I Lost My Girlish Laughter
Page 5
Was it only a few days ago? I can hardly believe it. One by one the veils of illusion have been rudely torn from me leaving me weak and broken on the wheel of life. There is frenzy in my eyes, palsy in my hands, and a madness creeps in my being.
This is the first night I have reached home before midnight and only Marjorie Hillis and the need to express myself sustain me sufficiently to sit upright and unburden myself to you. For now I am really living alone and far from liking it, despite the fact I swallowed every word Miss Hillis had to say about the matter. Taking a leaf out of her book on what a lone girl does on an off-night, I bathed myself with some beautiful smelling salts, donned my best negligee (that tattered old number Aunt Agnes sent me years back), had my tray in bed (some limp lettuce and sardines) and am now sitting at my desk cradled in the warmth and light of a ghastly lamp, all fringe and pink silk.
Thursday was the day that really did me in.
It is Der Tag! The Boss is coming home.
I am sitting at my desk, cool but not composed, in my black linen dress with white collar and cuffs. There is a predatory gleam in my eyes—starch in my backbone for so far I have not met Mr. Brand and I must make good. You’d imagine the rest of the staff, the publicity boys, the production unit, might be taking it all as a matter of course. But no, from the moment I arrive in the morning, this lunatic asylum is berserk. It’s Miss Lawrence, see that Brand gets this script first thing. Miss Lawrence, these set designs must be okayed as soon as Brand arrives. Miss Lawrence, there is an important meeting today to decide about the convention of Super Films salesmen. Miss Lawrence, have a heart and get me in there. I gotta see the chief about that cabaret scene. Miss Lawrence, tell the boss immediately that we can’t find chairs that are authentic Russian barber-chairs. Maybe we had better switch it into a dentist’s office….Miss Lawrence this and Miss Lawrence that…I am going mad!
And to top it all, Mrs. B. calls me and wants me to find out why she didn’t get that dress she ordered at Bullock’s and will I please see to it that Sidney takes his pills a half hour after lunch every day and his nap and be sure and get those tickets for the opening of the Lunts tonight….
“What am I,” I yell at Jim Palmer, “a secretary or a mother’s helper?” Jim is head of the Publicity Department.
“Woman’s place is in the home,” he says severely to me. “That’s what you get for insisting on the vote.”
“You’re a big help,” I blubber at him.
“Give me a little time,” he grins at me. “In the meantime, however, Maggie, I have got to see the Great Man about a publicity tie-up with the Navy on the Wings Over Hawaii picture.”
“Get out!” I scream at him.
By the time three o’clock arrives, the staff all has the jitters and they are sitting around like wooden soldiers and only an occasional shudder proves they are human.
“Why,” I ask Jim, “do they all look so scared? You’d think Mussolini was arriving with a flock of black shirts.”
“That’s what’s the matter with this lousy business,” says Jim. “There’s no security in it. At any minute, at any time, off go their heads and they are on the outside looking in. And it’s a very cold place out there,” he says, waving his hand toward the window. “You never know when you will eat again.”
“You talk too much,” says Maxine Stoddard. She is there, though why, I can’t imagine, because she doesn’t belong in our unit. She is a typist in the typing department. But after lunch she shows up with a bunch of flowers which she personally puts in a vase in S. B.’s room.
Jim gives her a sort of pitying look which makes Maxine flush, but he says nothing. I am reminded of some evil things I have heard about Maxine because it seems she gets too intimate with the bosses and I am suddenly very sorry for her and think perhaps I will be extra nice.
The time stretches on and by now I too become infected with this paralyzing fright and feel sure my knees will collapse. I am most annoyed at myself for being affected by all this and keep telling myself, “Don’t be a sap, this is not a matter of life and death.” But it is no use. The shine on my nose becomes worse. My fingers are cold, my palms clammy when up to the door rolls a stunning car and out rolls our liege lord.
I am rooted to the spot so that even when he makes his entrance greetings to Amanda and Buddy, I am still not able to make my way to him and introduce myself. He waves to the others, then lopes over to me. “Glad to have you with us,” he mumbles. Somehow I manage to say my name and give him my clammy digits, at the same time gathering an impression of prominent eyes, thinning hair, flabby mouth and wide, feminine hips.
Then he is yelling orders at me in rapid fire succession. “Get me Cahan…tell him this…send for the manicurist…bring your book,” and tops it with a request for something to eat. Something to eat? What? Oh, anything you think of and I’d like it soon—I’m famished. My first contact with this man and I’m supposed to know the state of his stomach and what he likes to feed on! Buddy comes to my rescue and dashes off to the commissary.
All this time Maxine has been standing off on the side waiting for a personal word with the boss. He seems to be avoiding her, though I remember what Buddy said about her expecting to have my job. I think it is very cruel of him, so I say something about the lovely flowers she brought for him.
“Oh,” he says. “Thanks, Maxine. That was nice of you,” and gives her an absent-minded paternal pat about the shoulders at the same time gently pushing her doorwards.
Buddy hops back with a ham on rye and a chocolate soda. I carry it into S. B.’s office feeling like a mother with a chick. Already plunged into a mass of papers on the desk, Mr. Brand reaches for the sandwich with an unseeing eye and tears into it, at the same time making a wild grope for the straw in the chocolate soda. I sit there with my book, and between bites and sips Mr. Brand answers phone calls and dictograph calls and dictates madly.
When the tray has been removed, our cutter, S. B.’s assistant, and a couple of writers burst in. S. B. tells me to transcribe what notes I have and wait until he can finish the rest of his dictation.
I gather myself together, catch my breath and sit at my machine in my own office. It is nearly six o’clock when I look up again and Amanda and Buddy are saying goodnight to me. Still no sign from Mr. Brand. Seven o’clock and I am waiting in solitary grandeur for Mr. Brand to come out and go home. For after all people do have places for which they pay rent and have wives and children to see—surely Mr. Brand is one of them. But no, time fugits on and Mr. Brand is busy creating escapes from realism for Mary and John Doe while I ponder upon the rumbling in my stomach and my fate.
Suddenly there is a strange buzzing in my ear. Now which one of the instruments can it be? After moving hectically all over the desk I decide to try the dictograph. Perhaps Mr. Brand is not in the coma I believe he is. Will I please make five highballs—sparkling water and not too much of that? Where, I ask myself, is the stuff with which to make these gigglefests? I search wildly about my office and even thumb a few panels hoping for a hidden cabinet but I have no luck. Finally in desperation I call in to Mr. Brand. I can’t find the bar, I tell him. Oh, says he, it’s in my office. The thought then strikes me that maybe Mr. Brand has hurt his leg and that all the other people have left and that he needs the five drinks to bolster himself, else why should he call me to come into his office to make drinks? But in I go and am barmaid for five very lazy, dissolute guys.
And while I am playing barmaid the phone rings and it is Mrs. B. “I’m sorry, darling,” her husband coos, “but I can’t possibly make that opening tonight. But you go and take your mamma with you.”
There are some high nervous screeches over the wire and Mr. B. holds the phone away from his ear.
“Yes, dear, I know. It’s too bad—but I’ll get home just as soon as I can….”
I am thinking I need a drink, too, but no one asks me so I retreat into my own office and the hours draw on. I am faint with hunger and anger when Mr. Brand’s door opens and he emerges with his pals, giving them last-minute instructions and saying to me he would now like to attack the mail. At that moment Mr. Brand is in danger of being attacked himself and I can even see the lovely lurid headlines, “Secretary Attacks Employer—Excuse Temporary Insanity Due To Malnutrition.”
But no. I am a faithful creature and trot in dutifully behind Mr. Brand. The building is still as a tomb. Now, says Mr. Brand brightly, we can tear off a little work in peace. Firmly I make a quiet statement of the condition of my stomach. Mr. Brand is most contrite, asks why I didn’t have something sent over and says he will try to get through with all the work quickly so I can leave for dinner.
Then for the first time Mr. Brand takes a real look at me. But from the controlled expression on his face I cannot get an idea of what he thinks. Perhaps I think that is the way I affect people. I am waiting for some comment but instead he calls for another drink. All the time I am mixing it I can feel his eyes boring into me. It makes me a little nervous.
However, when I give him the drink he becomes most businesslike and plunges into the mass of letters and papers on his desk. I struggle manfully to keep up with the flow of words. My pothooks become a little hectic and I will have to put my trust in my memory. A glimpse at my watch tells me it is eleven o’clock. When, oh, when will this man finish telling people off, telling people what to do, acknowledging notes and noting things? Perhaps my spirit of desperation reaches him because suddenly Mr. Brand stops and says, “To hell with this—we will tackle the rest tomorrow.”
I gather my papers quickly before he can change his mind and get up, saying how nice it will be to take a quick look at a steak. Mr. Brand is now very cordial and asks how I like Hollywood and if I like working for him. I am woman enough to know how to respond to that, so I open my eyes wide and say I am just crazy about it, and working for him, and move over to the door.
Mr. Brand rises out of his chair and moves in my direction, all the time talking about the wonders of Hollywood and how he is sure I will make good because obviously I am very intelligent. I am about to open the door when I feel something moving over my back and I am stunned to discover it is Mr. Brand’s arm and he pulls me around face to face with him.
I am so taken by surprise that I do not think very fast, but one thing I do know and that is I will not be thrust into the undignified position of having to fight for my honor. So I look him straight in the eye and I thank him for thinking I am intelligent and the most intelligent thing I can think of at this moment for me to do is to find myself some food and get my girlish sleep so I can be bright and intelligent again in the morning. I am sure, I continue in a motherly tone, that he is very tired, too, and tomorrow will be a big day for him.
There is a puzzled look in his eyes when I finish, but his arm slacks about me so I can breathe easily again.
“You are a very naïve girl,” he says to me. “After all what’s a kiss or two? Merely a friendly gesture.”
There is no answer to that one without being unmaidenly and one thing I am determined not to be is unmaidenly. So I say that I think perhaps I will always be naïve for I have discovered that it is more healthy.
There is a complete change in his attitude and I think maybe Mr. Brand gets my idea and decides that he too has had enough for one night but at the same time he would like to have the parting shot for he says paternally I shouldn’t be so prim because he likes me. I am so different.
And I hope, I say, not to be outdone, that he is going to like me much better. However, there is nothing personal in my tone.
Love,
Maggie
4
Sinners in Asylum
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Fred Cook Subject: Story For Sarya Tarn
From: Sidney Brand Date: November 6
Must have story for Sarya Tarn’s first American vehicle. We are spending a lot of money on her and only the best will do. I would suggest successful play or a best-selling novel. I expect synopses on my desk tomorrow. We do not want a career story; or an immigrant girl or anything too risqué. Miss Tarn speaks good English but with an accent so it will have to be a foreign part.
SB
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: James Palmer Subject: Sarya Tarn
From: Sidney Brand Date: November 6
Have set deal with Sarya Tarn, famous European star, for exclusive contract with Super Films. Legal Department is drawing up contract. Check with them before you break story and then go to town! I’ve had some very satisfactory talks with Miss Tarn at Palm Springs and she is most agreeable to any sort of publicity so long as it is dignified. I’m sure Miss Tarn is going to be an important star. She has glamour, ability and what it takes. Miss Lawrence will arrange appointment for you to meet Miss Tarn.
SB
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Madge Lawrence Subject: Tarn
From: James Palmer Date: November 6
Dear Maggie:
At Mr. Brand’s request, please arrange for me to see Tarn at the office tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t mind having quote a few satisfactory talks unquote with her myself if she but remotely resembles some of the stills I have seen of her.
JP
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Miss M. Lawrence Subject: Tarn Material
From: Fred Cook Date: November 6
Dear Miss Lawrence:
I am checking my files for story suggestions but in the meantime am rushing you synopses of two plays and one best-selling novel, any one of which I think will be a knockout for Miss Tarn.
I would appreciate your seeing to it that Mr. Brand reads these at the earliest possible moment.
FC
FRANCES SMITH NOVEMBER 6
SUPER FILMS
NEW YORK CITY
STORY BREAKING TOMORROWS PAPERS SUPER ACQUISITION SARYA TARN OUR NEW FOREIGN STAR STOP ANXIOUS MAKE HER AMERICAN DEBUT IMPORTANT EXCITING AND PROFITABLE STOP WIRE ME ALL STORY SUGGESTIONS AND RUSH SYNOPSES IF WE DO NOT HAVE THEM AT COAST BY AIRMAIL SPECIAL DELIVERY REGARDS
SIDNEY BRAND
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Miss Lawrence Subject: Tarn
From: Fred Cook Date: November 20
Have not heard from Brand about any of the stories I sent in to him. Shall I keep on sending in more or has he changed his mind?
FC
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Fred Cook Subject: Tarn
From: Madge Lawrence Date: November 20
As you know, Mr. Brand has been in a whirl since his return from Palm Springs. I’ve written him a reminder note about the Tarn story suggestions and will speak with him further at the first possible opportunity. I will do everything I can to push this for you, but you know what I’m up against.
ML
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Mr. Fred Cook Subject: Guild play
From: Sidney Brand Date: November 24
I hear that Metro and Warners are bidding heavily for new Theatre Guild play. I hadn’t even heard there was a Theatre Guild play. What in hell have I got a Scenario Department for?
SB
SUPER FILMS
INTER-OFFICE COMMUNICATION
To: Miss M. Lawrence Subject: Guild play
From: Fred Cook Date: November 24
FC
FRANCES SMITH NOVEMBER 24
SUPER FILMS
NEW YORK CITY
AUTHORIZE YOU OFFER GUILD ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR SINNERS IN ASYLUM STOP KEEP ON BIDDING UNTIL YOU GET IT STOP REGARDS
SIDNEY BRAND
DAILY VARIETY
November 26
Sidney Brand of Super Films has acquired the new Guild smash Sinners in Asylum for a reputed two hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. It is to be the first starring vehicle for Sarya Tarn the new Viennese importation.
STENOGRAPHER’S NOTEBOOK
Wire N. Y. get P. G. Wodehouse for adaptation Sinners.
Wire Frances Smith contact author Sinners come out Hollywood for adaptation six weeks guarantee $1,000 weekly, if Wodehouse not available.
Send copies playscript to Research, Production, Wardrobe, Casting and Art Departments.
Check with Palmer on why no banner line Carsons’s column on Sinners in Asylum break.