So I traveled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a thousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the Earth’s fate, watching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in the western sky, and the life of the old Earth ebb away. At last, more than thirty million years hence, the huge red-hot dome of the sun had come to obscure nearly a tenth of the darkling heavens. . . .
Until I could not bear to read more, Id begun to shake that thered be a time when we will not be, as there was a time when we were not & not even films will preserve us as we would wish to believe Even Rudolph Valentino lost finally to human memory! & Chaplin, & Clark Gable (I’d wished to believe might be my Father, & Mother had sometimes hinted) Mr Z was impatient he was not a cruel man I believe but one accustomed to getting his way of course & surrounded by “little people” there must be the temptation to be cruel when you are surrounded by such & they cringe & fawn before you in terror of your whim I’d been stammering & now could not speak at all I was on my hands & knees on the soft fur rug (Russian fox, Mr Z wld boast later) & my sharkskin skirt shoved up to my waist & panties removed I dont need to shut my eyes to “go blind” you’d learn in the Home when you’re “blind” time passes strangely floating & dreamy in a way yet in another way speeded up like the Time Traveler upon his machine I would not remember Mr Z afterward except the small glassy eyes & dentures smelling of garlic & the sweat-film on his scalp visible through the wiry hairs & the hurt of the Thing of hard rubber, I think greased & knobby at the end shoved first between the crack of my buttocks & then up inside me like a beak plunging in In, in as far in as it will go I wouldnt remember how long was required for Mr Z to collapse like a swimmer upon the beach panting & moaning I was in terror the old man wld have a heart attack or a stroke & I wld be blamed you hear of that all the time, cruel crude funny stories you laugh to hear yet wld not laugh if you were the victim My contract was $100 a week & would soon be raised to $110 unless it was canceled like other girls in our acting class & they must move from the Studio Club no longer eligible & I wld have to move out of the Studio Club too & live where, where wld I live?
Later that day the start of my NEW LIFE I wld see Mr Z & his friend George Raft & two other gentlemen in suits & expensive ties waiting for their limousine beneath the canopy on their way to lunch (at the Brown Derby, where Mr Z has a table?) & I wld be hurrying on an errand & their eyes drifting onto me bemused Like a silk purse down there no hairs The infant Norma Jeane wrapped in a pink woolen blanket & passed among strangers coughing & choking in the smoky air How happy & young Mother was then, how hopeful men put their arms around her praising her for the beautiful baby & Mother was beautiful too but it’s not enough We dont have the same last name & who would know that Gladys Mortensen is my mother? I promised Mr Shinn I would tell no one I had a mother in Norwalk but one day Mother would come to live with me I vowed this
I had to leave Mr Z’s office passing by his secretary so sharp-eyed & disdainful I was hobbling with pain & my makeup streaked & the woman called out to me in a low voice there’s a powder room just outside & I thanked her too ashamed to raise my eyes to hers
How long I hid in the powder room I would not recall afterward
Already I was forgetting Mr Z begged codeine tablets from one of the makeup girls my cramps had begun, so unfair this should happen at such a time 8 days early, & just before my audition yet I had no choice, did I Fearful of codeine which is a strong analgesic painkiller I did not believe in pain & therefore not in “painkillers” & Mr Shinn mentioned that Norma Talmadge my namesake was a notorious Hollywood dope fiend (!) & that was why her career had ended as it had she was still alive, a living skeleton it was said in her Georgian mansion in Beverly Hills Please dont tell me more I begged Mr Shinn who revels cruelly in such tales of bygone Hollywood stars who had not been his clients
It was nearing time for my audition & I was desperate to staunch the flow of ugly brown menstrual blood hiding in the womens room my hands shaking fitting Kotex between my legs & within minutes the blood would soak through I was in terror of staining my white sharkskin skirt & then what would I do & a searing pain in my anus I could not comprehend
When at last I was able to leave my hiding place & go to the audition in another building I was twenty minutes late & panting in terror & before I could speak, stunned to be informed that I would not have to audition after all for Scudda-Hoo! Scudda-Hay! nor even to read aloud the few lines of June Haver’s girlfriend I whispered I didn’t understand & the casting director said with a shrug You’re in—you’re cast. If your name is Norma Jeane Baker. I stammered yes that’s my name but I couldn’t understand this & he repeated showing me his clipboard You’re in & told me to take a script & return at 7 AM the next morning I was staring at this man not known to me, the bearer of such a message I’m in the m-movie? You mean I’m in the m-movie? My first m-m-movie? I’m cast, I’m IN? & the shock & the joy of it overcame me, I burst into tears embarrassing the casting director & his assistants
Through a roaring in my ears like a waterfall I heard congratulations I was trying to walk, & nearly fainted inside my clothes I was bleeding & it felt distant my body numbed & distant in a women’s room I changed the blood-soaked Kotex which seemed wrong to me at such a happy time & the throbbing cramps in my belly & hot tears splashing down my face By this time I’d forgotten Mr Z & would not recall much of that visit except in flashes certain of the birds of the AVIARY their eyes snatching at mine & their piteous songs yet even these I would shut out the roaring in my ears of great happiness as after my wedding, when I’d drunk champagne I am so happy, I cant bear such happiness!
I was in a daze intending to telephone Mr Shinn to inform him of this news & should have known Mr Shinn would already know, & in fact was at The Studio already meeting with the executive producer of the movie a summons came to me then to appear at once in Mr X’s office & when I arrived there was Mr X & Mr Shinn already trying out new names for me “Norma Jeane” is a hick name, an Okie name they were saying “Norma Jeane” has no glamour or allure I was hurt wanting to explain that my mother had named me for Norma Talmadge & Jean Harlow yet of course I could not for Mr Shinn would silence me with a glare The men ignored me speaking earnestly to each other as men do as if I wasnt there & I realized then that here was the mysterious voice of my dream the voice of omens & premonitions in fact two voices, mens voices talking not to me but of me One of Mr X’s assistants had given him a list of female names & he & Mr Shinn were conferring
Moira Mona Mignon Marilyn Mavis Miriam Mina
& the last name was to be “Miller” I was upset they didnt consult me for there I was, now seated between them yet invisible to them almost I resented being treated like a child & thought of Debra Mae who’d been named against her will & I did not like the name “Marilyn” there’d been a matron at the Home of that name, hateful to me & “Miller” was not a glamorous name at all Why is it superior to “Baker” which they would not consider? I tried to explain to them I would like to retain “Norma” at least it was the name I grew up with & would always be my name but they refused to listen
Marilyn Miller Moira Miller Mignon Miller
wanting the “MMMMM” sound they pronounced like rolling wine in their mouths & doubtful of the quality & suddenly Mr Shinn slapped his forehead saying Marilyn Miller is already an actress’s name, she’s on Broadway & Mr. X cursed for he was losing patience & quickly I said what of “Norma Miller” & still the men weren’t listening I was pleading saying my grandmother’s name was “Monroe” & Mr X snapped his fingers as if he’d only just thought of it himself & Mr Shinn & he pronounced in unison as in a movie
Mari-lyn Mon-roe
savoring the sexy murmurous sound of it!
MARI-LYN MON-ROE
& several times again & they laughed & congratulated each other & me & that was that!
MARILYN MONROE
would be my movie name & would appear in the credits for Scudda-Hoo! Scudda-Hay! Now yo
u’re a true starlet Mr Shinn said with a wink
I was so happy, I kissed him & Mr X & anybody close by & they were all happy for me CONGRATULATING ME
Sept 1947 every dream of Norma Jeane Baker’s realized & every hope of every orphan girl gazing out over the roof of the orphanage at the RKO tower & the lights of Hollywood miles away
To celebrate Mr Shinn wanted to take MARILYN MONROE out to dinner that evening & dancing (though a little gnome of a man hardly coming to my shoulder!) & quickly I told him thank you Mr Shinn but I’m not well this happiness has made me dazed & dizzy & I want to be alone & this was the simple truth I staggered & fell & slept on a sofa in one of the sound stages & woke at evening & left the lot unobserved & caught a trolley at the usual corner smiling to myself telling myself I’m a starlet I’m MARILYN MONROE as the trolley clattered & swayed my mind drifted off like startled birds scattering into the sky & it was a sky streaked with red like fire the fires in the mountains & canyons fanned by the Santa Ana winds & that smell of burning sugar, burning hair & ash was blown to our nostrils & Mother fled with me in the Nash driving north toward the brush fires until the L.A. POLICE barricades stopped her but I would not think of that so long ago or even of the AVIARY that morning & the man who’d taken me into it I told myself My new life! My new life has begun! Today it began! Telling myself It’s only now beginning, I am twenty-one years old & I am MARILYN MONROE & a man spoke to me on the trolley as men often do asking was I upset about something could he help me, he asked I told him excuse me, I must get off this is my stop & hurriedly I got off the trolley in fact I’d thought it was my stop at Vine but was confused, this sharp pain between my eyes & in the pit of my belly on the pavement I stood swaying & bewildered glancing to the east, glancing to the west somewhere in L.A. west of Hollywood yet not recognizing my surroundings & with no idea suddenly Which way is home?
The Woman
1949–1953
Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.
—Sigmund Freud,
Civilization and Its Discontents
THE DARK PRINCE
The power of the actor is his embodiment of the fear of ghosts.
—From The Actor’s Handbook and the Actor’s Life
I guess I never believed that I deserved to live. The way other people do. I needed to justify my life every hour. I needed your permission.
It was a season of no weather. Too early in the summer for the Santa Ana winds yet the harsh dry air blown from the desert tasted of sand and fire. Through closed eyelids you could see flames dancing. In sleep you could hear the scuttling of rats driven out of Los Angeles by the crazed, continuous construction. In the canyons north of the city the plaintive cries of coyotes. There had been no rain for weeks yet day followed day overcast with a pale glaring light like the inside of a blind eye. Tonight above El Cayon Drive the sky cleared briefly, revealing a sickle moon of the moist-reddish hue of a living membrane.
I don’t want anything from you, I swear! Only just to say—You should know me, I think. Your daughter.
That night in early June the blond girl was sitting in a borrowed Jaguar at the side of El Cayon Drive, waiting. She was alone and she appeared to be neither smoking nor drinking. Nor was she listening to a car radio. The Jaguar was parked near the top of the narrow graveled road, where there was a fortresslike property, vaguely Oriental in design, surrounded by a ten-foot cobblestone wall and protected by a wrought-iron gate. There was even a small gatehouse but no one was on duty inside. On lower ground, spotlights flooded properties and sounds of laughter and voices lifted like music through the warm night, but this property, at the summit of El Cayon, was mostly darkened. Around the high wall there were no palm trees, only Italian cypresses, twisted by the wind into bizarre sculpted shapes.
I don’t have any proof. I don’t need any proof. Paternity is a matter of the soul. I wanted just to see your face, Father.
A name had been given the blond girl. Tossed at her as carelessly as a coin tossed at a beggar’s outstretched hands. Eager as any beggar, and unquestioning, she’d snatched at it. A name! His name! A man who’d possibly been her mother’s lover in 1925.
Possibly?—probably.
Amid the debris of the past she’d been scavenging. As a beggar, too, might scavenge trash, even garbage, in search of treasure.
Earlier that night at a poolside party in Bel Air she’d asked please could she borrow a car?—and several of the men had vied with one another offering her their keys, and she was barefoot running and gone. If the Jaguar was missing for too many hours the “borrowing” would be reported to the Beverly Hills police but that wasn’t going to happen for the blond girl wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t on drugs and her desperation was shrewdly disguised.
Why? I don’t know why, maybe just to shake hands, hello, and goodbye if you want it that way. I have my own life of course. I won’t be losing anything I’d actually had.
The blond girl in the Jaguar might have remained there waiting through the night except a private security guard in an unmarked car drove up El Cayon to investigate. Someone in the near-darkened mansion at the top of the hill must have reported her. The cop wore a dark uniform and carried a flashlight, which he shone rudely into the girl’s face. It was a movie scene! Yet no music beneath to cue if you should feel anxiety, suspense, humor. The cop’s lines were delivered flatly so you had no cue from him either. “Miss? What business d’you have here? This is a private road.” The girl blinked rapidly as if blinking back tears (but she had no tears left) and whispered, “None. I’m sorry, officer.” Her politeness and childlike manner disarmed the cop immediately. And he’d seen her face. That face! I knew she’d got to be somebody, someday. But who? He said, faltering, scratching at the underside of his slightly stubbled jaw, “Well. Better turn around and go home, miss. If you don’t live up here. These are kind of special folks live up here. You’re too young for—” His voice broke off, though he’d finished about all he had to say to her.
The blond girl said, starting her borrowed car, “No, I’m not. Young.”
It was the eve of her twenty-third birthday.
“MISS GOLDEN DREAMS” 1949
“Don’t make me into a joke, Otto. I beg you.”
He laughed. He was delighted. It was revenge, and we know that revenge is sweet. He’d been waiting for Norma Jeane to come crawling back to him. He’d been waiting to shoot her in the nude since the first hour he’d seen her in her soiled coveralls cringing behind the fuselages with a canister of dope in her hands. As if she could hide from him.
From the eye of Otto Öse’s camera, as from the very eye of Death, nobody hides.
How many females in his lifetime had Otto Öse stripped of their clothing and of their pretensions and “dignity” and each had initially vowed Never! as this girl imagining herself superior to her fate had vowed Never, I will not, oh never!
As if she’d been a virgin. In her soul.
As if inviolable. In a capitalist-consumer economy in which no body, like no soul, is inviolable.
As if the distinction between pinup and nude was all she had to cling to, for self-respect.
“Sooner or later, baby. You’ll come to me.”
Yet she’d refused his offers as long as she’d had a hope of a film career. When she’d been a new fresh face on the scene. His discovery. In every girlie mag and some of the glossy nationals and a few high-toned journals like U.S. Camera. His work. It was solely because of Otto Öse she’d been signed on as a client by I. E. Shinn, a top Hollywood agent. And signed on by The Studio as a contract player and cast in an insipid “rural comedy” featuring June Haver and a pair of matched mules and her four minutes of film footage ruthlessly edited back to mere seconds and those seconds depicting the blond starlet “Marilyn Monroe” so far in the distance, in a rowboat with June Haver, no one including possibly Norma Jeane Baker herself could have recognized her.
&
nbsp; This was the film debut of “Marilyn Monroe.” Scudda-Hoo! Scudda-Hay! 1948.
That was a year ago, and more. Since then she’d been cast in two or three other low-budget low-quality films at The Studio in minor fleeting roles that turned upon sight gags involving dumb-blond females with shapely figures. (In the crudest film, “Marilyn Monroe” walks provocatively away from Groucho Marx, who’s ogling her buttocks.) Then rudely she’d been dropped by The Studio. Her contract not renewed for another year.
“Marilyn Monroe” in a few short months had come to nothing.
It was rumored around town (falsely, Otto knew, but the very fact of the rumor and its cruel tenacity was an ominous sign) that in desperation to further her career like so many other young starlets she’d slept with producers at The Studio including the notorious womanizer-woman hater Mr. Z and with an influential director whose influence she’d failed to enlist in her cause. It was said of “Marilyn Monroe” that she slept with her dwarf agent I. E. Shinn and with certain of his Hollywood friends to whom he owed favors. It was rumored that “Marilyn Monroe” had had at least one abortion and probably more than one. (Otto was amused to learn that in one variant of the rumor he’d not only arranged for the illegal operation with a Santa Monica doctor, he’d been himself the father. As if Otto Öse, of all men, would be so careless with his sperm!)
For three years Norma Jeane had politely declined offers Otto had brought to her to do nude features. From Yank, Peek, Swank, Sir! and some others for far more money than she’d now be getting from Ace Hollywood Calendars: a measly fifty dollars. (Otto would receive nine hundred for the photo shoot, and he’d keep the negatives, but he didn’t need to tell Norma Jeane that.) She’d gotten behind in rent now that she was no longer living at the subsidized Studio Club but in a furnished room in West Hollywood; she’d had to buy a secondhand car to get around L.A. and the car had been repossessed, for fifty dollars, just that week. The Preene Agency was close to dropping her because The Studio had dropped her. Otto hadn’t called Norma Jeane in months, waiting for her to call him. For why the hell should he call her? He didn’t need her. Girls were a dime a dozen in southern California.
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