tell that the structure wasn't Pat's? Katherine Hodge would say
nothing, for fear of implicating herself. They were all guilty but
guiltiest of all was Ren� Wilcox for refusing to play the game.
Always, according to his lights, Pat had played the game.
He had another drink, bought breath tablets and for awhile amused
himself at the nickel machine in the drugstore. Louie, the studio
bookie, asked if he was interested in wagers on a bigger scale.
"Not today, Louie."
"What are they paying you, Pat?"
"Thousand a week."
"Not so bad."
"Oh, a lot of us old-timers are coming back," Pat prophesied. "In
silent days was where you got real training--with directors
shooting off the cuff and needing a gag in a split second. Now
it's a sis job. They got English teachers working in pictures!
What do they know?"
"How about a little something on 'Quaker Girl'?"
"No," said Pat. "This afternoon I got an important angle to work
on. I don't want to worry about horses."
At three-fifteen he returned to his office to find two copies of
his script in bright new covers.
BALLET SHOES
from
Ren� Wilcox and Pat Hobby
First Revise
It reassured him to see his name in type. As he waited in Jack
Berners' anteroom he almost wished he had reversed the names. With
the right director this might be another It Happened One Night, and
if he got his name on something like that it meant a three or four
year gravy ride. But this time he'd save his money--go to Santa
Anita only once a week--get himself a girl along the type of
Katherine Hodge, who wouldn't expect a mansion in Beverly Hills.
Berners' secretary interrupted his reverie, telling him to go in.
As he entered he saw with gratification that a copy of the new
script lay on Berners' desk.
"Did you ever--" asked Berners suddenly "--go to a psychoanalyst?"
"No," admitted Pat. "But I suppose I could get up on it. Is it a
new assignment?"
"Not exactly. It's just that I think you've lost your grip. Even
larceny requires a certain cunning. I've just talked to Wilcox on
the phone."
"Wilcox must be nuts," said Pat, aggressively. "I didn't steal
anything from him. His name's on it, isn't it? Two weeks ago I
laid out all his structure--every scene. I even wrote one whole
scene--at the end about the war."
"Oh yes, the war," said Berners as if he was thinking of something
else.
"But if you like Wilcox's ending better--"
"Yes, I like his ending better. I never saw a man pick up this
work so fast." He paused. "Pat, you've told the truth just once
since you came in this room--that you didn't steal anything from
Wilcox."
"I certainly did not. I GAVE him stuff."
But a certain dreariness, a grey malaise, crept over him as Berners
continued:
"I told you we had three scripts. You used an old one we discarded
a year ago. Wilcox was in when your secretary arrived, and he sent
one of them to you. Clever, eh?"
Pat was speechless.
"You see, he and that girl like each other. Seems she typed a play
for him this summer."
"They like each other," said Pat incredulously. "Why, he--"
"Hold it, Pat. You've had trouble enough today."
"He's responsible," Pat cried. "He wouldn't collaborate--and all
the time--"
"--he was writing a swell script. And he can write his own ticket
if we can persuade him to stay here and do another."
Pat could stand no more. He stood up.
"Anyhow thank you, Jack," he faltered. "Call my agent if anything
turns up." Then he bolted suddenly and surprisingly for the door.
Jack Berners signaled on the Dictograph for the President's office.
"Get a chance to read it?" he asked in a tone of eagerness.
"It's swell. Better than you said. Wilcox is with me now."
"Have you signed him up?"
"I'm going to. Seems he wants to work with Hobby. Here, you talk
to him."
Wilcox's rather high voice came over the wire.
"Must have Mike Hobby," he said. "Grateful to him. Had a quarrel
with a certain young lady just before he came, but today Hobby
brought us together. Besides I want to write a play about him. So
give him to me--you fellows don't want him any more."
Berners picked up his secretary's phone.
"Go after Pat Hobby. He's probably in the bar across the street.
We're putting him on salary again but we'll be sorry." He switched
off, switched on again. "Oh! Take him his hat. He forgot his
hat."
PAT HOBBY AND ORSON WELLES
Esquire (May 1940)
I
'Who's this Welles?' Pat asked of Louie, the studio bookie. 'Every
time I pick up a paper they got about this Welles.'
'You know, he's that beard,' explained Louie.
'Sure, I know he's that beard, you couldn't miss that. But what
credits's he got? What's he done to draw one hundred and fifty
grand a picture?'
What indeed? Had he, like Pat, been in Hollywood over twenty
years? Did he have credits that would knock your eye out,
extending up to--well, up to five years ago when Pat's credits had
begun to be few and far between?
'Listen--they don't last long,' said Louie consolingly, 'We've seen
'em come and we've seen 'em go. Hey, Pat?'
Yes--but meanwhile those who had toiled in the vineyard through the
heat of the day were lucky to get a few weeks at three-fifty. Men
who had once had wives and Filipinos and swimming pools.
'Maybe it's the beard,' said Louie. 'Maybe you and I should grow a
beard. My father had a beard but it never got him off Grand
Street.'
The gift of hope had remained with Pat through his misfortunes--and
the valuable alloy of his hope was proximity. Above all things one
must stick around, one must be there when the glazed, tired mind of
the producer grappled with the question 'Who?' So presently Pat
wandered out of the drug-store, and crossed the street to the lot
that was home.
As he passed through the side entrance an unfamiliar studio
policeman stood in his way.
'Everybody in the front entrance now.'
'I'm Hobby, the writer,' Pat said.
The Cossack was unimpressed.
'Got your card?'
'I'm between pictures. But I've got an engagement with Jack
Berners.'
'Front gate.'
As he turned away Pat thought savagely: 'Lousy Keystone Cop!' In
his mind he shot it out with him. Plunk! the stomach. Plunk!
plunk! plunk!
At the main entrance, too, there was a new face.
'Where's Ike?' Pat demanded.
'Ike's gone.'
'Well, it's all right, I'm Pat Hobby. Ike always passes me.'
'That's why he's gone,' said the guardian blandly. 'Who's your
business with?'
Pat hesitated. He hated to disturb a producer.
'
Call Jack Berners' office,' he said. 'Just speak to his
secretary.'
After a minute the man turned from the phone.
'What about?' he said.
'About a picture.'
He waited for an answer.
'She wants to know what picture?'
'To hell with it,' said Pat disgustedly. 'Look--call Louie
Griebel. What's all this about?'
'Orders from Mr Kasper,' said the clerk. 'Last week a visitor from
Chicago fell in the wind machine--Hello. Mr Louie Griebel?'
'I'll talk to him,' said Pat, taking the phone.
'I can't do nothing, Pat,' mourned Louie. 'I had trouble getting
my boy in this morning. Some twirp from Chicago fell in the wind
machine.'
'What's that got to do with me?' demanded Pat vehemently.
He walked, a little faster than his wont, along the studio wall to
the point where it joined the back lot. There was a guard there
but there were always people passing to and fro and he joined one
of the groups. Once inside he would see Jack and have himself
excepted from this absurd ban. Why, he had known this lot when the
first shacks were rising on it, when this was considered the edge
of the desert.
'Sorry mister, you with this party?'
'I'm in a hurry,' said Pat. 'I've lost my card.'
'Yeah? Well, for all I know you may be a plain clothes man.' He
held open a copy of a photo magazine under Pat's nose. 'I wouldn't
let you in even if you told me you was this here Orson Welles.'
II
There is an old Chaplin picture about a crowded street car where
the entrance of one man at the rear forces another out in front. A
similar image came into Pat's mind in the ensuing days whenever he
thought of Orson Welles. Welles was in; Hobby was out. Never
before had the studio been barred to Pat and though Welles was on
another lot it seemed as if his large body, pushing in brashly from
nowhere, had edged Pat out the gate.
'Now where do you go?' Pat thought. He had worked in the other
studios but they were not his. At this studio he never felt
unemployed--in recent times of stress he had eaten property food on
its stages--half a cold lobster during a scene from The Divine Miss
Carstairs; he had often slept on the sets and last winter made use
of a Chesterfield overcoat from the costume department. Orson
Welles had no business edging him out of this. Orson Welles
belonged with the rest of the snobs back in New York.
On the third day he was frantic with gloom. He had sent note after
note to Jack Berners and even asked Louie to intercede--now word
came that Jack had left town. There were so few friends left.
Desolate, he stood in front of the automobile gate with a crowd of
staring children, feeling that he had reached the end at last.
A great limousine rolled out, in the back of which Pat recognized
the great overstuffed Roman face of Harold Marcus. The car rolled
toward the children and, as one of them ran in front of it, slowed
down. The old man spoke into the tube and the car halted. He
leaned out blinking.
'Is there no policeman here?' he asked of Pat.
'No, Mr Marcus,' said Pat quickly. 'There should be. I'm Pat
Hobby, the writer--could you give me a lift down the street?'
It was unprecedented--it was an act of desperation but Pat's need
was great.
Mr Marcus looked at him closely.
'Oh yes, I remember you,' he said. 'Get in.'
He might possibly have meant get up in front with the chauffeur.
Pat compromised by opening one of the little seats. Mr Marcus was
one of the most powerful men in the whole picture world. He did
not occupy himself with production any longer. He spent most of
his time rocking from coast to coast on fast trains, merging and
launching, launching and merging, like a much divorced woman.
'Some day those children'll get hurt.'
'Yes, Mr Marcus,' agreed Pat heartily, 'Mr Marcus--'
'They ought to have a policeman there.'
'Yes. Mr Marcus. Mr Marcus--'
'Hm-m-m!' said Mr Marcus. 'Where do you want to be dropped?'
Pat geared himself to work fast.
'Mr Marcus, when I was your press agent--'
'I know,' said Mr Marcus. 'You wanted a ten dollar a week raise.'
'What a memory!' cried Pat in gladness. 'What a memory! But Mr
Marcus, now I don't want anything at all.'
'This is a miracle.'
'I've got modest wants, see, and I've saved enough to retire.'
He thrust his shoes slightly forward under a hanging blanket, The
Chesterfield coat effectively concealed the rest.
'That's what I'd like,' said Mr Marcus gloomily. 'A farm--with
chickens. Maybe a little nine-hole course. Not even a stock
ticker.'
'I want to retire, but different,' said Pat earnestly. 'Pictures
have been my life. I want to watch them grow and grow--'
Mr Marcus groaned.
'Till they explode,' he said. 'Look at Fox! I cried for him.' He
pointed to his eyes, 'Tears!'
Pat nodded very sympathetically.
'I want only one thing.' From the long familiarity he went into
the foreign locution. 'I should go on the lot anytime. From
nothing. Only to be there. Should bother nobody. Only help a
little from nothing if any young person wants advice.'
'See Berners,' said Marcus.
'He said see you.'
'Then you did want something,' Marcus smiled. 'All right, all
right by me. Where do you get off now?'
'Could you write me a pass?' Pat pleaded. 'Just a word on your
card?'
'I'll look into it,' said Mr Marcus. 'Just now I've got things on
my mind. I'm going to a luncheon.' He sighed profoundly. 'They
want I should meet this new Orson Welles that's in Hollywood.'
Pat's heart winced. There it was again--that name, sinister and
remorseless, spreading like a dark cloud over all his skies.
'Mr Marcus,' he said so sincerely that his voice trembled, 'I
wouldn't be surprised if Orson Welles is the biggest menace that's
come to Hollywood for years. He gets a hundred and fifty grand a
picture and I wouldn't be surprised if he was so radical that you
had to have all new equipment and start all over again like you did
with sound in 1928.'
'Oh my God!' groaned Mr Marcus.
'And me,' said Pat, 'all I want is a pass and no money--to leave
things as they are.'
Mr Marcus reached for his card case.
III
To those grouped together under the name 'talent', the atmosphere
of a studio is not unfailingly bright--one fluctuates too quickly
between high hope and grave apprehension. Those few who decide
things are happy in their work and sure that they are worthy of
their hire--the rest live in a mist of doubt as to when their vast
inadequacy will be disclosed.
Pat's psychology was, oddly, that of the masters and for the most
part he was unworried even though he was off salary. But there was
one large fly in the ointment--for the first time in his life he
began to feel a loss of identity
. Due to reasons that he did not
quite understand, though it might have been traced to his
conversation, a number of people began to address him as 'Orson'.
Now to lose one's identity is a careless thing in any case. But to
lose it to an enemy, or at least to one who has become scapegoat
for our misfortunes--that is a hardship. Pat was NOT Orson. Any
resemblance must be faint and far-fetched and he was aware of the
fact. The final effect was to make him, in that regard, something
of an eccentric.
'Pat,' said Joe the barber, 'Orson was in here today and asked me
to trim his beard.'
'I hope you set fire to it,' said Pat.
'I did,' Joe winked at waiting customers over a hot towel. 'He
asked for a singe so I took it all off. Now his face is as bald as
yours. In fact you look a bit alike.'
This was the morning the kidding was so ubiquitous that, to avoid
it, Pat lingered in Mario's bar across the street. He was not
drinking--at the bar, that is, for he was down to his last thirty
cents, but he refreshed himself frequently from a half-pint in his
back pocket. He needed the stimulus for he had to make a touch
presently and he knew that money was easier to borrow when one
didn't have an air of urgent need.
His quarry, Jeff Boldini, was in an unsympathetic state of mind.
He too was an artist, albeit a successful one, and a certain great
lady of the screen had just burned him up by criticizing a wig he
had made for her. He told the story to Pat at length and the
latter waited until it was all out before broaching his request.
'No soap,' said Jeff. 'Hell, you never paid me back what you
borrowed last month.'
'But I got a job now,' lied Pat. 'This is just to tide me over. I
start tomorrow.'
'If they don't give the job to Orson Welles,' said Jeff humorously.
Pat's eyes narrowed but he managed to utter a polite, borrower's
laugh.
'Hold it,' said Jeff. 'You know I think you look like him?'
'Yeah.'
'Honest. Anyhow I could make you look like him. I could make you
a beard that would be his double.'
'I wouldn't be his double for fifty grand.'
With his head on one side Jeff regarded Pat.
'I could,' he said. 'Come on in to my chair and let me see.'
'Like hell.'
'Come on. I'd like to try it. You haven't got anything to do.
You don't work till tomorrow.'
'I don't want a beard.'
'It'll come off.'
'I don't want it.'
'It won't cost you anything. In fact I'll be paying YOU--I'll loan
you the ten smackers if you'll let me make you a beard.'
Half an hour later Jeff looked at his completed work.
'It's perfect,' he said. 'Not only the beard but the eyes and
everything.'
'All right. Now take it off,' said Pat moodily.
'What's the hurry? That's a fine muff. That's a work of art. We
ought to put a camera on it. Too bad you're working tomorrow--
they're using a dozen beards out on Sam Jones' set and one of them
went to jail in a homo raid. I bet with that muff you could get
the job.'
It was weeks since Pat had heard the word job and he could not
himself say how he managed to exist and eat. Jeff saw the light in
his eye.
'What say? Let me drive you out there just for fun,' pleaded Jeff.
'I'd like to see if Sam could tell it was a phony muff.'
'I'm a writer, not a ham.'
'Come on! Nobody would never know you back of that. And you'd
draw another ten bucks.'
The Pat Hobby Stories Page 4