Читать книгу The Long Shadows - Andrew Boone's Erlich - Страница 11

Bang, bang, bang.

A jackhammer pounding on the apartment door woke me at five thirty a.m. “Wake up, Jake,” I heard Mrs. Scheiner, the landlady, holler. “It’s time to get ready for arbeiten.”

I struggled to lift my hundred-pound eyelids. When I finally did, I felt like Hap Arnold flying in thick Atlantic fog. But I had no instruments, no plane, not even a damned map to guide me. When I rolled out of bed, it hit me hard: I was alone.

An hour before, without making a sound, Mama and Papa had left for the train station. Lunatic-frantic, I searched the apartment for any traces of my parents: a piece of clothing in the closet, a suitcase under the bed, even a smell. I knew that they were going. We had talked about it since we arrived in town. We had already discussed the rent being paid for the next two months, about me writing to them and my brothers weekly, and how I would take a trip home in December for Myer’s Bar Mitzvah.

But those memories didn’t soothe or even stop my rush to find clues of their departure. It made no sense, but still I searched. It was as if I believed that if I could figure out exactly where, how, and when they disappeared into the darkness, maybe I could will them back. But they were gone. The only evidence I found of them ever having been there was a note in my father’s handwriting and a twenty-dollar bill they left for me on the little table in the kitchenette.

Dear Jakey,

Be a good boy!

We love you,

Mama and Papa

P.S. Remember, a good name is worth more than gold.

I had never felt so alone. Luckily, my parents had raised me with a strong sense of responsibility and commitment. I’m sure you can tell from the little I’ve already shared that responsibility and commitment have always been both my anchor and my sail; they keep me stuck or they get me moving. That morning it was the latter.

Within a few minutes, I was dressed and out the door. A moment later I was back in my room. I had forgotten my sweater; I promised Mama I would take in case it got chilly.

XXXX

By Thursday night, the end of my first week in Hollywood, I was banged, bruised, and bumped, but I had finished my first movie, A Corn-Fed Sleuth, the tale of a hayseed who came to the big city to seek fame and fortune. You might say it was autobiographical.

What I remember most about that memorable week happened late on Friday afternoon. Archie, Century’s PR man, had just finished shooting some publicity pictures of me when I felt a tug on my pants leg. It was Kitty. Over the past week, my initial harsh judgment of her had begun to change.

“Hiya, kid. How was your first week in pictures?” she asked.

“Okay, I guess. I hope Mr. Stern, Fishbach, and the other fellows on the crew liked my work,” I said, searching for a compliment or some morsel of approval.

You see, all week long I did the gags the gagmen wrote and followed the director’s instructions. I even did most of my scenes in one take, but nobody told me I did a good job, much less complimented me. Over that week, and during my first year in Hollywood, seeking the approval of others was a constant.

“Come with me. I wanna show you something,” Kitty said as she stepped out of my dressing room and onto the wooden path.

She waddled at such a brisk pace that I almost had to run to keep up with her. After a few minutes, we stood in front of a bungalow on the other side of the lot that I had not noticed before. Kitty and I entered, walked to the back of the building, and descended a flight of rickety stairs. The dimly lit, Tampa-Jewel-smoke-filled basement served as Century’s projection room. It had two rows of empty chairs, behind which stood a non-descript man next to a card table that supported a small, hand-cranked movie projector. I thought I recognized Fishbach and Goulding with their backs to us sitting in the second row.

“Is that who I think it is?” I whispered. Kitty nodded.

“Roll it, Roland.” Goulding ordered.

The scratchy numbers four, three, two, one appeared on the screen, followed by the title, A Corn-Fed Sleuth. Over the next twenty minutes, for the first time ever, I watched myself on film. From the opening scene where my tiny mother paddled me, to the final shot when I returned the stolen loot, I was riveted. Not so much by the story, but more—much more—by my image.

There was something other-worldly about seeing yourself projected on a small screen in a darkened room. I wondered what it would be like to see that image on a huge, bigger-than-life screen in a real movie house. I couldn’t wait for my friends and family to get a load of this.

I was also captivated by seeing the other players react to me. That was a first. In my seventeen years of life I’d never before thought of others responding to me. I was always reacting to everyone else, trying to wedge myself into their lilliputian world, a place I didn’t fit.

When the scene of me squeezing myself through the hotel door lintels played, Roland, the man operating the projector, laughed out loud. I noticed that Kitty giggled, too. I was too green to understand why, but I liked how that made me feel.

Later, I would come to appreciate what I enjoyed so much about acting in flickers. Even though they were just slapstick comedies, they gave me the power to connect with and impact others.

Something else, something very strange—and another first for me—happened as I watched that footage. Ever since I was seven, when I met someone or encountered a new group, I automatically focused on how different I was than everyone else. Watching me painted onto that silent film screen with the other actors, I recognized, if just for twenty minutes of gags, how much I was like the others, just taller. I got the chills as the screen went black and the movie ended.

Flap, slap, flap, slap, flap, slap. I heard the percussive sound of celluloid popping against a metal movie reel, a noise that would become more and more familiar. Roland stopped winding the projector and switched on the lights. Other studios were using projectors powered by electricity, but because Julius Stern was such a skinflint, we still used an old-fashioned version at Century. By then, Fishbach and Goulding had stood up, turned around, and approached us.

Goulding yawned and stretched. “I promise, Jake, it’s the wallpaper that put me to sleep and not the acting,” he said with a wink.

“Great job, Jake.” Fishbach added. “Kitty, I think we’ve got us the making of a new star; if we can only convince Stern.”

When I heard the name Stern, my stomach started to churn. What was he talking about? Why did Stern need convincing? I had just gotten started in the movie business. Was my job already in jeopardy?

As if she sensed my concern, Kitty took my massive pinky finger in her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

XXXX

Ahuga, ahuga.

As promised, the next morning, Zion Meyers, one of the talent scouts who discovered me on the Santa Monica Pier, was outside my boarding house honking.

When he dropped by the set on the Thursday before, Meyers had made the date. “To celebrate wrapping A Corn-Fed Sleuth, we’ll go to Musso and Frank on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s a hot watering hole for the film crowd. Be ready at twelve-sharp on Saturday.”

I had been eagerly awaiting my Hollywood outing ever since Meyers mentioned it. Whenever I wasn’t busy working, all kinds of fantasies of the sites and celebrities I would see ran through my head. So when it came time to go, I bolted out of the apartment and ran down the stairs. As I flew out of the front door, I realized I had forgotten my sweater again and turned to go back and get it.

Ahuga, ahuga.

Meyers honked the horn on his new sapphire Packard again.

The heck with the sweater, I thought, and hurried to the curb and got in the car.

“Hey Jake, how’s tricks? I’m sure glad we talked your Pop and Mom into letting you stay,” Meyers said as we pulled away.

“Me too!” My knees were pressed, better said smashed, up against my chest. I could barely fit in the tiny front seat.

“Before lunch, I wanna take you on a little tour of Hollywood.” Meyers drove east down Sunset toward Western. As we passed Vermont, he looked over at me and then back at the road. “Jake, they’re really charged up about you at the studio.”

I sensed the excitement in his voice. “What about Stern?” I asked modestly, unsure whether or not I should bring up what had been troubling me since I heard Fishbach’s comment the day before.

“Why do you ask?”

“Yesterday afternoon, Fishbach said something about Stern needing to be convinced about me. Is there a problem?”

“It’s no big thing. Don’t worry, sport. There are some conditions to the deal, but we’ll talk about that at lunch.”

I felt queasy. I hated when anyone said “Don’t worry” or “We’ll talk about it later.” Based on my experience with doctors, whenever I heard those words I would cringe and wait for the other shoe to drop. I also wondered what deal Meyers was talking about.

“Don’t worry, sport,” Meyers repeated. “I’ve got a contract right here for your next flicker.” Meyers tapped the breast pocket in his blazer. “It’s a formality; just waiting for your John Hancock.” As we crossed Figueroa he looked at me again. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and patted my forearm as if to congratulate me. “They wanna call it A Howling Success. I say, strike while the iron is hot!”

Meyers was still looking at me. The traffic had stopped suddenly because a farmer in a small truck full of flowers four cars in front of us had a flat.

Ka-Pow!

Meyers smacked into the back end of an elegant, fresh-from-the-showroom-floor, ebony Pierce-Arrow Touring car. Luckily, we hadn’t been driving too fast. It was just a fender-bender, so nobody was hurt. That’s why Meyers and I were both shocked at what happened next.

The two cars in the crash pulled to the curb. The driver of the Pierce-Arrow, a muscleman of a chauffeur, flew out of the limo. When he surveyed the damage to his limousine, he ripped his black-billed cap off his head, threw it down in the street, and stomped on it with his boots. Wounded-grizzly-bear-mad, he glared at us. Then with both fists ready for war, the chauffer charged Meyers’ side of the car.

“Get out of there, you little weasel!” he demanded.

If Meyers’s window hadn’t been shut, I’m certain the chauffer would have punched my new friend where he sat. Meyers turned pale. He tried to sink under the dashboard to escape from the danger. “Stand up, Jake!” Meyers, now huddled on the floor, spoke in a demanding whisper.

I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to stand up. What did it have to do with me? The chauffer pounded more violently on the window. Then he began to pound on the roof.

“Please, stand up!” Meyer’s terrified tone let me know that he was no longer demanding, he was begging.

Still confused, I didn’t move. When the chauffer saw his quarry stall, he put his boot on the door of the car and tried to pry it open. Luckily, Meyers had locked it. I wondered if the enraged limo driver would pull the new Packard’s door right off its hinges.

Meyers elbowed me again. “Stand up, you idiot! Can’t you see? This gorilla wants to kill me!”

Up until that instant I always thought of myself as peaceful. I still do. I’ve always seen myself as a lover, not a fighter. But when the gravity of that situation finally sunk in, I realized I didn’t have any choice. I opened the Packard’s passenger door and swung my legs out onto the pavement. Slowly, I unwound all four hundred pounds of me.

The chauffer stared up. I watched his clenched-for-battle jaw unhinge. Judging by the look of disbelief and terror on his face, he must have thought ten feet of titanic muscle and bone was glaring down at him from the sidewalk. Along with the blood, the enraged expression on the chauffeur’s face had drained, replaced by what I can honestly say was a look of pale panic. He spun around, fled to his wounded limo, jumped in and sped away, burning the rubber of his rear tires. I bet that poor fellow messed his pants in the process.

When I got back in the car, Meyers looked shaken. “Whew, that was a close call,” he said. “Thank you, Jake. I owe you big time!” He took a linen hanky out of the front pocket of his blazer and wiped his brow. I smiled to myself. Maybe there is something to this giant stuff, after all, I thought.

I believe that was one of the first times I was genuinely happy to be as big as I am. As you’ll hear, that was not the last time a bully who crossed my path got his due. Looking back on it, I think I must have experienced what a huge Great Dane puppy does after his first full-grown bark. But as pleased as I felt, I was still worried about Stern.

“If you don’t mind, Jake, let’s cut the tour short. I need a drink,” Meyers said.

At the next intersection, we made a U-turn and headed back to the restaurant. Prohibition had been in full swing for three years and I wondered where and how he’d get the hooch.

XXXX

With its bubbly crowd, mahogany paneled walls, and luscious menu, Musso and Frank would eventually become one of my favorite haunts. Although it was only a little past noon on a Saturday, the place was already jumping.

My friend took two long snorts from the leather covered flask he carried in the inside pocket of his sport coat as soon as we sat down in our booth. “Look over there, Jake; by the door.” I turned my head and saw a portly young man that was dressed to the nines talking to the host. “That’s Roscoe Arbuckle, better known as Fatty Arbuckle. In the old days before the scandal he acted in some of Fred Fishbach’s pictures at Century. Two years ago the guy even signed a million-dollar deal. That was before this fickle town tried to crucify him. But people don’t know the real scuttlebutt.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Well, I’m sure you read about the drunken party in San Francisco and the starlet who supposedly died after Arbuckle raped her.”

I nodded. Even though I was just fourteen when all that happened, and my parents tried their best to shield me from such things, that story got a lot of play in the papers, even in a small town like El Paso.

“Well, that’s not what happened,” Meyers continued. “That girl died as a result of a female medical procedure.”

“A female medical procedure?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Do you know what an abortion is, Jake?”

“That girl had an abortion?” I asked. My big brother had told me about abortions but that was the first time I ever heard of anyone actually having one.

“She had a botched abortion that led to an awful infection that killed her. And rather than bring that to light, they sold Roscoe down the river. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of him being seated at a table. Despite believing I knew the score, I was still pretty naive in those days, so I was stunned to hear about the dark side of Hollywood. I kept glancing at the fallen star but doing my best to not stare.

“People forget Arbuckle was acquitted. To the public and many people in this business, he’s still guilty as sin. One more thing: at the trial, your director, Fred Fishbach, was the only one in this town with balls enough to testify for Arbuckle as a character witness,” Meyers continued.

I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that about Fishbach’s character. You could just feel how solid he was by working with him. I wanted to work with him again soon. I’m sad to tell you that within a few years, Fishbach, who was only thirty-six, died from cancer.

Meyers and I sat in silence for a few minutes.

“I feel like a tourist,” I admitted, unabashedly excited to spot a famous movie actor, albeit one with a tarnished reputation.

“Jake, if you look down this row to the booth at the very back of the restaurant, there’s Charlie Chaplin and Paola Negri sitting together,” Meyers said, picking up on my comment.

Nonchalantly, I turned around and, in the far corner of the room, saw a non-descript man with curly brown hair sitting with a woman whose features were obscured by a cloche.

“Chaplain; wow! Ever since I saw him in The Little Tramp, I’ve been a big fan.” I was tempted to get up, walk over, and ask the funny man for his autograph. I can’t wait until I tell Ben and Myer about this. They’ll never believe it. In all my years in Hollywood I don’t think I ever totally got over being starstruck.

“I just love this place,” Meyers said as he took another drink of gin. “Bottoms up,” he added, knocking back what was left in the flask. I took a swig of my root beer. “The studio is having a party at the end of the month at the Ambassador. Once you’ve got two more pictures under your belt, you’re sure to be invited.”

“I’m . . . I’m not so sure . . .”

I wasn’t at all certain I’d be in Hollywood long enough for that to happen. First off, I wasn’t convinced there would be a second movie. And if I was to really have a career in pictures, the very thought of going to an adult Hollywood party caused me skyrockets of forbidden fantasy and guilty crash landings. Visions of too much whiskey, wild flappers dancing on top of pianos, and a late-night phone call to Mama and Papa from the Hollywood Police filled my head.

“We have your son in solitary confinement,” the imaginary officer said in an Irish brogue. “It took a division of our best to bring him in. He’s looking at thirty to life.”

A waiter in a white waist-length coat put a delicious-looking hamburger and hash browns in front of me and a plate with parsley-covered Dover sole and scalloped potatoes in front of Meyers. I was thankful to be awakened from my daydream by a luscious-looking lunch.

You may have noticed that I talk about food a lot. That may have come from having parents who grew up so impoverished they never had enough to eat. Then again, it may be because I was raised in west Texas at the turn of the century in a family that could barely make ends meet. For us, eating in fancy restaurants was something we just didn’t do. That’s not to mention that my appetite was fueled by the fact that I was growing like crazy.

You can see why I picked up that scrumptious hamburger like it was a fragile thing of beauty, but after I savored the taste of just one bite, I put the burger back on my plate. I was surprised, but at that moment something was more important than eating. I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to talk about Stern’s comment.

“Mr. Meyers . . . ”

“Come on, Jake . . . call me Zion.”

“Okay, Zion, I think . . . I think,” I stuttered nervously, “I think we’re putting the cart before the horse.”

“What do you mean?” asked Meyers as he put down his fork.

“Well, before the accident I told you that I was worried about Stern. Is he . . . is he . . . is he going to fire me?”

Meyers listened intently, nodding his head. I wasn’t sure if he nodded to let me know I was, in fact, getting canned, or to communicate he understood what I was saying.

Without asking for clarification, I continued: “You said that he did have some concerns. What concerns?”

Meyers laughed. This time he shook his head. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin, cut up some fish, and chewed it slowly, appearing to savor the taste. He wiped his mouth yet again. “Yum, yum, yum. Delicious . . . the best in town.” Waiting for him to respond was absolute torture. Meyers paused for a few seconds. “Here’s the straight talk, kid,” he finally began. “Take it from me—I’ve been around this town a long time. For a rookie, you did great on A Corn-Fed Sleuth. The problem is not about your acting. It’s whether or not you can work with a little kid.”

I had absolutely no idea what Meyers was talking about. He sat back in the booth and continued.

“The star of your next picture is a four-year-old girl. Her name is Baby Peggy and she’s big box office. Have you heard of her?”

I had heard the name but I had absolutely no idea who she was. Back then, I was too embarrassed to demonstrate my ignorance so I just nodded.

“Stern has a lot of time and money invested in that tyke. She’s a golden goose for him and he wants to keep it that way,” he explained. “So he needs to be damned sure you two hit it off. She’s been making pictures at Century since she was a year and half old.”

I shook my head in amazement. Only a year and half old! That’s unbelievable! I thought, reflecting on how difficult the first week on the job had been for me—and I was seventeen. I wondered how a child could ever take direction.

“In the past, Baby Peggy’s always been a real trooper,” Meyers continued. “Normally, she does whatever the director says. Baby Peggy’s a phenom; like a little old lady in a child’s body. Everything was fine until the last picture, when she had a run-in with a nasty pelican that went after her.” Meyers paused and put his fork and knife down on his plate. “For the first time she almost came unglued. Her dad calmed her down. He fancies himself a horse and dog trainer; says the same techniques work with kids. Well, I don’t know about that, but what I’ve observed firsthand on the set is that his daughter is either terrified of him or she craves his approval or both. Well, whatever goes on between Baby Peggy and her daddy, Stern is on pins and needles. See, sport, Stern’s not worried about a scared little girl. He’s worried about a little girl who won’t work.”

I sat there in that booth, unsure about how I felt. On the one hand, Julius Stern was offering me a second movie; on the other, my future in pictures didn’t depend one iota on how good I was at my job, but on whether or not some spoiled movie star would get along with me.

“Stern wants a powwow with you and Baby Peggy on Monday at the studio. He wants to watch the chemistry. If the kid gets upset, your goose is cooked. If not, you’re in the money. They’ve got a whole slew of movie ideas for you two; even a couple of fairy tales.”

Despite the challenges I had faced and missing my family during the previous week, and now my worries about Baby Peggy, the idea of doing more pictures was utterly seductive. I picked up my hamburger and devoured what was left.

His words . . . they’ve got a whole slew of movie ideas for you two . . . kept running through my head. I was so excited and starstruck that all I could think about was working in silent pictures and belonging in Hollywood. I just had to keep working in movies. I would do whatever it took to have that kid like me. Having recently come from such a dark and depressed place, I was too hungry to stop and think that there might be some gravel in the oatmeal. That wisdom would only come with time and broken teeth.

About fifteen minutes later as I was washing down my last bite of banana cream pie with a great cup of java, Meyers jumped up and said, “Wait here, Jake. I have something important to show you. It’s a surprise.”

I sat back and stretched my legs alongside the outside of the booth, thinking about the upcoming meeting with Baby Peggy and what I could do to make sure things went smoothly.

A few minutes later, Meyers returned carrying a cordovan leather briefcase. I wondered what it contained. He methodically cleared the remaining dishes, utensils, and whatever else was on that table out of the way. Then he opened the case and removed a large, folded, poster-size piece of thick paper. As if he were opening a present he’d waited all year for, he slowly unfurled the paper and carefully set it down in the middle of the table facing me. It was a large advertisement they used in movie houses, called a lobby card. The poster measured about four feet by three feet and had a red and yellow border. Each margin contained a black art-deco radio tower crowned with a radio-wave-emitting globe. The words International News with a smaller subheading, “The World Before Your Eyes,” were splashed in India ink across the top margin.

The lobby card’s center headline, the largest of the three, grabbed my attention: “World’s Tallest Boy” with the caption: “Hollywood’s latest acquisition is Jack Earle, a walking Woolworth Tower . . . Hollywood, California.” In those days the Woolworth Tower was the tallest skyscraper in the world. For a moment, I just stared at the poster’s printed words.

“Is this Jack Earle fellow competition I have to worry about?” I asked cautiously.

Meyers laughed. “No, no, Jake. Jack Earle is you.

“What do you mean? That’s not my name!” I felt very confused.

“Look, Jack Earle is your new name . . . your stage name.” Meyers went on to explain that in Hollywood, just like on the great white way, actors were given catchy names that were easy for the average Joe to pronounce and remember.

The coining of my stage name, sometimes also spelled Earl, demonstrated that the powers that be at the studio were invested in my future. But my new name was significant for other reasons. Looking at that poster and my newborn handle, Jack Earle, all I could think about were heroes whose names were changed. There was Abram who became Abraham, and Jacob who became Israel. Then there were all those Indian braves in the Zane Grey novels who went on vision quests and were awarded new names by the Medicine Man. For me, there was something more than publicity to this new moniker business. Each of those heroes got a new name after a struggle. They each got a second chance, a clean slate, a reprieve from the warden. But in every story, after each of them got their new name, they weren’t done with their battles—far from it. It wasn’t that easy. From what I could recollect, every one of the owners of a new name had more—many more—dues to pay.