Читать книгу To All My Fans, With Love, From Sylvie - Ellen Conford - Страница 8

Chapter 4

Dear Mom,

Well, here I am on my way to California! My plan worked out just as well as I expected. I think I was really clever about “covering my tracks.” I ’m not bragging or anything, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how to “lay a false trail ” and that’s what I did. For instance, I left a note saying I was going to visit you in Rochester, which I wish I was, but of course I don’t know where you are, but I made them think I did. Then I had the taxi take me to the train station, but I didn’t take the train to the city, like I told the driver I was going to. Instead I took a bus to the city and the subway to the Greyhound bus terminal and bought a ticket to

“My, I don’t know how you can write on a moving bus like that.”

I covered up my letter with my hand and turned to the woman next to me. She was pretty old, but she had a nice face.

“I can’t even read on a moving vehicle,” she said. “The letters start swimming around in front of my eyes, and first thing you know I’ve got one of my sick headaches.”

We’d been riding for two hours. She must have been pretty bored, not being able to read and all. And with me sitting by the window, she didn’t even have any scenery to look at.

I folded my letter and put it in my pocketbook.

“Oh, don’t stop writing on my account,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“That’s okay. I was finished anyway. Would you like to sit by the window for a while?”

“Well, thank you, dear, that would be nice.”

We switched places. “It’s such a long trip,” she said. “Maybe we could change every two hours.”

“Okay.”

She settled back in the seat and turned toward me. She hadn’t even peeked out the window. I guess she wanted to talk. I didn’t mind. I’d bought a movie magazine at the bus terminal, but I’d read the whole thing already.

I bought it because there was this big headline on the front cover: JAMES DEAN DID NOT DIE! I couldn’t wait to read the article, so I sat right down on a bench in the waiting room and turned to the page where the story was, and of course it turned out that what they meant was James Dean’s memory lives on in the hearts of his fans. I was pretty annoyed, but there were a lot of pictures with the article, so that was something.

Some of these magazines can be really sneaky. Like, for instance, I bought this magazine once because it had a story called “Why Tab Is Taboo to Me,” by Natalie Wood. Well, of course I thought it would be all about why Natalie wouldn’t get serious with Tab Hunter, even though all the magazines were running pictures of them on dates together, but what it turned out to be was that “Taboo” was Natalie’s nickname for Tab. It wasn’t so bad, though, even if it was sneaky, because there was a lot in it about Natalie and the kind of life she lives in Hollywood, and the actors she pals around with, like Nick Adams and Dennis Hopper and a lot of the younger up-and-coming stars.

I got to thinking how maybe, once I started working in movies, we would become friends, Natalie and me, because we were almost the same age and even if she is a little older, everyone in Hollywood would think I was eighteen, because that’s what I was going to tell them. And I’d go around with her and have double dates and go to premieres together and meet all the teenage actors she knows.

Maybe even Tab Hunter. That would be okay with Natalie, because in the article it said she was only good friends with him. They are like brother and sister, so she wouldn’t mind if I dated him, I’m sure.

I’m not all that hot to go with Tab Hunter, though. He’s cute and all, but not one of my absolute top favorites. But I wouldn’t turn him down if he asked me out.

But anyway, like I was saying, being a real expert on movie magazines, I know some of them can be very misleading. I keep buying them anyhow, but for the real truth about the stars you can only depend on Photoplay and Modern Screen. You know if you read it there you’re getting the true facts.

“I’m going to Springfield, Ohio, to visit my son and grandchildren,” the woman next to me said suddenly. “He’s an assistant manager at the Sears, Roebuck store. I go twice a year to visit them.”

“How many grandchildren do you have?” I didn’t really care all that much, but I could see she wanted to talk.

“Well, John has twin boys—”

“Isn’t that funny!” I said without thinking. “I have—” I stopped myself just in time. I’d been going to tell her about Honey and Bunny and that would have been a big goof. What if the police managed to track me down to the Greyhound bus station, even though I’d done such a good job of faking them out? If they started questioning people who had been on Greyhound buses, and this lady told them about sitting next to a girl who talked about twins named Honey and Bunny, they’d be hot on my trail.

“You have what? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if we were ever going to stop anyplace. I’m kind of hungry.”

She nodded. “I think we’re stopping in about an hour. You’ll be able to freshen up and get something to eat then. How far are you traveling?”

Since she was getting off in Ohio, she wouldn’t know I was going to Los Angeles unless I told her. Just in case, I thought I’d better not give her my real destination. But besides Los Angeles, I couldn’t think where the bus might stop after Springfield. I’m not very good at geography and the only state I could think of between Ohio and California was Texas.

“Texas,” I said. “To visit my aunt. They have a big ranch there.”

“Really? Do they have cattle?”

“Uh, yeah, but I think oil wells too.” The only thing I know about Texas is that James Dean’s last movie, Giant, is about this big ranch in Texas where they discover oil. I can’t wait for the movie to come out. James Dean was killed while he was working on it, so it’s the last James Dean movie there’ll ever be. Anyway, if I’d seen the movie already, maybe I would have known something more about Texas, but I hadn’t.

“Oil wells. My, my.”

I looked sideways at her. I don’t know if she believed that part about oil wells. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe she thought I was making it all up. Or maybe just bragging or exaggerating.

“Actually, I think just one oil well,” I said. “I mean, they’re not really rich or anything.”

“It sounds exciting.” She leaned her head back against the seat. “I think I’ll just see if I can catch a little nap before we make our stop.” She turned to look at me. “By the way, I’m Ruby Durban. Forgot to introduce myself.” She held out her hand.

“I’m Venida Meredith,” I said, hearing how it sounded for the first time. I shook her hand.

I wasn’t positive I would keep that name, but there was time to change it again before I got my first part in the movies.

“What an interesting name. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone named Venida before.” She settled back in her seat.

That was good. That meant my name would be unique and memorable. I picked it from a hair-net advertisement in a drugstore. I’d stopped to have a Coke after I bought my bus ticket and the sign was right there in the front window: VENIDA HAIR NETS. I thought it was a very interesting name.

I tried a lot of names with it while I was sipping at my Coke. Like Valli. I really liked Venida Valli, and the two same initials I thought was good, like Marilyn Monroe. Really eye-catching. Only there’s a singer, June Valli, and I didn’t want to get mixed up with her.

Then I thought since Venida was such an unusual name, I ought to have a sort of exotic last name to go with it, maybe a French-sounding one, like Darcel. But there’s already an actress named Denise Darcel, so that was no good. Too bad, because I really liked Venida Darcel.

Finally I came up with Meredith, because it sounded kind of smooth and like a name a rich person would have. And I decided that if I had such an unusual first name, I wouldn’t need an unusual last name too.

Mrs. Durban settled back in her seat again and closed her eyes.

I was glad. I didn’t want to get too friendly with anyone because I figured the less people noticed me, the better. The bus was only half full and I hadn’t spoken to anyone else besides Ruby Durban. I don’t even know why she took that seat, since there were some empty ones, so she could have had a window seat, but maybe she got bored without being able to read and wanted to be near somebody to talk to.

I opened my movie magazine and began to read the article about Kim Novak and how almost everything in her house is lavender. It’s her trademark, but I knew that already.

She said she wasn’t ready to think about marriage yet, she was just starting on her career, and everybody had big hopes for her after Picnic.

“When I get married, it’ll be for keeps,” she said.

I shut the magazine. That’s what I would say when they interviewed me for Photoplay. I feel exactly the way Kim Novak does about marriage.

When I get married, it’ll be for keeps.

We stopped for supper at Sal’s Roadside Rest in Medford, Pennsylvania. The driver told us we wouldn’t stop after that until we were in Ohio, which would be in the middle of the night. The driver seemed to know the lady behind the counter, but he called her Winnie, not Sal, so I didn’t know if she was the owner or just a waitress.

Everybody wanted to use the rest rooms, including me, so Winnie took all the orders and people waited in line to get to the bathroom.

The diner had counter seats and booths. I ordered a chopped-steak platter with French fries and lettuce and tomato, plus a Coke and a piece of apple pie and ice cream. Winnie said I ought to try their special, which was sweet-and-sour pot roast with noodles and cabbage, but that was $1.25 and the chopped steak was only 85¢. Since I didn’t know how long it would take me to get a job in California, I figured I ought to be as thrifty as possible.

While I waited to get into the rest room, I noticed that there was a jukebox over in the comer, and even though I was “pinching pennies,” I couldn’t resist putting a nickel in to hear Elvis sing “Heartbreak Hotel.” After all, I told myself, I had just saved all that money on food, so I could spend just a nickel to hear Elvis sing my favorite song. Who knew how long it would be until I got a radio?

The music blared out and I stood next to the jukebox and sort of swayed in time to the rhythm. I love the beat of that song, and it’s hard to keep still with the thump, thump, thump of the guitar practically punching you in the stomach.

Winnie was putting plates of food on the counter and scowling. She looked over at me and shook her head. “I don’t know how you can listen to that screecher,” she said, talking over the music. “You know what Sal calls him?”

I wanted to listen to Elvis, not Winnie, since I had just spent one of my hard-earned nickels on him, so I just shook my head.

“Elvis the Pelvis.” Her mouth twisted in a sort of sarcastic smile. “Isn’t that something?”

I wonder if she thought Sal made up that nickname. I’d only heard it about three hundred times before. Probably two hundred of the times I heard it were when Uncle Ted was teasing me about liking Elvis.

I smiled, as if I really thought it was something, and kept tapping my hand against the side of the jukebox until the record was over.

I wished I could hear it again, but Winnie waved me over to the counter, holding my plate of food up for me to see.

I was so hungry I must have broken all the records at Sal’s Roadside Rest for speedy eating. The chopped steak was like hamburger without a roll, but the apple pie was really delicious.

Mrs. Durban sat on one side of me at the counter. She was having the special sweet-and-sour pot roast and telling Winnie how good it was.

On the other side there was a woman with a baby in her arms, who had been sitting at the back of the bus. Winnie heated up the baby’s bottle in a pot of water.

Everybody put tips down on the counter for Winnie, so I realized I had to too. Mrs. Durban put down two dimes. I hadn’t figured on tips, and I realized then there might be a lot of extra little hidden expenses I hadn’t figured on before this trip was over.

I went to use the rest room, and put on fresh lipstick and touched some pressed powder to my nose and chin. I really would have liked to put on all new makeup, but there was just this tiny mirror over the sink, and no counter to put stuff on, and the light wasn’t even any good for makeup.

I reached for the envelope with the money in it, and decided I’d better keep it in my wallet. It would look pretty strange to take money out of an envelope every time I had to pay for something. I was just switching the money from the envelope into my wallet when the woman with the baby came into the bathroom. Only she didn’t have the baby with her.

I quickly stuffed the wallet into my pocketbook.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m finished.”

I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was looking at me kind of suspiciously. I crumpled the empty envelope and tossed it into the metal trash bin under the roller towel. I tried to look casual about it, and I guessed it was okay, since she was already in the john and closing the door behind her.

Mrs. Durban was sitting at a booth, giving the baby its bottle. I paid Winnie for the food and put 20¢ down next to my plate when she was at the cash register.

“Five minutes, Venida,” Mrs. Durban said. “We’ll be leaving in five minutes.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Five minutes was just long enough to play “I Was the One,” which is the flip side of “Heartbreak Hotel” on the jukebox, but I decided that what with the extra expenses I hadn’t counted on, I’d better not. I told Mrs. Durban I’d see her on the bus, and went outside.

I showed the bus driver my ticket and he nodded and I went back to our seat. I’d left my movie magazine on it, and my hatbox was in the rack right over it. I sat on the aisle seat until Mrs. Durban came onto the bus. She insisted that it was my turn to take the window.

“It’s pretty country around here,” she said. “You’ll see some nice farmland. It’s going to be dark pretty soon anyway, so we might as well not change seats anymore.”

It was pretty. We passed a lot of farms, all flat and stretching out for miles, but with mountains way beyond in the distance. I even saw some horses and a couple of windmills, which didn’t look anything at all like the pictures of windmills in Holland you always see.

It all looked so peaceful and quiet, and private, so different from Robin Lane, where rows of houses were practically rubbing up against each other so that when you looked out your bedroom window you looked right into your neighbor’s bedroom window.

I wondered what it would be like to live on a farm, to live someplace where when you looked out your window you saw cows and horses and mountains and fields like checkerboards, brown dirt, then green, then gold, then brown dirt again. And all that space, all that privacy, to do whatever you wanted without anyone around to watch you, without anyone you had to talk to just because they happened to be in their backyard at the same time you were in your backyard.

I thought it must be very peaceful.

I knew Hollywood would certainly not be anything like that, but I thought, maybe if I really made it big, I could afford to buy myself a farm. I know there are plenty of farms in California, plus ranches and orange groves, etc., and maybe I could buy a farm and go there for weekends, or between movies or something. That would be where I could rest and be alone, away from the “hurly-burly” of the movie business, and the pressure of fans always following me around trying to get my autograph.

Of course, I didn’t think I would find “autograph hounds” too hard to take. I thought it would probably be a long time before I got tired of them. Like William Holden says, “It’s when they stop asking you for your autograph that it should bother you.”

But being a movie actress is hard work, like getting up at six A.M. or even earlier and working till five or six at night. It really isn’t all glamour and premieres and movie-magazine interviews. I’m not kidding myself about that. So I probably would need a nice, quiet place to “get away from it all,” and a farm might be just the thing.