me was Steiner or Stoner or Steber or McGillicuddy. Fortunately, he knew my name and had me paged in the baggage section.

  The sun was blazing on my bare little head, my brain trying to curl up inside my ears so as to avoid being broiled. Steiner (I never got his first name) was about forty, with the hollowed-out eyes of a skull and the frame of an elongated Ray Bolger. His hair was every which color and flew every which way as he drove the open MG over the Santa Monica Freeway.

  I hadn’t quite expected a limousine and a Japanese chauffeur, but neither had I foreseen being picked up by a prewar MG and a consumptive driver. Both vehicle and driver sounded to me to be tubercular, with the car a better bet to make it to the hotel than the wheezer at the wheel.

  Steiner drove up and stopped at the entrance of the Hollywood Roosevelt and watched as I wrestled my bags to the street. A bellhop came to help me. He was as sickly as Steiner, but I allowed him to take my bags anyway since it seemed so important to him.

  “You have to be at the studio at nine thirty in the morning,” said Steiner, gunning his car or clearing his throat.

  “Who do I report to?”

  “Someone’ll call you. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks for the lift, Schreiber.”

  “Don’t mention it, Werber.”

  I had a room like nothing I’d ever seen before. One whole wall was a glass door that opened to the swimming pool. Since I was on ground level, I could take a swim by simply stepping through my wall. It was a grand idea except that I didn’t have a bathing suit. No matter, I had a pair of Scotch-plaid BVD’s—so I dove into the pool.

  I got back to my room just as the phone began to ring. First it was Vern Stacey—was I all right? How was the flight? Was the room okay? Did I want to go to dinner with him? My answers were, “Yes,” “Good,” “Yes,” and “No.” And I agreed to call him from the studio the next day, to report.

  The next call was from Mike Abel’s office, his secretary. Just wanted to know if I had arrived safely, and was I comfortable, and they’d be expecting me the next morning at nine thirty. To which I said “Yes,” “Yes,” and “I’ll be there.” And I hung up, wondering just who the hell Mike Abel was.

  The next call was from the front desk. My car would be there at eight forty-five A.M. Good. The next call was from the hotel manager because any friend of Warner Bros, was a friend of his, and I should not hesitate to call for any reason whatsoever. To prove his sincerity he sent a basket of fruit to my room, and I wondered if my masculinity was being compromised. The next call was from Joe Blyer at Warner Bros. Could I find time the next day to stop by his office for purposes of publicity? I’d try.

  I loved it. I loved it all. I really did. Everything I’d ever heard about Hollywood was true. Palm trees pushed up between moving cars. Telephones never stopped ringing. You could fall out of your bed into a swimming pool. And people from New York were treated as though they knew some fantastic secret.

  Still to be experienced were smog; freeway driving; canyon driving; projection rooms; script conferences; starlets; and weekends in Mexico, Palm Springs, and points south. And I wondered aloud as I plopped myself into my bed, “Where have I been all my life?”

  Through the miracle of room service I had a filet mignon, a bottle of California red, and then a fine night’s sleep. When I awoke it was ten thirty A.M.

  I flew into the shower, then shivered upon getting out because I hadn’t stayed in long enough for the hot water to come on. And I was dressed and in the lobby inside of twenty minutes.

  I asked at the desk about my car. Where was my driver? The desk clerk gave me a ticket and told me to give it to the doorman. The doorman gave it to a parking attendant, and my car was brought around—a white convertible Buick with red leather upholstery.

  I got behind the wheel and asked how to get out to Warner Brothers. The attendant seemed unsure. So I gave him the dollar he’d wanted since birth and he told all and I was swiftly on my way.

  It was a near disaster. I got onto the freeway via a feed-in from the left that put me immediately into the speed lane. Leaning over my steering wheel and squinting at the signs, I could see that the next exit was the one I wanted. And it would be on the right. All I had to do was get over to the right within a quarter mile, six lanes, heavy traffic, average speed—seventy-five miles per hour. And everyone daring me to try.

  I managed to get off and aimed myself at the studio, passing Forest Lawn Cemetery. It was a most inspired spot for a cemetery, very strategic. Conveniently located between the Hollywood Freeway and Warner Brothers Studio, thousands of people being murdered daily at both those locations.

  I got to the main gate and it was eleven fifteen A.M. eastern standard time. Los Angeles time, as the guard at the gate gleefully pointed out, was eight fifteen A.M. “Don’t worry,” he laughed, “everybody does it.”

  My car sniffed out a space, and I parked, sheepishly. I had an hour and fifteen minutes to kill. I also had a watch I could kill because it had so misled me.

  I sat in my white Buick and smoked six cigarettes until nine thirty came around. I wanted to make it in Hollywood, and I wanted to be a nice guy. Why did those two objectives seem so incompatible to me? And, if allowed only one, which would I choose? No contest. I’d choose to succeed first—after which, if I could swing it, I’d be the nice guy. Somehow I knew that doing it in reverse was bad thinking, that better writers than I would ever be had ended up invisible and on the dole, and that, conversely, poorer writers had managed to carve out cozy careers early enough so that they were able to live off their reputations and withstand the cold snaps that come to even the hottest writers.

  I got bored with all the soul searching. I had worked hard, had earned my success, and should be permitted my excesses at my moment of triumph. And if I needed further proof, I had to look no further than the last twenty-four hours of my life—during which time I had been flown to LA at studio expense, and had taken the parking space allotted to Joe Mankiewicz, author and director of All About Eve, my all-time favorite film. So get thee behind me Modesty and Humility and Sensitivity and Charm. I was throwing in with Arrogance, Ego, Aggressiveness, and Gall—the Four Horsemen of that metropolis and the daily diet of giants while all the nice guys lived on hope. In other words, I didn’t believe for one minute that I could write so much as a greeting card and that everyone at Warner Brothers would shortly know it, proving once again that braggadocio is the last bastion of the fearful.

  A boy on a bike told me where Mike Abel’s office was, and I went up to see him. It was nine forty-five. I was late but not late enough to volunteer an explanation.

  Mike Abel had an impressive office and an impressive tan though his peeling nose was as raw as if it had been sucked on by a piranha.

  “Ben! Come in! Come in! Good Christ, have we ever been waiting for you! Nancy, see if Mr. Webber would like some coffee.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Sit down! Sit down!” Mike Abel said everything twice. It made it sound as though there were an echo in the room.

  “Thanks. Thanks,” I said, sitting down and wondering if I was going to behave or not.

  He tossed a small book at me. “That’s the book. That is the book!”

  I looked at it. It was very thin. A little over two hundred pages. The title was Another Chance at Jenny. “Nice title,” I said, the big title expert.

  “I think so too. We all do. But what it lacks is the old Ben Webber touch. The characters have to jump out. They have to sing!”

  “Ah—it’s a musical.”

  He laughed. Then he got grimly serious. “Ben, if we do it right as a drama, there’s no reason it can’t be a musical four years later. No reason at all. Look at Anna and the King of Siam. It was a book first. Then a straight drama—Irene Dunne and Rex Harrison. Then a musical on Broadway—Yul Brynner and Gertrude Lawren
ce.”

  I was aware of someone behind me and I turned. It was Big Al Epstein. I jumped up and hugged him—not easy because he was heavier than ever.

  Mike Abel kept talking. “Al is the reason you’re here, Ben. He’s your biggest booster. The biggest. What the hell do we know from television out here? To us it’s minor league. Still, it’s also where all the majors should have farm teams. Thanks to Al, we’re bringing you up, Ben. Some of our people don’t think you’re ready—but I do. I do.”

  “Thanks. Thanks.” I felt Big Al wince when I made my double thanks.

  But Mike Abel could not be stopped. “I want you to read the book, Ben. Won’t take more than a couple hours. Read it, make notes—and we’ll discuss. There’s an office for you. A phone, a john. Go in there, take the phone off the hook, take a crap, and read the book. Then we’ll talk about it over lunch.”

  “The crap or the book?”

  “Sonofabitch, Ben, that’s exactly the kind of sharp dialogue we need. Exactly. Al, show him his office. Pick me up at one. Nancy’ll get us a table in the exec dining room.”

  Big Al showed me to my office. When we were both inside, he closed the door and quietly read me out. “They don’t know it themselves, Ben, but out here nobody has a sense of humor. You keep doing that and you’ll be on a plane back to New York in no time. Not only that, but the plane’ll be shot down before it reaches Nevada. So watch that shit.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’d better.”

  “I mean it. This isn’t the Screen Publicists Guild. My ass is riding on this film, and I’ve got a pretty big ass. I got Warners to buy it and Mike to make it. And I got them all to buy you.”

  “Vern Stacey had nothing to do with it?”

  “Vern Stacey, my butt. We didn’t know who your agent was so we took a shot and called the Morris office in New York. We got Stacey. He said he was your agent. Isn’t he?”

  “He is now.”

  “See how it works, Ben? See?”

  “I think so.”

  “But it’s okay. Stacey got you a good deal. Fifty grand. A little more than you were making in the mail-room, eh?”

  “Al? You ever see any of my plays?”

  “No. But Laura has. All of them. She loved them.”

  “And on the strength of your wife’s opinion you picked me?”

  “She’s never wrong.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Everyone’s crazy. There’s three hundred guys out here who can adapt that book. But the fucking studios are always yelling for new writers. So? You’re a new writer, aren’t you? Ben, I have to tell you something. If I could’ve gotten this picture made with a seasoned pro, I’d have done it. Who needs the risk? I mean—you’re a risk. You’ve never done a movie in your life. But, no, the studio’s on a new talent kick. Laura suggested you. It wasn’t my idea. I’d never have thought of it.”

  “Well—you’re honest.”

  “So you be honest with me and turn out to be a great writer. Because if you do, I can live off my discovery of you for five more pictures. Maybe by then Laura’ll discover William Inge.”

  “I’m parked in Joe Mankiewicz’s spot.”

  “Park behind his typewriter and I’ll feel better.”

  “Why don’t you get him?”

  “Because he’s creating the world this week, and Sunday he’s resting. Listen, Ben, do me a large favor—stay in here and read the book. It’s really good and it’ll make a helluva film. What I’m trying to say is, try very hard to like it. Because, even if you don’t you’ve got to make a screenplay out of it. Otherwise, you have to give the money back, and I’m off the first picture I’ve ever been on.”

  “I got it.”

  “See you for lunch.”

  “Right.”

  I read the book and it was good. As I had expected, some of the characters were standing around, calling on deaf heaven to help them when it was they themselves who ought to have been doing the work. But I could fix that. I knew what to do and how to do it, and all of it would be relatively easy.

  We had lunch, during which Mike Abel did all the talking—so he never got to eat. They took his plate away, untouched, and he thanked the waitress twice because it was so delicious. It was amazing that the man was so heavy—almost as heavy as Big Al. Sitting between them, even though I had space on each side of me, was like being crushed between a streetcar and a steamroller.

  We agreed on a time schedule. I would deliver the first draft in six weeks. I could have done it in three but was afraid to tell them, thinking that they might think that I was sloughing it off. We agreed on the major points that the screenplay would have to embrace. The rest of it—the doing of it—would be solely up to me.

  Before leaving the studio I dropped in on Joe Blyer, the publicity guy. We talked briefly and I filled out questionnaires and allowed them to put into my biography that I had been “—a middleweight contender prior to turning his fists to the typewriter.” It sounded good even to me, and for five minutes of my drive back to the hotel, I actually believed it, losing to Ray Robinson on a TKO at Barham Boulevard.

  I had dinner with Vern Stacey and another man, Jack Rush. And I was informed that Rush would be handling my career as Stacey had to return to New York, his home base. I was a bit miffed and acted the part of the bruised young writer, but that passed quickly because I knew that it didn’t matter who handled me as long as I delivered.

  I spent the next day with Jack Rush, buying me a red Porsche and checking out the Hollywood Hills for digs. Living in “the Valley” would be out of the question, too “plebeian.” That was Jack’s word, not mine.

  Jack Rush was alright, a nice guy if a touch nebulous. Chunky and condescending, he knew enough people to serve his clients well, if not flawlessly. He had set up appointments with real estate brokers well ahead of time, so as not to steal from my working time. He was efficient, pleasant, erudite, and decent. But he had the smell of fear about him, forever wiping the palms of his sweaty hands on his pants—especially before shaking hands. I hoped to outgrow him. Otherwise, I’d have to wear gloves.

  We found a house. On Outpost Drive, near Mulholland—Mulholland being the road that ran practically the entire crest of some mountain that separated Hollywood from the San Fernando Valley. The house was redwood and glass and self-consciously Californian, which is why I liked it—because so was I. It was open and had lots of crawling greenery hugging it to the steep hill. Built and formerly owned by some producer who never quite busted through, its present occupant was only renting and was required to move out as soon as anyone came by to pick up the mortgage. It looked good. Thirty thousand as is, furnishings included. Four grand down and the place was mine. No pool, but you can’t have everything.

  Jack thought it would be a good move—easy to unload if I got big, easy to hang in with if success proved a sluggard. I signed some papers, and the Morris office handled everything else. I must say, they were great. I lost no time in moving in and getting to work.

  I did my shopping in the Valley because, what the hell, it was cheaper and just as easy for me to get to as was Hollywood. I loaded my freezer with enough steak for a year, stocked up on beer and wine, bought reams of paper, dozens of typewriter ribbons—and directed all of my energies at Another Chance at Jenny.

  It was a lonely existence, but I wanted it that way. Also, I was used to it. You want to be a writer, you’d better like your own company, otherwise nothing gets done. Big Al and Fat Mike called on occasion and were always glad to find me in, working on their project. They reminded me of Jerry Kaplan and Frank Brokaw calling in from Long Island to make sure that I was still shackled to my typewriter. Jack Rush dutifully called from time to time, spurring me on with tales of how other producers were lining up for my services, and the sooner I finished the Warners job, the sooner I could take on the rest of the world.

  But I knew not to rush. My first film assignment was important and my first draft crucial. I wanted my two fat boys
to like it. I wanted the word to get around that I was good. To accomplish all those ends, I became as devoted to my typewriter as I would have been to a beautiful mistress. I seldom bothered with the time of day. I shopped only when the fridge and the freezer told me to. I took my laundry out only when the hamper overflowed. I slept no more than two or three hours at a time—but I did that two and three times a day.

  But the script was coming. It was really coming—all the characters taking form and dimension, lining up on my pages to do as they were told. It would be good.

  One evening I received my first visitor: an Irish setter, his wagging tail almost too big for my house. His name was Redwood, so his license indicated. And as I patted his head, his owner appeared before me—not the beautiful girl I would have written for that specific situation.

  Fred Horner was a fifty-year-old drunk, plain and simple, big and soft. None of the words he spoke had any consonants. And when he first spoke I suspected that maybe the dog was a ventriloquist, and a lousy one. He regaled me with nonsense and hospitality, advising me that one wrong step and I’d be on his roof, as his house was around the curve and just below mine. He sold motorcycles and drank gin; the immediate atmosphere about him smelling like a mixture of both. He sat down, throwing his shoe across the terrace so that Redwood could fetch it back. It was Redwood’s big trick. Fred Horner looked at my typewriter and asked the brilliant question: “Writin’ somethin’?”

  “My memoirs.”

  “You ain’t old enough.”

  “I will be by the time I finish.”

  “I’m in cycles.”

  “Listen—I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Don’ let me stop you.”

  “I won’t.” And I led him to the street. He threw his shoe a mile and Redwood disappeared after it. Then, limping, Fred Horner walked away from me with a wave and a burp. I had a neighbor. I had better put up a fence. Electrified.