by Sam Moffie
“I bet he wears a see-through plastic body bag when he is having sex,” Oscar quipped later during their conversation after the weekend fly-over. “Of course there must be some sort of opening in the front for his manhood.”
“That mental image could ruin my sex life for decades… maybe forever,” Powell replied.
“Now that you mention it, it does make me sick to my stomach,” added Millard. “But I don’t think that June would stick around without a sex life.”
And sick to his stomach is exactly what Dick Powell got after a half-hour into his flight from Los Angeles to Southern Utah.
“Maybe I should have drunk the water and ate the food that Howard offered me before the flight,” Powell groaned to the flight attendant with the big puppies who had silently reappeared.
“Maybe,” she said softly “but you better make damn sure that Mr. Hughes doesn’t find out you puked. He will go nuts! And, I will really be pissed off because he will make me clean this plane three times a day for one week and then have me put in quarantine for an additional week,” she groaned.
“He must pay very well,” Powell managed to say in between his dry heaves. “Not when it comes to passing his grading scale on what is clean and what is not,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I don’t puke and brag,” Dick said as he upchucked into one of the plastic bowls that the stewardess had retrieved from the chest that once belonged to Blackbeard the pirate.
How ironic that I am puking into something from Blackbeard’s ship, Powell thought as a mental picture came into focus showing him — Dick Powell — on a pirate ship from the 17th century, being tossed against the ocean waves, which made him toss his insides even more.
“My goodness, Mr. Powell, you have a lot of items in your gut,” the flight attendant exclaimed as she approached Blackbeard’s chest to get another bowl for Dick Powell to fill up.
“Not much more,” Powell said with some restraint, because he was pretty sure that most of whatever was poisoning him and thus causing him to puke was out of his system.
“And the poison that causes you to puke your guts out can be anything,” Millard told Powell after the fly-over and they were both discussing the flight attendants’ sexual prowess.
“Miss, I need to freshen up,” Dick announced to the flight attendant.
“Right away, Mr. Powell,” she said as she helped him stand and walked with him to the bathroom. “Please flush what used to be in your stomach down the toilet for me,” she added as she handed him the two plastic bowls of vomit.
“I feel like a patient in a nursing home,” Powell said.
“That’s funny. That is where Mr. Hughes found me,” she said.
“You’re kidding me,” Dick said.
“No. He owns a few nursing homes around the country that he stays in when he feels like hiding from the world. I was in charge of wiping his ass. Of course, as a nurse’s assistant, I wiped a lot of people’s asses,” she said as she gave Dick a wink. “Can see why you ended up on this plane, but I can’t picture you in a nursing home” Powell said as he opened up the door and went into the lavatory. “Mr. Powell, good luck,” she cried out to him as he walked inside. “What did she mean by that?” he asked himself as he turned on the faucet in the sink. The water was ice cold.
“Probably from that same mountain stream as his drinking water,” Dick said as he washed his face and hands. He kept his eyes closed and fumbled for the towel on the rack on the wall. When his hands found the towel he jumped back. The towel wasn’t made out of cloth or paper… well paper yes; but on further inspection Dick saw that it was sand paper! Powell then went to the toilet paper dispenser and couldn’t believe that it was the same material.
So that’s what the ‘good luck’ wish was for, he thought.
“Yikes!” Oscar Millard yelled out when Powell told him that.
“And no, I don’t even want to think that he wipes his ass with that type of paper,” Dick said to Oscar.
“I wasn’t thinking about Hughes. I was cringing for me, you and others who might find themselves in that bathroom, taking a crap and then reaching for the toilet paper only to have to…”
“To what?” Powell cut him off.
“Wipe their asses with sand paper,” Oscar said.
“I bet it really cleans,” Powell said with a laugh.
“No wonder he eats what he eats,” Millard said.
“If his deterrent is to have to wipe with sand paper, I can see why he has the diet that he does,” Powell said.
“What a practical joke it would be to slip him some stool relaxer,” Oscar said. “Maybe even replace the sandpaper with a real toilet paper roll.”
“That’s why you’re the writer,” Powell said.
Dick Powell opened the bathroom door to the cabin of the plane and realized that if he returned to the swivel chair, he would start the entire process of puking all over again.
Why me? He pleaded as he thought about sitting somewhere else that wouldn’t rock while the plane rolled. He walked to Blackbeard’s chest and opened it. Then it hit him.
“The trays!” he said out loud. “I’ll sit on the tray and if the plane should lurch, I’ll slide and it will be all right,” he said in a louder voice.
He took out a tray and walked to the back of the plane near the doorway of the bathroom. The plane was moving steadily with no turbulence whatsoever. He sat on the tray and leveraged himself against the wall with his back; his feet anchored on the floor. He nodded with approval at his ingenuity and closed his eyes.
He must have dozed off into a deep sleep because suddenly he was moving very quickly to the front of the plane, as if the tray he was on was some new kiddie ride at the amusement park. And Strabala doesn’t think Hughes is into games, he mused.
As the plane moved in what Dick Powell thought was either rough turbulence or his boss in ecstasy, his tray went from the front of the plane to the back of the plane and from one side to the other. Powell was amazed that he wasn’t getting sick. He was overjoyed that he was having fun… until the plane leveled off and the front door of the soon-to-be cock-less pit opened up and his boss stared at him.
Dick stared back, because Hughes had forgotten to zip up his pants and his penis was in full view.
“Having fun, Mr. Powell?” Hughes asked his number-one executive producer.
Given the situation that he found himself in, Dick Powell wished he was either a comedian or a gag writer. For if he was either, he would have knocked Hughes’ question out of the park with a snappy reply. Discretion being the better part of valor (and Hughes being his boss and already okaying a $6 million budget), told Dick to play it cool.
“Just enjoying the future, boss,” Powell replied.
“Those trays were made for eating… not sliding,” Hughes said as he walked to the area where the swivel chairs were located. “Better put the tray back and sit down. We’re flying low over South Utah. You’ll be able to see the vintage red soil soon.”
Should I tell him? Dick thought. He decided to.
“I mean Oscar, if I had a piece of food on the side of my face while I was eating; you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Powell pleaded with his script writer when they talked about their mutual experiences.
“Of course, Dick,” said Oscar as he pointed to Dick’s face where indeed a piece of pasta had stuck.
Dick Powell wiped his face with his napkin and looked to see if Oscar Millard was busting his chops. He wasn’t. A piece of food had found its way to Dick Powell’s cheek.
“That was a test Oscar. I had someone in special effects rig it up,” Powell lied.
“Dick. You’re not funny and you’re a terrible liar. How did you become so successful?” asked Oscar.
“Howard. Speaking about ‘flying low,’ I would like to point out something,” Powell said to Hughes.
“What’s that, kid?” Hughes said as he motioned to Powell to sit down and strap into the swivel seat.
“You’re fly
ing low, too,” Powell said.
“No kidding. If you’re flying low of course I’m flying low. The plane is flying low and so are the women on the plane with us. Boy, I’m glad I put you in charge of a $6 million budget,” Hughes said sarcastically.
Dick Powell let out a long sigh.
“Come on kid, I wasn’t being serious. That was a little humor on my part. I always like to crack jokes after sex. Hope you don’t mind. Have my girls given you any inspiration in your quest to find an actress with big jugs for the picture?” asked Hughes.
Powell let out another sigh and then pointed at his boss’ crotch.
Hughes looked down at the part between his legs and started laughing, which in turn made Powell laugh.
“Now that’s what I call low flying,” Hughes cackled as he tucked in his penis and buttoned up his fly. He then excused himself to wash-up.
“Well?” asked Oscar later when Powell and Millard were talking about the fly over.
“Well what?” answered Dick Powell.
“His penis. What about his penis?”
“He has one,” quipped Powell.
“I’m definitely right about you. You’re not funny.”
“Anything I know about Hughes is serious. Funny is for Jack Benny,” Powell said.
Oscar Millard rolled his eyes. He would have loved to have found out something about Howard Hughes’ penis that he could have used as gossip around Hollywood, especially given how people in high places trade information with people in low places like him for something down the line… and as Oscar Millard knew, all writers need something down the line — especially screenwriters.
After spending about 15 minutes in the bathroom, Howard Hughes emerged and informed Dick Powell that the vintage red cliffs and soil of Southern Utah would be coming into view shortly.
“Glad we are filming in color, Howard,” Powell said as he wondered if Hughes had used the sandpaper on his penis and then held back a gag at that thought (he’d had enough gagging.)
“Me, too, since black-and-white went out with the silents,” Hughes said matter-of-factly. “Know what the best thing is about sound and color film?”
Powell shook his head no.
“Got that cheapskate Joe Kennedy out of Hollywood,” Hughes said with a huge grin.
Powell disagreed with the statement about silent movies, but agreed with the statement about Kennedy. Dick Powell was a big fan of Hollywood and everything that made it the dream factory for all Americans. He loved the silent films, knowing that they were the pioneers for the talkies. He wished that most of the people around during the silent film era could have profited from what they developed and realized a lot of money instead of ending up broke. He loved the black-and-white talkies even more than the silent films.
A lot of that was very personal because Dick Powell had become a big star during the heady days of film noir. Now, it was color films and Dick Powell and many others would adapt. Because if they didn’t adapt to the new technology others would, and Dick Powell would be on the outside looking in. He had no desire to do that. Filmmaking was his life. To Hughes and the other money people it was an investment that might or might not pay off. If the film didn’t make a profit, the worst thing that happened to men like Hughes was that they tripped over their money and received a paper cut. To Dick Powell… failure meant ruin by the Chinese water torture method.
“Drip by drip the scripts stop. The investors go away. The phone calls stop. The phone calls are never returned. The invites stop. The reporters forget how to spell your name,” Powell had told his wife, June Allyson, once when they had spied a desolate D.W. Griffith walking down Sunset Boulevard a long time ago.
“Sometimes I think it’s called the dream factory by the fans, because to all of us in the business it can become the nightmare factory,” she replied as they pulled up and gave Griffith a lift to a restaurant and $200 pocket money.
“Do you know what they grow in this part of Utah, kid?” Hughes asked as the plane flew so low that Dick Powell could see the sweat forming on the wild horses as they raced away from the roar of Hughes’ aircraft.
“Red riding hoods,” Powell guessed, totally clueless about what was grown in Southern Utah but in awe of the vintage red coloring of the cliffs and soil.
“You’re weird, Powell,” Hughes said with a shrug.
I’m weird? Boy, I wish I were a painter, Powell mused as he stared at the lush colors of the land he would soon be filming, that is if he found an actor to play the lead and a woman with big enough tits to co-star with said actor.
“They call this place ‘Utah’s Dixie,’” Hughes piped in.
“I’m lost again, Howard,” Dick said.
“That’s why you’re not the navigator, kid,” Hughes said as he chuckled at his own joke. “Believe it or not, Brigham Young once settled here and started to grow cotton… hence the ‘Dixie’ reference.”
“I guess the South couldn’t grow red cotton,” Powell added with a laugh of his own.
“You know what I have to add about Brigham Young?” Hughes asked Powell.
Dick Powell shook his head no.
“Bring ‘em and bring ‘em young,” Howard said with gusto.
You forgot to add big hooters! Dick Powell thought as he laughed at his boss’ corny joke. I’m glad he is paying me well Powell mused.
Powell took a deep breath because he couldn’t believe how fast the plane was going, let alone that a woman was behind the controls. At least focusing on all that is keeping me from tossing my cookies all over Hughes, he thought and then pondered what it would mean if indeed he did puke on Howard Hughes.
Puking on Howard Hughes would not be a good thing. Although watching Hughes freak out would be worth almost as much as Howard was worth. The resulting turmoil from Hughes’ obsession about germs would come crashing down all around Dick Powell. And Dick Powell didn’t like things crashing down on him. Dick pictured a lot of past Hollywood power lunches coming out of his stomach and plopping right onto Howard’s lap. Once the image was implanted, it wouldn’t go away, and the more internally mortified Dick Powell became. In his own mind, Dick Powell saw Howard Hughes jumping up and down like a mad man — screaming that he had been contaminated and would die — but not before he had had Powell killed by his squad of bodyguards who wore nice suits, but lousy footwear. Then again, with Hughes’ obsession with breasts, maybe the women would just take turns smothering poor old Howard in their vast cleavages, thought Dick Powell.
“Are you feeling okay?” Hughes asked his favorite movie executive.
Dick Powell went ashen (Can this guy read minds?).
What’s the matter Dick, are you going to be sick… again?” Hughes asked sarcastically.
Powell shook his head no. He also thought that he had nothing left inside of him to puke, even if he wanted to. “You know that I upchucked?” he said to his boss.
Hughes laughed. “Of course. I know everything about everyone who works for me and most importantly against me. The reason I know everything is that I pay very well for reports and information.”
I hope he only knows that I make great movies and threw up in his plane Powell thought. Dick Powell wasn’t one of those Hollywood types who wanted any of his secrets out.
Howard Hughes was a man who wanted to know all he could about friends and enemies. His money allowed him to find out whatever he wanted, too — even if people thought they were immune to such tactics.
“You are one of the few people I trust, kid,” Hughes said. “That’s why I’m not complaining about your blowing cookies on my plane. I’m not as crazy as some people think I am about germs. It doesn’t do me any good to think about what others say or think about me,” Hughes said.
“I think I should thank you for that remark, boss,” Powell replied.
“No problem. But I’d rather you make me a lot of money with the film. I love money even more than I hate germs,” Hughes told Powell.
“This is a good place to fil
m our movie, Howard,” Powell said, hoping to keep the subject on making the film, making money and not talking about puke or germs.
“I know. It was very weird that the feds offered this place up to me. I mean, they practically let me rent the area for free,” Hughes offered.
“The FEDS?” a very confused Powell said.
“They own the land in the Escalante Valley. As a matter of fact, they own all the land, even under my house,” Hughes announced.
“No way,” Powell countered “you’re the wealthiest man in the world!”
“Property taxes kid. Even if you have no mortgage, the government still owns the land your property sits on. Long-term mortgages for the banks, added to always-escalating property taxes, are not a good deal for Joe and Sally bag-of-donuts,” Hughes lectured. “That is why, once a month, I pay off someone’s mortgage in a different state. At least that couple won’t have to deal with the stinking bank and without a mortgage payment, they can afford to pay the taxes, upkeep their homes, buy a few other things and keep their property.”
A stunned Dick Powell broke out into a wide grin. “That’s fabulous boss. How come you don’t promote that to the world and get back at all those people who say you don’t do diddlysquat for the common man?”
“I don’t need to trumpet the good things I do. My ego gets fed in many other ways,” Hughes said with a huge grin.
“You know boss, the Indians had it right when it came to land,” Powell told Hughes. “John Ford told me that. He heard it from one of the many Indian chiefs he had talked to while filming a western.”
“How’s that again?” an interested Hughes asked.
“The Indians do not believe that anyone has a right to own the land,” Powell said.
“Interesting. Explains why they were swindled for all their lands. I’m not big on owning real estate. Most of the time I buy and sell real estate for tax purposes. The best businesses are the ones that make things extremely well and employ lots of people… although I do love the film business. Speaking of films, are you excited about this one?”