by Jane Allen
I am being initiated into the office routine and examining the files when there is a noisy interruption. It is a callow youth wearing a loud plaid sports coat, contrasting trousers and a gaucho shirt. I am trying to decide which one of the rodents he is and figure him at least for a greasepaint addict when I am introduced to him as our office boy.
He emits a startled whistle. “Hello! Gee, will Maxine be sore. She thought she had this job cinched.”
“Pipe down, big shot. Show Miss Lawrence her office.”
I am led into my own office, a small but pleasant room, boasting some comfortable chairs, a few really good etchings and a handsome desk bearing up under two telephones, a dictograph, and a secretary’s dictaphone receiving set.
Bud proves obliging and anxious to make good with me, albeit he passes off a few “nifties” and pauses for laughs while regaling me with the lowdown on the “right people” in the studio and a smattering of dirt about some of the glamour boys and girls.
We are examining Mr. Brand’s office when he tells me he can put me on to a good thing. If I place some money right on the nose of Ladybird in the third race at Tanforan, I can earn a couple of permanents. I thank him kindly but put him off, saying I have too much on my mind today to think about horse racing.
“Okay. But any time you feel the pinch let me know and I’ll pass on something good, and I mean good. The boss himself comes to me for tips.”
I must look my incredulity for he laughs indulgently.
“Ask Amanda. You see…” he leans forward confidentially and pauses to take my measure in full as though trying to make up his mind whether I am worthy of his confidence. Apparently I pass muster for he goes on with a rush. “It’s part of my system. I’m not going to be an office boy always. I’m gonna be somebody in Hollywood one of these days. So what do I do? I find out that the big shots are all gamblers—that’s their weak spot. They’ll gamble on anything but particularly on horses. So I make it my business to know about horses.”
He pauses portentously. I still do not understand what horses have to do with becoming an executive in Hollywood and must show my ignorance for he shakes his head sadly.
“Y’see contacts is the important thing in this town. I get the dope on horses and I’m good. I make money. So I let everybody know about it and pretty soon the executives come to me for tips. I’m pretty cagey about when and how I dish them out and pretty soon they see I’m good. So what? Everybody knows me. Now, when the psychological time comes and there is a good promotion, somebody is bound to think of me!”
I can see little logic in all this, but then I am new to the game, so who am I to dampen the ardor of an ambitious young man? But I am relieved of the necessity of making any comment for Bud yells at somebody outside the window and is off.
Return to my own office and private reveries only to be rudely interrupted by the ominous ring of the phone. It is Palm Springs and my boss on the wire.
“Find Palmer!” he yells excitedly, “and have him call me immediately.”
Somehow I realize there is no point in mentioning the fact that I don’t know Palmer and merely say, “Yes.”
“Get your notebook,” is his next command.
“I am ready,” I say.
“Right…let’s go…”
Thirty minutes and fifteen pages later, limp and exhausted, I hang up the phone and stare in bewilderment at the last page of pothooks—his final instructions.
FROM A STENOGRAPHER’S NOTEBOOK
Mr. B. arriving Thursday 3 P.M. have car meet him at station.
Arrange appointment with chiropodist at studio—4 P.M.
Get Warner Bros. print of Let’s Make Hay for screening S. B.’s home Thursday evening. Maiden All Forlorn unit available for screening. Me too.
Have Research Department check on hairdressers for Dietrich in Maiden All Forlorn. Also have them check on gags to be used in Russian barber shop before the Revolution.
Call Mrs. B. and advise S. B. returning.
Call Dietrich and arrange appointment with S. B.
Call Bullock’s-Wilshire and have them send out samples of bedroom slippers—size 12C—no patent leather.
Send all issues of Hollywood Reporter and Variety home to Mrs. B.
Advise cutter to be ready for preview day or so.
Remind S. B. to call Joe Burns Friday morning.
Have S. B.’s tennis rackets checked for re-stringing…ready for weekend.
And don’t forget to have Palmer call me!
* * *
—
I get my breath and holler for Amanda. Mutely I point to notebook. She is very consoling and advises me to relax. No one, she philosophizes, expects wonders—although she admits S. B. likes things done his way and his way is to do them immediately and against all odds. I wouldn’t know how to perform even one of these little wonders, I say dispirited. Who is Palmer? Who is the cutter and where do I find him? What is Maiden All Forlorn and where do I find any Russian barber-shop gags before the Revolution?
Palmer is head of publicity. Holding Amanda’s other explanations in check, phone Publicity Department. Palmer isn’t there. Leave message—important for him to telephone S. B. in Palm Springs.
Maiden All Forlorn I learn is our new picture with Marlene Dietrich. Let’s Make Hay is an old Warner Bros. picture with the same background and perhaps there is something worth watching in it, as it made a lot of money. The Research Department can worry along about Russian barber-shop gags. The cutter is the man who does just that, cuts films and pastes them together for the screen. It is more important than it sounds. A cutter can either make or ruin a picture and he rates a lot of money when he is good.
“But who,” I ask, “can Joe Burns be?”
“Joe Burns,” says Amanda, “is a scalp specialist, a wizard at restoring hair where there isn’t any.”
“Mr. Brand is bald then?” I ask solicitously.
“He has a lot on his mind,” Amanda says cryptically.
Busy attending to these various chores and typing out letters during which time I have many interruptions. They are people who have come in to meet and welcome me. Think it is very sociable of them and am pleased and agreeable. Suddenly struck with thought that my callers are suspiciously predominantly male. This prompts questions on my part which elicit information that Bud has spread the news I am easy on the eyes and an “all right guy.” That sets Buddy with me for I am not above a little flattery.
Realize it is twelve o’clock and no Palmer. Phone Publicity. Girl there advises I telephone dressing room of male star with whom he had appointment. Telephone and valet informs me Palmer never showed up. Try barber shop—Amanda’s suggestion—no Palmer.
Look up from phone to see girl staring at me.
“Hello,” I say blankly.
“I’m Maxine Stoddard,” she says sweetly, and comes toward me.
“How do you do?” I say mechanically; then fogged brain clicks. This is young woman who expected my job. She is pretty with soft, naturally curly blonde hair. The female in me rears. It always does with that type but mentally slap myself for such reactionaryism.
“Well!” she says. “You are not the type I expected Mr. Brand to choose for a secretary. I am surprised!”
“I hope you are pleasantly surprised,” I say coldly. “I am fed up on people discussing my type.”
Fortunately Bud comes in and I am spared any more barbs.
“Hello, Maxine,” he calls cheerfully. “Not bad for a brunette, is she?”
I think I detect a little malice there.
“You’re an obnoxious brat,” Maxine coos at him pleasantly. She starts to leave. “Let’s have lunch together sometime,” she calls from the door.
“You gotta watch her,” Buddy advises when the door is closed. “She’s hell on wheels and hates your guts already for tagging her job.”
“Look here, Bud. I feel pretty rotten about this. It looks as though someone has let Maxine down badly.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy on her. She doesn’t rate it.”
I am curious to know more and making up my mind whether to question Bud or make it clear here and now that it is beneath my dignity to indulge in personalities, when the telephone rings.
It is Mr. Brand.
“Christ! Where is Palmer?”
“I have been trying to locate Mr. Palmer everywhere,” I say, “but he isn’t to be found.”
“Don’t tell me that. Get Palmer. Check with everyone on the lot but get him. Call out the fire department if necessary.”
“Very well,” I say meekly.
“Have any newspapermen called?” he goes on, his voice positively furtive.
“Why no, Mr. Brand.”
“Thank God for that. If any of those interfering bastards call, you don’t know anything—deny everything.”
“Yes, Mr. Brand.”
I hang up. Bud is standing there, his eyes glistening with excitement.
“Newspapermen, huh. Newspapermen—I’ll bet it’s something hot.”
“How did you hear—?” I start.
“You could have heard him a mile away. Boy, I’ll bet it’s good. I’m gonna do a little investigating….”
“You’ll mind your own business,” I say sharply, “and find Palmer.”
I telephone Publicity—Publicity is busy. Drat Palmer. Why the devil doesn’t he show up? Here I am faced with a crisis the first day of my career and this Palmer person has to cross me. If I don’t find him maybe I’ll be fired, I think darkly. I look at my watch. It is two o’clock. I remember I am hungry but I don’t dare leave until I find Palmer.
Publicity calls me. Palmer hasn’t been at the studio as far as they know. However I might try the commissary and then the gymnasium. If he isn’t there…I now receive a list of telephone numbers. “Girl friends,” giggles Publicity.
I call the commissary. It takes ten minutes to find out Palmer isn’t there. My nerves begin to jingle; my stomach cries for sustenance. I call gymnasium. No Palmer.
I start calling the list of phone numbers.
“He was here this morning,” simpers the second number on the list. “But he came and left on the run. He was very tight.”
I go through the list. Some don’t answer and the rest haven’t seen Palmer. They are all females. “Philanderer,” I hiss silently. I know I will loathe this man.
Bud comes in on the run.
“Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy!” he howls. “Is it good…is it terrific!”
“Stop it!” I yell. “I’m going mad without having to listen to that!”
“Yeah? Well get a load of this. S. B. is in plenty of a jam. He lams to Palm Springs for a conference—maybe. Anyhow this foreign dame is there—this actress Sarya Tarn. By accident—maybe. So he and Sarya go places and do things. Everything is dandy until late last night when they are in the gambling Casino, Brand gets into an argument with a guy over Sarya. S. B. takes a sock at him. Camera! Flashlights! Newspapers! Get it?”
I am listening intently, but so far I don’t see anything wrong with the scenario.
“I think Mr. Brand did the right thing,” I say indignantly.
“Yeah? But you see there’s Mrs. Brand and it don’t look right for Mr. Brand to be away on business and get into fights over dames—especially foreign actresses. It will certainly look lousy in the papers.”
“What can Mr. Palmer do?” I ask.
Bud is disgusted with me.
“Jim Palmer is an ex-newspaperman and knows everyone in the business. That is why he was hired. He can fix it so the papers tone down their story and Mr. Brand will look like a hero in an innocent fracas.”
“How did you find all this out?” I ask suspiciously.
“I got sources,” Bud throws out his chest and struts. “I’m not talking.”
Well, there I am. Mr. Brand is in a jam. No Palmer. Bad publicity. No job for Maggie. I am desperate.
Amanda comes flying in. “I heard Palmer just arrived and is heading for the commissary. Maybe you can have a sandwich and Palmer, too.”
I do not wait to hear any more. I grab Bud and fly, for I do not know where the commissary is.
Pell-mell we dash across the lot. Even before we get there, I can hear the clatter of dishes, the clang of silverware and an unholy babel of voices. We burst in. I have one flash of a mass of people, most of them in yellow makeup and costumes, and then a roar of laughter shatters my ears.
We push our way through the crowd that is jammed in and around tables. The center of the room is cleared for action. Hopping around the arena on all fours is a man wearing horse’s trappings. Astride his back is a jockey waving his cap and crying, “Yip…ee…Yip…ee…” What is it about? I whisper to Buddy. “Paying off a bet,” he says.
Around and around they go several times. The crowd shouts. “Yip…ee…Yip…ee…” in chorus. Then the horse throws the jockey, picks up his hand, and cries, “Ladies…and gentlemen, the Winnah!” James Palmer!
I have found my man.
3
I Meet the Boss
GIRLS’ COMMUNITY CLUB HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
October 31
Dear Miss Lawrence:
I do not like to censure my girls about such things but I know you need only be reminded of your departure from the way we do things here not to permit a recurrence of last night.
Mary Emmett
Dear Mrs. Emmett:
I feel terribly guilty about last night and perhaps I may be vindicated in the fact that we were all celebrating my new job.
Regretfully,
Madge Lawrence
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Madge Lawrence Subject: Apology
From: James Palmer Date: October 31
Dear Miss Lawrence:
As you have doubtless seen by the papers, we saved the day for the dear old Alma Mater and Mr. Brand is enshrined in the hearts of womanhood the world over as a gallant, chivalrous knight of old who gave his all to preserve the good name of a lady.
However, I have an uneasy feeling that I gave you some very bad moments and considering it was your first day at the studio I can hardly expect your forgiveness. What rankles mainly is that you saw me thrown in the arena. It wounds my masculine ego and isn’t exactly a fitting start to what I hope may become a pleasant association.
May I assure you of my good will and if there is anything I can do for you, just say the word.
James (Jockey) Palmer
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: James Palmer Subject: My Problem
From: Madge Lawrence Date: October 31
Dear Mr. Palmer:
This is my first experience at working in a studio and I have come to the conclusion that I must take many odd things in my stride. My life hitherto, I realize, has been limited to very small horizons and sheltered lees. And talking of shelters, I have a boon to crave. So how about turning knight-errant for me? Amanda tells me that you’re the boy wonder at accomplishing miracles and I’m urgently in need of one at the moment. (I mean the miracle.)
I want a place to live near the studio which will be pleasant, private, cheap and cheery. I’ve been putting up temporarily at the Girls’ Community Club but am afraid my girlish effervescence is a jarring note. Last night I staged a little mild revelry for some of the inmates and myself to celebrate my new job. (
You see I have my lapses too.) This morning I received a polite reprimand from Mrs. Emmett, the directress. I’m not in the habit of staging orgies as a regular thing but I do feel that when a girl has call to a little relaxation she should be privileged to do so. If you can make any suggestions I will be…
Most gratefully,
Madge Lawrence
November 1
Dear Aunt Agnes:
Wonderful news! I’ve got a job.
I’m secretary to Sidney Brand, the man whose pictures you don’t like. It seems I was around the corner when opportunity showed up with Bob Faulkner, whom Elizabeth and I knew very well indeed at State University. Bob is now an assistant to Max Sellers, the important director, and when he heard I was looking for a job, introduced me to his chief who in turn arranged this position with Mr. Brand. Mr. Sellers said I had come to the right place for Hollywood, and Mr. Brand in particular is very appreciative of college educations.
Oddly enough—but then this is a town of oddities—I haven’t even met Mr. Brand. It seems he is away at Palm Springs with his writers working on a new screenplay. This is a very hardworking community and important people like Mr. Brand often have to travel hundreds of miles where they can work in peace.
It may interest you to know that I saw Colin Grove lunching at the studio yesterday and he is even more handsome off the screen than on. If you will be a nice auntie and write me often, I might even get him to autograph a picture for you and just think—how all your friends in the bridge club will envy you.
I have enjoyed so much being at the Club but because the studio is so far away and transportation facilities unreliable, I am forced to find a place to live near the studio. One of our publicity men is even now on the lookout for an apartment for me. In the meantime address your letters to me at the studio.
Love,
Madge
Val Mar Apartments
November 4
Dear Liz:
Sometimes I think you are a girl with a very low type of mind. No dear, Mr. Sellers was a perfect gentleman and left me at my door with a kiss on the hand, and to make my Arabian Night adventure, as you call it, more incredible, I actually got the job.