She leaned forward between us. “I’ve already invited Sue-Anne. Come with us, Chris! It’s Garbo in her new picture: Anna Karenina. Had to pull a few strings for those premiere tickets,” she added.
At Wilshire, we passed the construction of the Mays department store, in all its Moderne glory. In 2010, it would be long shuttered, and then part of LACMA. The rest of the street here was all shopping. It was, after all, “The Miracle Mile,” and it even sort of looked like Fifth Avenue—although a Fifth Avenue with palm trees!
Just beyond it was—not the housing development called Park La Brea I’d lived in for a few years—but instead oilfields! Pumping oil wells as far as the eye could see, from Crescent (Fairfax) on east.
“And now, North Gilmore Island!” Henry announced.
On the northeast corner of Third Street was the farmers’ market, without the wooden clock tower or any permanent buildings at all. But some were being erected, and would soon be followed by DuParr’s restaurant and another building that I knew from its location would become the first Gilmore Bank.
Beyond that, as we headed north, was not CBS Television City. In 1935, television was still in experimental labs—the plaything of Philo T. Farnsworth. Instead, on that future site was a big stadium! On the outside it read Gilmore Stadium—Home of the Bulldogs!
“The Bulldogs are what?” I asked.
“They’re my uncle’s football team,” Jane answered.
“You couldn’t, by any chance, get me in there too?” I asked Jane.
“Cheapskate! Tickets for tomorrow’s afternoon game are only ten cents.”
“I’ll buy the tickets! What I really want is to meet someone in charge of the team. You know, for a tryout.”
“No offense, old man,” Henry said with a fake British accent, “but while you may pass at a distance for a Latin Lover, you’re too small and skinny for that team!”
“Wise guy! It’s for a pal of mine.”
“After the game, go down in back to the dressing rooms,” Jane said, “and ask for Willy Jantz. Tell him that you and your pal are close friends of mine and that I sent you.”
“You are wonderful,” I said. “And beautiful, and talented, and…”
But something had caught my eye beyond the stadium.
“Wait, Henry!” I pointed beyond the stadium. “What is that?”
“That,” Jane said, “is Uncle E.B.’s newest project. The Pan-Pacific Building.”
Located where Pan-Pacific Park would be in 2010.
“Can we see it?” I asked.
“It’s not open yet,” Henry said.
“He’s right, Chris. It doesn’t open for a few months.”
“Can we drive by it?”
“Chauffeur!” Jane called out. “”Right, please!”
Henry hung a turn, and just past the stadium’s rough, dirt-field parking lot was landscaped park surrounding what might have been Norman Bel Geddes’s best building design, burned down and gone by the 1970s. Brand new, it looked like a barely grounded ocean liner, with its four turrets and its curving lines and three-tone paint job: the epitome of Streamline design. I felt I’d died and gone to Art Deco heaven.
“I’ve got to get inside,” I said.
“Not till May twenty-fourth,” Henry said.
“I can get you in a week early. It’s opening with a model home exhibit,” Jane said. “How about we all go?” she asked Sue-Ann.
“Maybe we’ll see our little housey there!” Henry said, with fake sweetness. “Right, little wifey dear?”
“Drive on! Drive on!” Jane commanded.
A lot of the shops on Beverly were recognizably the same buildings I knew. Of course the Mexicano excesses of El Coyote Café weren’t there yet. It was still located more quietly, around the corner, at La Brea down on First Street.
Henry turned right onto La Brea and drove north, headed up to the hills, and passing only one building that I knew from my time, the Showcase movie theater.
Sue-Ann reached forward and tapped Henry’s shoulder. “We’ll get off here.”
“Oh good,” he said. “We go the other way. Truth is I don’t think I’m a good enough driver for downtown traffic.”
He meant downtown Hollywood Boulevard traffic, where we’d pulled to the side of the road for us to get out. I could see maybe four cars and a bus; I almost laughed, it was so empty.
A streetcar took us over to Cahuenga and I walked Sue-Anne up to her building, which in fact was Miss Irene’s Hotel.
“Well,” I concluded. “All’s well that ends well.”
She looked at me closely. “How did you get to be so smart? And don’t tell me in the Merchant Marines.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Jane and Henry could have ended up hating us, but instead I think we’ll all be friends. You did that!”
“So did you!”
“I followed my instinct, which is to be nice to people who’ve just gotten hurt.”
“Well, fellows have instincts too!”
“Yes. Usually bad ones,” Sue-Ann said. “Not…Another…Word! And Jane’s right. You are wonderful!”
She then bussed me on the cheek and ran inside the foyer, not even looking back before the door slammed on her.
Oh. No! I thought. I had two girls who thought I was wonderful. When all I wanted was a boy who thought so too!
7
My roommate, Hank Streit, used his little pocket knife to carve pieces of wood he picked up anywhere and everywhere into little sculptures: a car, a biplane, a little house. So he was reluctant to give up his blade even for a minute, until I promised him he could watch me use it and he’d have it back “in a jiffy.”
I cleaned it with a towel and then I used it to scrape flakes off the bar of soap until I had a handful. I collected those in an envelope, and by this time I had Hank’s deepest attention.
I picked up my two soiled undershorts and one undershirt and I went out and into the bathroom with the three sinks, gesturing for Hank to follow. I filled one sink with hot water, and put in the shaved soap and the clothing and thrashed them about until it got all soapy and foamy, and then I stood there letting them soak a while.
“Nice knife,” I said. It was a Bowie with a bone handle. Not cheap.
“High school graduation gift. From my folks. It was supposed to get me to join my dad and my brothers at the mill.”
“The lumber mill?”
“Cor-rect. Instead, I hit the road for a few months, took all kinds of temporary labor jobs. Did anything but join the mill.”
“And ended up here?”
“Girl up in Fresno said I looked like some fellow in The Pictures. So I figured why not?…It could still work out.”
“Watch!” I gave the clothing one more thrashing, drained the sink, and then began to rinse the clothes in cold water. When I was done, I squeezed them, rinsed and squeezed again, and marched us back to our room, where I hung them on the curtain rod to dry.
“Not perfect!” I said. “But I can wear them for a day or more before they have to go to the Chinese laundry.”
“Mine smell kind of ripe too,” Hank said.
“So I’ve noticed.” That had been one reason for the demonstration.
Before he could say anything, I said, “Get out the knife, and I’ll walk you through it, step by step.”
As we were waiting again for his clothes to soak well, I asked, “No one special waiting for you up in Washington state?”
“No one,” said in a hard voice.
“Sounds like there might be someone you’re avoiding.”
He shrugged.
I remembered he was the youngest of four boys. “An older brother?”
He shrugged.
“Or was it more than one?”
“End of discussion,” Hank said.
“Sorry I brought it up. Okay. Now drain the soapy water and run that cold water to rinse all the soap and dirt out.”
“You learn this in the Merchant M
arine?”
“I told you, I got around. Squeeze it good. Then rinse again.”
“I see Sid looking at you funny,” Hank surprised me by saying.
“Yeah, well, Sid’s not my biggest fan!”
“When fellows look like that at other fellows, if they aren’t fairies, it means something. And it’s not just Sid, either.”
That was news. “Why? What does it mean, Hank?”
“It means they envy you. It means they want to be you. It means you have what Sid calls moxie. It means you can be a movie star.”
“What if I don’t want to be a movie star, Hank?”
“Why not?”
“Well, if it happens, I’ll take it. But it’s not what I really want. And I think it’s the same for you.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, rinse again and squeeze them dry,” I said, and as he was doing that, I added, “By the way, I got us tickets and all of us guys are going to a football game tomorrow,” I said. “The Bulldogs. One p.m. I know someone there. Also, I’m bringing Ducky down to the dressing room to meet someone after the game. It’ll be a surprise.”
“He’s been trying to meet someone there for six months.”
“Well, you heard what Jonah said, I’m the chocolate pudding kid.”
“Yeah…?”
“Yeah! And I met someone who can help Ducky.”
8
The Saturday game was “exhibition” only, and even so the stadium was three-quarters full. I knew L.A. in this time was already a football town, what with the Trojans and Bruins in competition. Our seats were surprisingly good, three rows up from the forty yard line, and we were able to see pretty much all that happened.
I knew the rules would be different, but I’d forgotten how different the uniforms would be. There scarcely were uniforms at all: certainly not much in the way of protection. The helmets were leather caps with ear cups. Some guys wore what looked like heavy sweaters, though the pants seemed doubled up, and the shoes were “regulation”—whatever that meant.
From what I could gather from conversation around us, a few UCLA as well as USC former players who’d been big shots on school teams were now on the Bulldogs, including a quarterback who stood out for his sheer nerve at making big amazingly dumb plays. It did make for a fun, exciting game, even if it was exhibition.
My friends enjoyed it, and I enjoyed them enjoying it. Jonah went so far as to call me a “humanitarian,” while Sid admitted that it was a great way for the group to be together. I caught him looking at me a couple of times, as though I were Mephistopheles and he was waiting, just waiting, for me to demand his signature in blood.
I’d prepped Hank to grab those two away after and lead them to a local diner while I led Ducky—all unknown—to his destiny. To my surprise it came off without a hitch. Partly because Ducky hadn’t been at a game in a year and he was so worked up about this one; what this player had done right, what that player had done wrong. It wasn’t until I’d maneuvered him down the stairs and into the long, echoing corridors under the bleachers that he said, “What gives? What are we doing here?”
“The others are across the street, waiting to get into Dillman’s. We’ll join them in a few minutes. I need to see someone here.”
He followed me over to the door of the “Club Office,” which I blithely entered. Two older men at the desk looked up, cigarettes dangling off their lips.
“Willy Jantz?” I asked.
One pointed through a door. The other moved to stand in front of it.
“We’re friends of Jane Gilmore Ellis,” I said.
Magic: they opened the door and we went through, not into an office but into the dressing room, another echoing corridor with lockers and players and shower steam from nearby. Ducky looked around himself in amazement.
I located Jantz’s office and opened the door to hear him yelling into a telephone receiver. I pulled Ducky into the office and we stood there while Jantz loudly fumed.
When he was done and had hung up, he asked, “Yeah! What?”
“We’re friends of Jane Gilmore Ellis. Ducky here is your new defensive back.”
“Says who?”
“He was county-wide varsity star in baseball, football, and all-around star athletic three years running at Edgemont High in Altoona, P.A.” I repeated what Ducky had told me.
“So was my mother.”
“When can he try out and show you his moves?”
“Who’re you? His baby brother? You sound like a talent agent.”
“I noticed the roster board outside said you were having tryouts on Monday afternoon. We’ll pencil his name in. It’s Deutscher. Daniel J. Deutscher. Thanks for your time, Coach Jantz. He’ll be here promptly Monday afternoon at noon.”
I grabbed Ducky, who had stood there not saying a word in his utter astonishment, and I pulled him out of the door. I found a pencil hanging up on the roster board and began writing his name in.
“He’s got to sign it himself!” Jantz said, hanging half out of the office door. As Ducky went to sign it, Jantz gestured me closer.
“A friend of Janie’s, huh?”
“Yeah, Janie and me are in the pictures together at MGM. She sent us. Her uncle’ll probably ask about Ducky when you next see him,” I lied.
“Okay. Okay. Calm down. He’ll try out Monday!” Jantz looked at Ducky. “He’s big, I’ll say that. Well built too. Altoona, you said.”
“P.A.,” I added.
“Lots of good footballers there in that part of Pennsylvania,” Jantz mused. “Must be something in the water.”
“Your QB, Wendell? He looked good out there today. But nobody on that offensive line is protecting him. Next real game? He’ll have his scrotum handed to him. Put Ducky on his butt and Wendell will be safe and he’ll be able to go to town with his sneaky little moves.”
“Okay! Okay,” to me. “You’re a good observer, kid. Write your phone number and address too!” Jantz yelled at Ducky, who jumped to do so. “You coming on Monday too?” Jantz asked me in a lowered voice.
“Wish I could, Coach. But we’re shooting a picture all day.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that. ’Cause you’d be one little son of a bitch to have to say no to. You don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word,” he added.
“Neither does Ducky when he gets going, Coach. Don’t say no.”
“Get out of here! The two of you!” he yelled. “Hey, Grimes! Get these two Palookas outta here.”
His assistant hustled us out. At the dressing room door, I turned around to catch Jantz winking at me. “Go on. Get going! Both of you!”
Out on the street, Ducky turned to me with questions all over his young and baffled face. He looked about ten years old.
“So! That went well,” I declared.
“Uh…? Do I come back Monday or what?”
“Of course you come back. And old Jantzy there’ll take you onto the team. On waivers. Which means at a temporary job, I’m afraid, and at temporary pay.”
“But…But he said…”
“He needs you, Ducky. Didn’t you see? He needs you to make sure his spoiled little candy-ass quarterback doesn’t get clobbered.”
Dillman’s diner was two blocks up and crowded with attendees of the game. As we arrived, our friends were in line outside and just being let in the door and shown to a table.
“Where did you two monsters go off to?” Sid asked once we were all seated.
When Ducky told them he had a tryout scheduled, they cheered.
The other tables yelled out, “Go! Bulldogs!” in response. Ah! I found myself thinking—boys!
Now, I thought, looking at my four happy, smiling, laughing, and for the most part really nice-looking faces: which one of you is my next victim?
9
Jonah Wolff was in the Alsop House lobby with me listening to the radio when Frances Wannamaker came by, driven by our executive producer himself in a big chrome-fendered Buick Special Ten, to pick me up. Sue-Ann
was already in the car, but all of them got out to say hello and change the seating so that Frances’s date, Thom Rafferty from MGM, of all people, and I would sit in the front seat and the women in the back.
We’d both donned outfits sent over earlier from the studio to wear at the premiere of MGM’s newest film: Anna Karenina. That was Thom’s doing. For me, a tuxedo with white tie. For Sue-Ann a flouncy pale blue dress and a discreet gold neck chain with a single garnet. Our agent looked divine in an emerald gown with high neck, short sleeves, and long matching gloves. A kind of semi-snood held her hair in place in back.
I introduced Jonah to all of them and he definitely had eyes for Sue-Ann, but I also noticed that he and Frances exchanged words, and upon her initiative. Hmm.
Once we were moving through light traffic, Rafferty said: “You kids are very clever to have wangled tickets to this premiere! It’s our big spring movie and all the studio people will be there. Of course, there’s an MGM dinner after at Forelli’s that you’re invited to—now that you’re part of the MGM family.”
The restaurant he mentioned was on Wilshire not far from the Ambassador Hotel.
“Terrific!” I said. I could hear Frances giving Sue-Anne the same news in the backseat.
San Vicente was closed off several blocks away from the theater and only cars going to the premiere were allowed through. We crawled forward. As we were one car away from getting out and handing the keys to a valet for parking, Rafferty moved over in front of me in the big front seat where streetlight was pouring in and said, “I think there’s something at the edge of your eye.”
He lifted a piquantly scented handkerchief to just below my left eye, and I looked at him while he pretended to get it off. Pale blue eyes. Not bad features. Clearly a shark in shark-infested waters. But back in this time period, I often felt so in-the-know that I was more like a giant squid, wasn’t I?—and sharks better beware! So I stared back at him, not defiantly, but innocently, all the while sizing him up. He was what? Thirty-three? Half my real age. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, had always been my motto: I could handle this one easily enough, if I had to.
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