I Lost My Girlish Laughter

by Jane Allen

  Mr. Robert James,

  Daily News,

  New York City.

  Dear Bob:

  The enclosed is the reply I received from your friend, Marc Freeman, when I sent him your letter of introduction.

  You were a darling to give me the letter and I really appreciated it. His response was positively encouraging compared to most who didn’t bother to answer at all. So much for all letters of introduction.

  I took Miss Flagg’s advice and tried to make an appointment with the Employment Department. They wrote saying Miss Flagg had sent them my name and that it had been entered on their lists and when and if ever there was an opening, they would let me know.

  I’ve decided that Employment Departments are no way to get into studios.

  How are all the boys in the back room doing?

  Maggie

  Sunday, October 29

  Liz:

  You might as well climb into your best nightie, open a new package of cigarets, get a long highball, and cast yourself on something soft because this is going to be a long scenario—and don’t peek at the last page because it has a surprising denouement.

  Place: Hollywood. Time: It is eight o’clock last Friday evening and I am sitting in my room in this manless Eden gnawing my nails and trying to decide between a good book and a cheap movie. Around me the chirp of crickets and the high girlish laughter of nearly ninety voices (the rest are out on dates) and the jeering of phones. Did you ever notice how a phone positively jeers when you don’t know anybody and you’re not likely to be on the receiving end of the line? Odd about phones in a place like this. They’re the punctuation marks in an otherwise meaningless existence; the live contact-points with a living world outside these veritable convent walls. Anyhow, I am sitting here and thinking I will go stark, staring mad and musing in my maudlinity on how I would give anything to be at Joe Rocco’s Grotto on MacDougal Street with you and the others and wondering whatever possessed me to think I had a call to Hollywood, when suddenly the soul within me revolts. So, setting my old black felt at a jaunty angle, I saunter forth alone into the night.

  I travel along Vine Street by foot until I come to Mr. Levy’s Tavern. I have read about Mr. Levy’s Tavern in the papers several times and pause there. That proves my downfall. For the sound of merriment within and the clinking of glasses produce a nostalgia I cannot ignore. Accordingly, I push through those swinging doors. The bar is crowded, so I modestly hie me to a little table facing the bar. I have taken the third sip of my Scotch highball and am feeling very sorry for myself when suddenly I spy a familiar face and hear a familiar voice. My first reaction is a wild surge of joy at recognizing anyone I know; then I think why couldn’t it have been someone I liked. For, it is no other than that limp bore, Bob Faulkner. Don’t tell me! I know what you’re thinking. But, in my condition even Bob Faulkner is welcome. Do you remember how we used to devise every known dodge at State to avoid him? Well, I think my sins are coming home to roost, for now I feel a large grin of welcome sprouting on my face and I wave frantically. He doesn’t seem to see me so I wave the louder. I am sure he looks directly at me but it is as though his eyes are opaque and they see nothing. I am thinking it is all very odd when I notice that a man near him is nudging him and pointing to me and whispering. Suddenly Bob comes to life. Next thing I know he is beside me and introducing me to Max Sellers, the director. Mr. Sellers is very cordial to me and Bob is very much Bob. The moment I am with him I am thinking why did I bother. Loneliness isn’t worth that sacrifice. But Mr. Sellers is already paying me some dubious compliments and I am suddenly aware of the fact that I am wearing an old hat and that I didn’t powder my nose and it is hours since I applied any lipstick and besides I have runs in my hose. Mr. Sellers is saying it is so refreshing to meet a girl like me in Hollywood and what am I doing here and by now I am having another drink and telling him all!

  Mr. Sellers is most sympathetic. He says isn’t it a coincidence but just today he heard of a very fine job as secretary to Sidney Brand, the producer, and I will fit the bill because Mr. Brand believes in the higher education and won’t have anything less than a college girl as his secretary. That leaves me somewhat limp because it is the first time anyone has been interested in my higher education. The job, says Mr. Sellers, is practically mine for he and Mr. Brand are just like! He crosses one finger over another. I just burst with gratitude and then Mr. Sellers says we must all celebrate my new job. I remonstrate Mr. Brand doesn’t know me but Mr. Sellers says it is in the bag. Just to prove it he will telephone Mr. Brand in Palm Springs. It is all cockeyed and a funny way to get hired but before we are three more drinks along, we have had Palm Springs on the wire and I am in!

  We must go on to the Cocoanut Grove, says Mr. Sellers and I must call him Max and he will introduce me to Hollywood. It will be in the nature of a debut. I demur. I murmur something about how I am not properly dressed for such an occasion, leaving people to suppose if I could just dash home I could change into something definitely chic for the event. I do not tell the truth, my love, which is that I haven’t anything chic in my wardrobe with the exception of my green outfit and that is out on loan for the next three nights. Fortunately, it seems Mr. Sellers is above such things. He would be proud, says he, to take me anywhere in town just as I am. I begin to think Mr. Sellers is a man above all men.

  I will have to confess that by the time Mr. Sellers’s (Max’s) white Packard touring car has deposited us at the Ambassador Hotel, I am in something of a fog. There is a very gay long awning all decked out in colored lights and I feel a little bit like Alice in Wonderland. I suddenly am aware that Bob is no longer in our company. I comment on this and Mr. Sellers makes a grimace. Bob is a good man on the set, he says, and one of the best assistants he ever had. But he is a heel. Did I notice that he didn’t seem to recognize me at first? I did. Well, says Mr. Sellers, that was kleig myopiaritis. And what is that, I ask, very puzzled. Patiently, Mr. Sellers explains that people who are “in” in Hollywood don’t like to recognize old friends for fear that they might want something. That is a new idea and gives me pause for thought.

  But I do not ponder for long. I don’t get a chance. For there are mobs of people pouring through the lobby toward the Cocoanut Grove, wearing the dizziest kind of clothes and I cannot help recognizing a flock of celebrities. Is it always like this? I ask. This is Star Night at the Grove, I am informed. Somebody then waves to Mr. Sellers and I see it is a well-known screen actress and she is wearing a gown of white slipper satin with a litter of fox furs slung over her shoulders in the form of a cape. It is most effective. Her long yellow hair is as smooth and shiny as her gown. I get a definitely hollow feeling. I know it is the female in me and I feel very shabby and down-at-heel. Please, I say to Mr. Sellers, if we must go in could we have a table where no one can see us. Anything I want, says Mr. Sellers. But the lass of the yellow hair has hooked her arm into Mr. Sellers and she is crooning in a lovely husky voice, “Hello, Max darling. Why don’t you join us? Gary is here with me.” It isn’t until then that I notice a very beautiful young man whose face is not familiar to me. I am introduced. The blonde lovely, whose name I cannot mention for reasons you will understand later, is very polite to me but frankly puzzled. I begin to think maybe my petticoat is showing. Then Gary is saying “Howdeyoud” in a very Christ College accent and I suddenly remember reading somewhere about a new English star who is making his debut opposite the blonde.

  The answer to all that is we get a ringside table willy-nilly. It is some moments before I get my bearings and even then I think I am in a nightmare…you know like the dream where the rector comes to call and all you have on is a nightgown. The Grove is an enormous place and hundreds of people are jammed in. There are trees all around! Palm trees with cocoanuts and stuffed monkeys. I think I am seeing things so I decide to have another drink.

 
We are all very gay and Mr. Sellers seems to think I am something of a wit. He is very devoted. Even Gary unbends and pays me some attention. I expand and my female soul is very happy indeed.

  A lot of people who are dancing by stop at the table to say hello, but to Mr. Sellers’s annoyance they do not seem to notice me. Because, he hisses behind his hand, I am no celebrity or at least a beautiful chorus girl, people think I am a nobody. Well, he will show me what makes the wheels go round in this village and how phony it all is. We will fool everyone. So when a very prominent producer stops by with his wife, who is a star, they say hello to Mr. Sellers, the blonde and Gary. Then Mr. Sellers says “And, of course, you know Madge Lawrence?” They hesitate for a split second and then shake my hand vigorously. “Of course,” they say. So we continue this little game and will you believe it? Without exception all these important film people say, “Of course…yes…how do you do….” Mr. Sellers chuckles. You are a celebrity now, he whispers to me.

  I am still thinking, though, that I don’t relish all this publicity when the music stops and they shoot a spotlight on our table. A thousand eyes turn to us and I want to crawl under the table. I must be a sight by this time. The blonde gets up and gets off a beautiful little speech. It seems she is the star of the night. The English actor is then introduced and everybody applauds. Mr. Sellers then takes a bow. Then all around me I hear little whispers. “But who is she? But who is she?” They mean me, I discover!

  I figure it is a shame to torture them like this so I put my finger to my lips and whisper to the people at the next table, “Pst! I am Sally Rand—in mufti!”

  My public is amused. Mr. Sellers is amused. He explains it to Gary, who is also amused. But the blonde doesn’t move a muscle. In fact, the blonde doesn’t seem to like me very much. She would like to leave she tells Gary haughtily. He is quite happy here, he says, which leads to a little argument. But the Britisher sets his jaw and is stubborn. I am very admiring because it is my first face-to-face encounter with the English and I think to myself it is spirit like this which built the Empire! Then the blonde lets loose a string of very low but effective epithets. I am appalled. I am outraged. You know how dignified I am in my cups. I am not, I say haughtily to Mr. Sellers, in the habit of associating with fishwives. Will he please ask the lady to leave. Mr. Sellers doesn’t understand about this dignity of mine so he thinks I am terrific and guffaws loudly. The blonde is now really aroused. We are at an impasse! So Mr. Sellers whispers to Gary to take the lady home and join us later if he likes. As the blonde leaves with Gary everyone breaks out in applause. I think it is most ironic.

  Mr. Sellers and I do not stay much longer, as he thinks I ought to make a really proper debut and go on to the Trocadero. In no time at all, the white Packard deposits us there. We go down into the Trocadero “cellar” which is very chummy though large. I like it much better because with its pine walls and red leather seats, it is less fancy than the Grove, and besides the people look more like human beings.

  There are a number of gentlemen stagging it around the bar, which I think is selfish of them, for Hollywood is swarming with ladies who are very agreeable and they ought to do something about it. Mr. Sellers must be popular because they come over to our table and pay me some very elaborate compliments. Mr. Sellers whispers to me that he has a bad reputation and these gentlemen think I am the new favorite and are therefore paying court to me. They all want something, he says a little despondently.

  A dark vivacious young lady, in the most elegant sports outfit I have ever seen, comes tripping over to the table with four very effeminate escorts and when she is introduced to me I recognize her. She is a celebrated Follies beauty whose tour de force is a devastating frankness backed up by a million dollar divorce settlement. We all have a very gay time indeed and I am feeling that I am “in” when the dark lady cracks out with “And what do you do in pictures, Miss Lawrence?”

  “I am a secretary,” I say happily.

  She stares at me as though I am a bad joke. I am like Alice when she steps back through the looking glass, and I feel myself shrinking to my normal size.

  “What a terrible way to make a living,” she says coldly. I am sober. I realize then that this is a dream and that I am after all only a member of the proletariat.

  Love,

  Maggie

  P.S. Mr. Sellers is also a married man. Isn’t that sad?

  2

  What a Terrible Way to Make a Living

  FROM A SECRETARY’S PRIVATE JOURNAL

  October 30

  Up and at ’em this morning bright and early. Am very excited at the prospect of starting off in this lucrative motion-picture business; also most curious about the place and people with whom I have to work. By dint of cajolery and threat snag back my best green outfit and bedeck myself as I think fitting for a girl on the verge of a new life.

  By bribing a lass with a delicate air (she was hung-over) with a loan of my silver evening sandals, I get a lift in a Model T Ford out to the studio. My chauffeurette who is on saluting terms with the grizzled guardian of the gates waves me into a reception office and buzzes off to the casting department.

  Here I spend several frantic minutes impressing upon a thoroughly disagreeable page boy that I am Sidney Brand’s new secretary and rate a little time. He, neither impressed nor very quick to please, runs an appraising eye or two over me.

  “I hope I am the type,” I snap out shrewishly.

  “Oh, you’ll do,” he drawls back, then deigns to escort me across the courtyard to my working quarters.

  Am almost blinded by the blazing white sunshine striking against the everlasting white walls and hurtling back with a stunning fury. Against this, blobs of too-red flowers and the parched green of palm trees barely moving in a mild breeze.

  Past stages and bungalows. In the shade lounge dancing girls in briefs; men in dress suits with bibs under their chins to protect their white shirts and collars from greasepaint; peasants, soldiers, idlers all taking a brief respite from hot sound stages. Up the end of the walk is a parking rectangle filled with Fiats, Duesenbergs, Cadillacs, and Fords from which pour a stream of people spreading in all directions. Laborers careen by on noisy little handcars narrowly missing pedestrians; electricians drag huge lights and cables; men move scenery. On the side stretches a row of barracks housing bit players; apart from them modern white bungalows where roost studio royalty—the stars.

  We are enveloped suddenly in a whirring hum, the inane disjointed rise of voices, the blare of music, emanating from a group of buildings to the left. I stop for a moment to listen. The page boy grins. “I’ll show you something,” he says and pulls me into a half-open door, at the same time insuring my silence by placing a finger to his lips.

  Up a few stairs and we enter a small dim booth filled with a mass of intricate machinery humped in the darkness like so many diabolic shapes. I have a weird nightmarish sensation until I make out the figure of a very mild-looking young man who tends these eerie devices—the projectionist.

  An opening between two machines permits us to stand and peer in through a tiny window down into a small theater. The screen is blank but from it emanate ghostly voices and music. I am a bit startled. The page seems to enjoy my discomfiture.

  Out once more in the sunlight I breathe freely. The page chuckles. That’s how the sound in a film is checked, he explains. It’s run off on a separate roll. It’s only the public who wants the actors, he adds contemptuously.

  On until we halt in front of a cheery New England cottage growing all over with vines and flowers and fronted by a well-tended lawn. It might be Massachusetts but for the small incongruity of a few palm trees. This I think must be a film set, only to learn it is the headquarters for the Sidney Brand Production Unit. The page boy and I part company here.

  All is still as a to
mb in the bungalow; not a sign of life about. Boldly I make my way through half a dozen offices and though I find the windows complete with Venetian blinds and attractive chintz drapes I am a little disappointed not to find even one spinning wheel. I had heard these people were more thorough.

  My lone tour of inspection ends back in the reception room where I find a very pert young brunette with her hat on the back of her head, sitting behind the desk and with the aid of a pocket mirror propped up in front of her anxiously examining her nose for blackheads.

  She is very startled to see me, as though surprised to find anything else vaguely human prowling about these parts. Learn later that but few of the staff show up before ten or eleven as there is a great deal of night work here.

  “I am Madge Lawrence,” I say brightly, “and I was hired last night as Mr. Brand’s secretary.”

  “Now that is a new dodge,” she says, not removing her eyes from the mirror. “Mr. Brand is in Palm Springs and has been there the last few days.”

  “There are telephones,” I offer loftily. “Mr. Sellers used one last night.”

  “Max Sellers!”

  I nod.

  She now condescends to give me her full attention.

  “Well,” she allows doubtfully after a pause, “you don’t look like that sort.”

  “That,” I say, nettled, “is strictly a private matter between my Maker and me. Incidentally and notwithstanding I work for a living.”

  “Okay!” She grinningly capitulates and gives me a beautifully manicured hand to shake. “My name is Amanda Flowers.”

  I think it is a joke but she delivers it straight.

  Her job she says is to keep agents, actors and other such rodents out of our hair. That is, she protects me and I in turn do my darndest best to protect Mr. Brand so that he can carry on his creative work without undue disturbances.