I Lost My Girlish Laughter

by Jane Allen

  You argue, moreover, that his attentions probably accrue from a debt of gratitude to me. I would ignore that crack as the scratching of a feminine claw if it came from anyone but you and would not dignify it with a rebuttal, because even in my befuddled state I can detect the difference between a look of gratitude and that other look.

  You are not alone in your concern about me. My boss, too, feels deeply, though perhaps not for the same reasons. Stella Carsons broke out with a little item in her column the other day: “Is Bruce Anders hurt because our Hollywood belles have ignored him or is it true romance between him and Madge Lawrence, Sidney Brand’s cute little secretary?” Don’t you love that “cute”?

  “Look here, Madge,” says Sidney to me. “What’s all this I hear about you in Carsons’s column? I don’t like that kind of stuff. Let Palmer take care of Anders’s publicity. And besides why the hell do you have to pick on an actor? Don’t you know any nice boys?”

  “I’m only trying to have a little of that private life you’re always inquiring about,” I say sweetly.

  “All right. Have it—but keep out of the papers and don’t let it interfere with production.”

  So you see S. B. has my interests at heart, too.

  Love,

  Maggie

  FROM A SECRETARY’S PRIVATE JOURNAL

  April 27

  By the time we have finished cutting and editing Sinners, I am so fed up on it that I do not give a hoot what happens. But in the film business it seems the fun has only just started. It is important to get an audience reaction to the film before releasing it for general consumption. That audience must be composed of paying film addicts who are neither friends nor critics and who may not know anything about how to manufacture a film but they know what they like. After all it is the man on the street who supports the industry.

  Then there is another angle. The industry is very picture-conscious and if you preview a picture in Hollywood you get a strictly professional audience which is prone to be either too enthusiastic or too critical, depending entirely on personal motives. Sidney for one isn’t taking a chance on having a Brand production catalogued until he is good and sure of his product. You can always improve a film after the sneak but once it is released you are licked.

  For weeks we have been huddled privately against eavesdroppers to determine just where to preview Sinners. It wouldn’t do to have anyone discover our secret, for the picture critics would like nothing better than to get a preliminary look and make some fancy predictions. Ultimately, after much cogitation, Sidney decides on previewing the film in Pomona.

  The next thing I know I am on a plane with Jim bound for San Francisco. Sidney had known for a long time it would be San Francisco and not Pomona but he is taking no chance on a leak. If Sidney hadn’t become a producer, I am thinking he would have made a very successful G-man.

  Thus my horizons expand for now I can add a brand-new experience to my routine.

  I joust with a flea.

  This memorable encounter takes place in my hotel room in San Francisco while I am trying to recover from the plane ride and the brandies which Jim forced upon me to fortify me for the ordeal. However, both of us are in very fine humor because we successfully duped the boss in permitting us to come up ahead of him on the pretext that we could smooth the path for him and Selma and the others. This allows us a night to do the town.

  Jim says that I have sweet blood. That is why insects make merry with me. He says he once knew a girl who was afflicted with sweet blood so excessively that a New Jersey mosquito could bite her in Maine.

  “Whatever became of her?” I ask.

  “She is now a very successful snake charmer,” says Jim, “but strictly career-minded.”

  “That is very sad,” I mourn with him and wham! I slap off another flea.

  After a bath and a change of clothes, I meet Jim in the hotel bar and am immediately impressed with the fact that we might be in another world from Hollywood. There is here an air of well-ordered conviviality so quaintly different from our own brassy frolics. When we in Hollywood show ourselves in public we go in for startling negligee effects, our manners and speech coordinating with our casual state of dress. But here not a girl wears slacks and the only blonde in sight looks as though she was born that way. Male attire is formal in cut and if less colorful more restful to the eye. It is with a start that I realize none of these people are in the picture business and seem quite content. That’s what Hollywood does for you. It is to the denizens the only significant spot in the world and the only people who are not in pictures are the ones who are trying to get in.

  Over our cocktails Jim and I amuse ourselves examining the people in the bar and figuring out their respective professions. We agree in the main but wrangle over one man whose back is toward us and whose rear view has a definitely rakish bend.

  “He is a playboy,” I decide after some thought.

  “He is not,” says Jim. “He is a broker’s clerk who is trying to look like a playboy.”

  “You cannot,” I argue, “achieve that dashing look in the rear just in off moments. It is something that comes only with constant usage. It’s a natural!”

  “I have given a great deal of thought to such matters,” says Jim, “and I know whereof I speak. Some people study palmistry; some tell character by bumps on the scalp; some read the cards; but I have always done it with mirrors—rearview mirrors—and I know you are wrong.”

  I break into a giggle.

  “You and your snake charmer ought to get together. Between you, you could stage a sensational act!”

  “That’s just like a woman,” hoots Jim. “Go on, get personal.”

  “Why not?” I say. “There’s only one way to settle this argument. Let’s ask him!”

  Jim throws me a look of pure admiration. I should have known better than to make that suggestion to him. However I am not one to back down. So I tuck my arm into his and say, “Lead on!”

  “We can’t just tap him on the shoulder,” Jim whispers to me as we ease down the bar toward our quarry. “Suppose instead I take a sock at you and then he can defend you and we will all become acquainted.”

  “Less muscle and more brain work,” I hiss.

  Now we are next to the stranger-with-the-rakish-rear. Jim clears his throat ostentatiously.

  “How about a drink, pardner?” he asks nasally.

  Our man turns slowly.

  “Palmer! You old son of a sea-horse! Where did you come from?”

  Jim’s face is a study. Surprise, chagrin, dismay chase themselves successively over his expressive countenance. Then I see a wary look creep in which mystifies me.

  “If it isn’t Stacy. Frank, meet Maggie. Maggie, this is Frank Stacy, the meanest picture critic on the West Coast.”

  Jim has given me my cue. I am no longer mystified. Now what, I ask myself helplessly?

  “Have a drink?” Jim asks Mr. Stacy and his manner is elaborately casual.

  “The drinks are on me,” says Mr. Stacy. “I owe you something for that lousy deal you gave me on the Russian actress who docked here last year.”

  “Could I help it,” says Jim, “if she had the measles and was in quarantine?”

  Mr. Stacy laughs uproariously.

  “So it’s measles now is it? It was impetigo then.”

  “All right, then,” says Jim. “She was inebriated, cockeyed, stinko. How the hell could I let you interview her in that condition? Why don’t you guys think of my angle sometime?”

  “There was a time back in New York,” says Mr. Stacy sentimentally, “when it was our angle. Now you’ve got an angle and I’ve got an angle.”

  “To hell with angles,” says Jim. “Let’s get drunk.”

  If Jim thinks by th
is ruse to make his friend insensible and get rid of him, he doesn’t know Mr. Stacy’s capacity or his stubbornness. The more Mr. Stacy drinks, the fonder he gets of us and the fonder he gets, the more awful is the thought of parting from us.

  We do not part. We all hang together through the thick and thin of one of the maddest, merriest nights I have spent. At Mr. Stacy’s invitation we dine in a famous fish eatery overlooking the bay.

  I have never realized before how much I like fish and have missed it until we dive into a tureen of the most divine mess of bouillabaisse and wash it down with a bottle of imported Chablis.

  “They have food what is food in this man’s town,” remarks Jim appreciatively.

  “How you can stomach that forsaken hole down south there,” says Mr. Stacy, “is something I can’t fathom.”

  “It’s a good paying business,” says Jim philosophically.

  It’s too bad we have to mention Hollywood for immediately Mr. Stacy is reminded of his profession and becomes inquisitive.

  “Why are you up here? What goes on? Give me a break.”

  Jim, I know, has been striving manfully to avoid this issue.

  “Nothing,” says he meekly. “Maggie and I thought we would like a trip and a change of scenery. Maggie is very fond of fish as you can see and nothing would satisfy her but that she must come to San Francisco and have some bouillabaisse.”

  “You two married?” asks Stacy quickly.

  “Er—no—er—”

  Mr. Stacy has a certain quizzical look in his eyes, so I take advantage of it to tuck my hand cozily into Jim’s.

  “Jim and I,” I say boldly, “are very good friends and often take trips together.”

  Jim gives me an agonized look but I smile brazenly at him like the hussy I am making myself out to be. I think I have succeeded in throwing Mr. Stacy off the track, for he smiles broadly back at me.

  I am a trifle hazy on some points but I know that we explore Fisherman’s Wharf; cover the Golden Gate bridge, which arouses Jim to emit some really choice superlatives; careen wildly up Nob Hill in a cable car and enjoy ourselves hugely, assisting to turn the car around for its descent; and wind up in Chinatown for more food and rice wine.

  When we return to our hotel, dawn is tumbling in the sky. Stacy sheds a great many tears in parting from us. It is all very touching. I receive a chaste salute on the forehead and Jim is kissed on both cheeks before our friend can tear himself away.

  At my door Jim lingers, apparently embarrassed for words.

  “I feel a heel,” he finally blurts out, “because I let Frank think…”

  “Forget it,” I reassure him. “It was in a good cause, and I think we took him in. Anyhow, it was fun.”

  “I don’t think it was funny at all,” says Jim rather grimly, I am thinking. “Anyway not when it concerns you, Maggie.”

  I feel all choked up. This new Jim is most unfamiliar.

  “But Jim,” I start to protest.

  “Maggie,” he interrupts, “this is probably the toughest assignment I’ve ever had—but I’ve got to tell you.” He takes a deep breath. “I—I—I have more fun with you than with anyone else. You know what I mean…you’re—well, look here, Maggie, if you ever sort of get fed up on things, just let me know.”

  I am a little muddled.

  “Don’t let it worry you,” adds Jim anxiously, and shoots down the hall before I recover.

  It is only after I have switched off the light and am in bed that I realize I have had a proposal!

  I have a bare three hours of sleep when the shrill blast of the phone arouses me. It is my irate boss who advises me sarcastically that he is ready for work even if some people think they are on a vacation.

  I splutter a sleepy apology and bounce into the shower. I am in my dressing-gown, my face loaded with cold cream, when the door flies open and a mob descends on me, Tyson, Faye and the cutters.

  “Hello,” they chorus. “We’ve ordered up breakfast.”

  Without a by-your-leave, they spread themselves over the bed and chairs.

  With as much dignity as I can muster, I hastily retreat into the bathroom to dress.

  When I reappear the breakfast table is laid. The sight of food goes illy with me and I feebly wave away the proffered eggs and ham. “A little coffee will do,” I allow.

  That gives rise to many raucous comments on the fashion in which I must have passed the previous evening, together with some good-natured advice on how to cure a hangover.

  “Why pick my room for breakfast?” I protest crossly.

  “Because,” explains Mr. Faye, “Mr. Brand would like us all to hang together and your room is closest to his. We’re all two floors down.”

  I have scarcely gulped a cup of coffee when S. B. appears.

  Selma, it seems, is all broken up by the train ride and would like a masseuse to put her together again. I would like to point out to the boss that Selma is fully capable of using a phone herself but such folly is unthinkable so I sweetly sympathize about Selma’s delicate health and phone the masseuse.

  Sidney makes himself thoroughly at home with the eggs and ham, meanwhile treating the boys to a few reminiscences of the past when he was a penniless stripling and how he came to rise in the world. This prompts Mr. Faye to dwell on his life in the English army which terminated with the war, after which he decided to become an actor only to find himself a director.

  Roy is taking all this in like so much sweet music. Doubtless he is already composing a spiel he will make to some of the boys when he becomes a big Hollywood executive.

  Sidney lets fly a few compliments to the British. It is a favorite topic with him for he is an ardent Anglophile. This all reminds him how badly he felt when Edward VIII tossed over his country and crown for the woman he loved.

  “You know,” says Sidney feelingly, “It’s hard to believe that a man could let down the Empire just for a dame.”

  All we need at this point is the band to burst into Rule Britannia.

  So we spend a very educational morning dishing the Hollywood dirt; tumbling the great; exalting ourselves; and settling the affairs of Europe to make the world safe for the distribution of American films.

  The air gets thick and oppressive with talk and smoke. I myself am feeling wan and limp, when about noon Selma phones to say she is ready and able and would like to do a little touring. Accordingly, the boys all push off leaving me free to tear off a much-needed nap.

  It is late afternoon when I am awakened by Jim knocking on my door.

  “Stacy,” he hisses, “is down below. He wants us to have a farewell drink with him.”

  “The coast is clear,” I inform him. “Our party has been out all afternoon and will probably not return until the dinner hour.”

  So feeling pleased with ourselves and the world, we descend to the bar where our friend awaits us with a not-so-rakish air.

  “The hair of the dog,” he grins, holding up an absinthe cocktail.

  “That’s dangerous stuff,” warns Jim, “but a swell idea.”

  “I’ve never had one,” I tell Jim.

  “Not for little girls,” says he.

  “Please,” I beg.

  “Just one then,” says Jim.

  Everything goes off smoothly—much too smoothly. Jim intimates we are leaving on the night train—and offers Frank a cordial invitation to visit in Hollywood. Frank thinks we are the finest people he has ever known and he loves us both madly, when bingo! Super Films arrive en masse!

  Sidney, in his usual mouse-like fashion, makes his entrance with the manager bowing and scraping before him and practically offering him the hotel. Bartenders snap to. Minions fly. The news spreads like wildfire that a great motion p
icture impresario is with us.

  Monk calls to us.

  Frank turns on a slow, mischievous smile.

  “Just a little vacation, huh?” he jeers. “The hell with Frank. He’s a simple-minded guy who’ll swallow anything, even a yarn about a nice little girl who pretends to be bad.” He shakes a reproving finger at me. “And you are a nice little girl, much too nice to be traveling in Palmer’s company. He’s a big bad Whoof! But just for your sake, Maggie, I won’t spoil Palmer’s little party because someday I’m coming down to Hollywood to prove to you that not all newspapermen are heels. I’m the exception that proves the rule! Sorry, I have to run off now, I have a deadline to make.”

  “Well, that’s over with,” I say relievedly to Jim as he leaves.

  “Oh, yeah?” says Jim inelegantly. “I hope you’re right.”

  We join Mr. Brand’s party at the table. The boss is in fine humor and even Selma unbends graciously. S. B. thrusts a small box at me. “A little present for you,” he says. “Selma and I did some shopping.”

  I thank them profusely and can hardly wait to unwrap the package, certain it will yield some elegant trifle in jewelry.

  Upon the satin lining of the box lies a silver pencil. Feebly I thank Sidney.

  “It isn’t just a pencil,” he says triumphantly. “It’s a flashlight pencil. You use it to take notes in a dark projection room or theater.”

  “Don’t be disappointed, Maggie,” whispers Jim in an aside to me. “You don’t get diamonds for being efficient.”

  At seven-thirty we pile ourselves and the film into cars and drive some thirty miles east of San Francisco to a small out-of-the-way theater. A strong white beacon light plays over the sky as a general warning to the villagers that a new picture is being previewed. We pull up in front to find a minor mob thronging the lobby and sidewalk. There is a surge of excitement as our hired Packards stop and the autograph-hunters push forward. There are jeers of disappointment, however, as we alight.