Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  They both chuckled at that, and he felt that he’d broken through to her. “I’m strictly a man for the ladies. I find myself having to keep repeating that. But I don’t expect you to take my word for that. I’m here with Helen Menken tonight. Otherwise, I’d show you what a man I am.”

  “Yes, I’ve met your wife. Charming.”

  He meant to correct her and say “ex-wife,” but he just assumed that the custodian of all gossip in Hollywood was well aware that he’d married Mary Philips. Considering the shaky status of his marriage to Mary, he didn’t plan to mention her in the interview.

  “What were you saying?” she asked. “About my not taking your word for it. If I can’t take your word for it, exactly how do you plan to prove it?”

  “I didn’t think we’d progress this far so soon into the interview, but I do find you very attractive,” he said. “If you have any doubts about my manhood, I’d like to demonstrate otherwise. What I’m saying is you can put me to the test anytime.”

  She smiled. “You find me attractive, do you? My God, I’m just a working newspaperwoman trying to make a living in journalism. Hearst doesn’t pay me enough. I find myself having to fight off half the wolves in Hollywood.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said. “But you are one good-looking woman. What can I say? In spite of my lisp, I like glamorous women.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said, studying him carefully with a greatly renewed interest. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you since you hit town.”

  “I bet at least one of them is true,” he said smiling.

  Her face looked puzzled. It was as if she weren’t communicating on the same level with him. “I seek the truth but I’m surrounded by lies. People talk lies. They live lies, and with good reason. If the real truth were known about half the stars in Hollywood, the American public would stay away from their movies in droves.”

  “When we have our interview, I’m going to give it to you straight,” he said.

  She reached for her notepad again. “Give me your private phone number in case I want to get in touch with you.” As he told her the number, she wrote it down in her drunken scrawl.

  He felt that he’d carried his flirtatious joking with her far enough and was eager to drop the subject. He was certain that she wouldn’t remember his offer the next morning as she nursed her hangover. Even if she did, he knew that she’d never take him up on it.

  “I meant to write you a note and thank you for that good review you gave Spence and me in Up The River. Mainly Spence, of course. I even carry it around in my wallet along with a review that Alexander Woollcott wrote of my Broadway appearance in Swifty. He wrote, ‘The young man who embodies the aforesaid sprig is what is usually and mercifully described as inadequate.’”

  “Hell with that drunken Woollcott,” she said. “What did I write?”

  He found her review tucked between some ten-dollar bills in his wallet. He read her own words to her. “Humphrey Bogart, talented New York juvenile, plays the part of Steve straight and does it very well.”

  “That was very nice of me,” she said. “Actually I was very kind to you and Tracy. Frankly, I can skip prison dramas. They’re too grim for my taste. America is in the middle of a Depression. We need movies with glamorous women in glamorous settings doing rich, glamorous things. Americans should be treated to a fantasy when they go to the movies. It’ll take their minds off their troubles, their empty refrigerators, and all those mortgage foreclosures.”

  He carefully put the clipping away. “About that juvenile remark.”

  “What about it?” she asked imperiously, almost defying him to challenge her copy.

  “It’s the juvenile thing,” he said. “I’m trying to get away from that. On Christmas Day, I’m gonna be thirty-one years old. I’ve played all those ‘Tennis, anyone?’ roles on Broadway. Out here I’m trying for more adult parts.”

  “I didn’t know you were thirty-one,” she said. “You don’t look it on the screen. I thought you were much younger. That Helen Menken has literally robbed the cradle. She must be in her late forties or early fifties if she’s a day. Women can’t lie to me about their age. I can just look at a woman, no matter how much makeup she has on, and tell her exact age.”

  “And as for men?” he asked.

  “They can fool me,” she said. She gave him the look of a boa constrictor about to devour a young chicken for its supper. “Now that I know your exact age, I must say I’ll have to reconsider that very romantic offer you made me. I have an absolute rule. I never go to bed with a man in his twenties. A lot of young actors proposition me because they think they’ll advance their careers by sleeping with me. I’ve already slept with Clark Gable. With the pick of all the beauties in Hollywood, he went to bed with me. He also went to bed with that bitch, Adela Rogers St. Johns. She’s my rival, you know. She thinks she knows so much about Hollywood. I’ve forgotten more than she’ll ever know.”

  “I heard that Gable was born in 1901,” he said. “Did he turn thirty before you guys bedded down?”

  “I know I said a man has to be thirty. In Clark’s case, I made an exception. In many ways, I wish I hadn’t slept with Clark. Now my illusion about him is spoiled.”

  “I hope I don’t disappoint,” he said, teasing her.

  “I have a feeling you can deliver,” she said. “Sometimes one of us glamour gals can only laugh when these He-men take off their trousers. But I’ve discovered that some of you guys who look like a runt are surprisingly pleasing when you let it all hang out.”

  She downed the rest of her whiskey and motioned to him that she wanted another refill. “Now let’s get down to this God damn interview. I know you’re physically attracted to me, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you off easy. I don’t feel like a candy-ass tonight, believe you me.”

  After her interview, she reached for his arm. “Escort me back into the party. Before leaving the library, she kissed him on the mouth. Her brewery breath was foul. “I’m flattered by your offer.”

  He had hoped that she’d forgotten it.

  “I’ll call you next week.” She looked up lovingly into his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll have a fine old time when we get together again.”

  With Parsons on his arm, he came back into the main living room and shuddered at the prospect of facing her again, especially if they were alone.

  ***

  Back on the set of A Holy Terror, a message was left for him. “It’s important that we get together—and soon!” It was signed “Miss D.” He guessed that Miss D was actually Bette Davis.

  Since her Hollywood star didn’t seem to be shining any brighter than his, he wondered what she wanted with him. He suspected that she didn’t really like him, so he doubted if romance were on her mind. Maybe she’d stumbled onto a hot script that would make both of them overnight sensations.

  He needed something to happen and fast.

  Hung over, disheveled, and burnt out, he headed for wardrobe.

  Tapping his foot impatiently, Greg Brooks, known around the Fox lot as “the wardrobe mistress,” said, “My, oh my, aren’t we looking déshabillée today.”

  “Listen, you little faggot,” Bogie said, “get out your fucking padding and your high heels and get it over with before I bash your skull in.”

  “Aren’t we the ferocious tigre ?” Brooks said. “Didn’t get any last night? Thank God you didn’t call me.” He licked his lips. “I was too preoccupied.”

  At that moment the director, Irving Cummings, came into the department.& Anger flashed across his face as he turned to confront Bogie. “Listen, asshole, and listen good. I can replace you tomorrow with any of about a thousand better actors. You’re totally wrong for the part, and Fox is only using you because some idiot signed a contract giving you $750 a week. Actors like you I can get for $25 a week.” He backed away from him. “You’re hung over and you smell like a brewery. I’m reporting all of this to Carl Laemmle.”

 
“Junior or senior?” Bogie asked provocatively.

  The director glared at him and seemed out of control. “After we wrap this picture, you’ll never get another job in this town. I’ll see to that.” Cummings stormed out of the wardrobe department.

  Bogie tried to get a grip on himself. He’d wanted to punch Cummings in the mouth.

  Later that day, and to punish him, Cummings made him shoot a simple scene forty-five times. The director seemed to be sadistically torturing Bogie and humiliating him in front of cast members.

  Fortunately, he’d brought a flask with him. “Instead of becoming the greatest actor in motion pictures, I’m going to become the biggest star on Broadway?”

  He stood at a safe distance from the dressing room of Sally Eilers. It was obvious that Tracy had been carrying on with Hoot Gibson’s wife since they made Quick Millions together. Eilers was the first to leave, since she was due on the set.

  After she’d disappeared, Bogie walked up to her dressing room door and knocked on it. In his underwear, with drink in hand, Tracy opened the door. Seeing who it was, he embraced Bogie warmly. “We’re supposed to be best friends, and I never get to see you any more. Come on in.”

  “Aren’t you afraid Hoot Gibson will show up with a six-gun?” Bogie asked.

  “Not at all,” Tracy said. “Sally has told me about the kind of marriage they have. Actually I learned today she plans to divorce him.”

  “It’s probably a smart career move for her,” Bogie said, accepting a drink. “Her star is rising. There’s talk she’s going to become big. Her sagebrush cowboy is riding off into the sunset.”

  “Don’t knock sagebrush flickers,” Tracy kidded him. “You seem to be making an oater yourself.”

  “It’s George O’Brien’s flick,” Bogie said with a sigh of despair.

  “After I get dressed and have a drink or two with you,” Tracy said, “I’m going to head over to George’s dressing room. I like George a lot. He’s a real loving he-man, unlike that girl, Lew Ayres.”

  “George and Sally on the same afternoon?” Bogie chided him. “You’re more of a man than I am.”

  “We both know that,” Tracy said, smiling to erase the sting from his remark. “George and Sally are both on my plate for the afternoon. Tonight I’ve got a date with Jean Harlow.” When Bogie didn’t say anything, Tracy asked him, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, I heard it,” he said. “You and Harlow must have had one gay old time on the set of Goldie, a picture I think should be called Blondie.”

  “Harlow’s an okay kid,” he said. “Mixed up in the head. A sick family life with her stepfather lusting after her, a mother who’s nuts, and an even worse situation emerging with this Paul Bern creature from the dark lagoon.”

  “Spence, old pal,” Bogie said, pouring another drink. “I like you a lot. More than I like Kenneth MacKenna. He’s my pal, and I tell him everything that’s going on in my life, but I have a special feeling for you.”

  “Are you coming on to me?” Tracy asked with just a slight touch of mockery in his voice, as if to leave open the possibility he might be joking.

  “Cut the crap!” Bogie said. “I have a hard time accepting that part of your life. I mean, I can see you banging Eilers while the grips outside are dreaming of being locked between your spurs. I can see you dating your co-star tonight. Let’s face it: Harlow is the sex symbol of Hollywood. All the men want her. What I can’t even picture—don’t dare picture—is you and guys. George O’Brien, for God’s sake. Mr. Avocado Sandwich.

  “I love you, Bogie, but I feel you’re very limited somehow. Many of the pleasures that God put on this earth for us to partake of, especially forbidden fruit, are not to be enjoyed by you. Your mind’s closed off.”

  “My loss, pal,” Bogie said, “and that’s how I’m gonna keep it. But if you think for one minute I’m gonna picture you as a pansy like Ramon Novarro and Billy Haines, you’re wrong.”

  “You said it all. I’m a man’s man in more ways than one.”

  “But I hear from people who work with you that you fuck every pretty gal on the set of one of your pictures,” Bogie said. “Not just your female leads, but the secretaries, the script gal, the waitress who serves you a BLT in the commissary.”

  “It’s true, I do,” Tracy said. “I also fuck beautiful guys. By the way, I’m a top. Screwing a man in the ass is different from fucking a woman. Another kind of satisfaction.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Bogie said “but I’ll never understand it. To me, you’re the least homosexual male in Hollywood.”

  “You’ll learn as you go through life that we come in the most unlikely packages. The captains of football teams. The heads of industry. Boxers. Weightlifters. Generals. Even one of the presidents of the United States.”

  “What president was a fag?”

  “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Bogie said. “You’re putting me on.”

  “Read your history books,” Tracy said. “His lover was Joshua Fry Speed. You fuck too many women at night. You should take a night off and read a history book once in a while.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “I’m serious,” Tracy said. “Read about Lincoln and Speed, a handsome young man from Kentucky who slept with Lincoln for three years in a very narrow bed. Speed later wrote that no two men were more intimate than Lincoln and him.”

  “Why should I doubt your word?” Bogie asked. “After these months logged in Hollywood, I’ve seen it all.”

  “If I may correct you, you’ve seen a bit,” Tracy said. “But you haven’t seen it all. After another thirty years, you’ll have seen it all.”

  ***

  Back at his bleak apartment, a sole letter had arrived. It was postmarked from New York, and he tore it open at once, knowing it was from his wife.

  Dear Hump,

  It’s been a long time with no word. Even between good friends, it’s been too long without contact. Between a husband and wife, it really marks the end of the marriage. I was prepared to go on in this relationship, at least a little while longer. However, when I read in Parsons’ column that you were back with Helen Menken, it was all too much. The bitch even referred to Helen as your wife and not ex-wife. It is as if I didn’t even exist. I know that many people still think of Helen as your wife. That’s because we did not have a marriage.

  As you well know, during the first days of our marriage, I made love to Kenneth far more frequently than I did with you. It may be too late for us, but I realize now that I should have married Kenneth instead of you. He writes every other day, at least, and it is through him that I have had any news of you at all. Of course, Kenneth is a gentleman and leaves out all the bad stuff about you.

  I’m sure you’ve had many affairs in Hollywood with beautiful women, actresses far more beautiful than me. There’s even talk in New York about you and Barbara Stanwyck, although I find that hard to believe. Unlike you, I’m no good at playing the field. I’m no saint but I do tend to focus on one man at a time. His name is Roland Young, and I’m sure you know who he is. He’s living with me, even though he’s married to Marjorie Kummer. He married her in 1921, but I have persuaded him to get a divorce and marry me. That means, of course, that I will soon be filing for a divorce from you. Let’s call it the marriage that never was.

  Mary

  “Roland Young,” he said out loud, carefully folding the letter. “A God damn limey.” He fully intended to show this letter to Kenneth. The way he saw it, if Mary still felt that she should have married Kenneth, it might affect his imminent plan to marry Kay Francis.

  Maybe Kenneth should break off his engagement to Francis and marry his “true love” after all. After reading that letter, Bogie felt that he’d welcome the divorce, and he was ready to tell Kenneth that he didn’t have to hold back any longer, and could move in on Mary if he wanted to. But then his old jealousy of Kenneth came back again.

  Unaware until he read her le
tter that Mary even knew Roland Young, Bogie had vaguely followed the actor’s career. In the movies and in the theater, other actors kept tabs on their fellow thespians, never knowing when they would become a major competitor for a part.

  Young had only recently starred in two films for Cecil B. DeMille—first Madam Satan, which co-starred Lillian Roth and Kay Johnson, and The Squaw Man with a big-name cast that included Warner Baxter, Lupe Velez, Eleanor Boardman, and Charles Bickford.

  Bogie couldn’t help but compare himself unfavorably with Young. He’d read in Parsons’ column that Young was due back in Hollywood where a string of pictures was being lined up for him. Bogie himself, on the other hand, was facing unemployment in a Depression.

  Stepping across the hallway, Bogie knocked on Kenneth’s door. When he came to open it, he handed him a letter. “It’s from New York. Your girl friend.”

  “My girl friend?” Kenneth asked, looking astonished. “I no longer have a girl friend in New York.”

  “You do now,” Bogie said, handing him the farewell letter from Mary.

  ***

  When he went back into his apartment, he decided to return Bette Davis’s call. When she came onto the line, she told him that she was organizing a cocktail party for some co-workers. “I’m going to kick everybody out by seven-thirty, and I want you to stay on so we can talk privately. It’s about our film future.”

  She’d said the right words, “film future,” and he told her he’d be at her house within the hour. He took a wild guess that Davis had come up with a script that would save their fading careers, and he wanted to see what that New Englander had in mind.