I Wake Up Screaming

by Steve Fisher

  “Do you ever think of Vicky?”

  “I think of her all the time.”

  “Did you love Vicky, Robin?”

  “I loved her; yes, Christ help me, I loved her. I said I didn’t. Everywhere we went I said I didn’t love her. But I did. I loved her. She was sweet. She was fine, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she fine?”

  “She was wonderful.”

  “I remember the way we went everywhere, and the way the columns linked our names. Juvenile and ingenue. She was swell. And she could be here now. She could be here this Fall. It would be her first year in the inner circle. She’d be dazzled. She’d be blinded. She’d laugh and it’d be like music in a Jackie Gleason album.”

  “Here’re the Scotches. I don’t know if I should drink Scotch with champagne.”

  “Why, of course, Friend. Of course you should. That’s the drink of the Hollywood Virgin. Remember? I came up in tails and brought Scotch and champagne and we drank to Vicky?”

  “I remember standing her up on the table, and she said—”

  “No, don’t remember.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I would rather not remember. I would rather not talk about it. I would rather drink.”

  “I’ll order two more Scotches.”

  “All right. Two more Scotches. I haven’t finished this one yet. Have I told you about my next studio assignment?”

  “No.”

  “I must tell you. It has zest and delicacy. It is a meaty little characterization of a gangster who attempts to make a racket of the fine, dean game of hockey. I am a fine actor. I am a rare young Brando, and this is a choice tidbit suitable to my outstanding ability. It is a stunning vehicle in which my talents are sure to become legend in the mouths of babes from coast to coast. It will be my greatest of all portrayals and I look forward to it as my debut into the sacred realm of class B films. B is for bastard.”

  “The Scotches are here, Robin.”

  “Jill, what are you doing here on the lot? And in makeup, baby! God, you’re beautiful in make-up!”

  “I’m a dress extra.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. It’s $29.04 a day. Wanda’s in town—back from New York. She helped me get this job. I had to get myself registered at Central Casting, of course.”

  “It’s getting dark. It gets dark early as hell, doesn’t it? Did you ever notice? Here, stand under the light… . Christ, you’re gorgeous! I like the way that Civil War dress comes down off your shoulders. Look! A milky white canyon …’

  “Stop it, fresh! I thought you were going to come and see me?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I noticed that by the trade papers. Who’s your press agent, Peg? You get around, don’t you? One star and another.”

  “Jill, for heaven’s sake—I—I’ve been going to come up, but—”

  “But you’ve been going around in the champagne waltz, isn’t that it? Wyatt Earp rides again … and then again … and again!”

  “Honey, I’ll come up tomorrow. No, tonight. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Peg! Or is this charity clinic night?”

  “But I’d really like—”

  “You’re much too kind, darling. Really! If you came to see me some nasty little columnist would write ‘what star did a burn when what scenarist let her cool her heels in the bar at Dave Chasen’s last night?’ You’re far too generous with us extras, dear. Have you no class consciousness?”

  “Jill, for Christ’s sake— Look, how about tomorrow? Tomorrow at about, say—”

  “No. I’m going to be busy.”

  ”Jill—hey, turn around here! Kid, you’re smearing your make-up!”

  “It’s all right. I—always cry a little when I see old friends. Anyway, I’m through with the make-up. All I’ve got to do is collect my $29.04 and—”

  “Honey, this is so silly! You have that million dollar guy— Paul, isn’t that his name? Why, you could have any damn thing you wanted if you played it right with him, if you—”

  “Yes, aren’t I a fool, though! Thanks for pointing it out… . Goodbye, Peg. I should slap your face. But I won’t. They’re waiting for me in the wardrobe department. I’ll see you sometime. Goodbye… .”

  “Don’t worry Lanny. They’ll pick up your option.”

  “They’ll like hell pick it up!”

  “Why don’t you quit drinking that brandy? It makes your breath stink. If you’re soggy with that slop all the time they won’t want to pick up your option.”

  “Listen, pal. Your option hasn’t a God damn thing to do with brandy. It’s strictly a matter of dialogue. Write hot dialogue and you can lay drunk under your desk for weeks and they’ll still hoist your option, see? It’s all in—”

  “What does your agent say?”

  “Nothing. He doesn’t answer his phone. But he’s a fine fellow. He always trusted me. Only last Christmas I met him at a party. He’d come with his wife. You understand what an awful thing it was, don’t you? When he saw me he paled. The man was shaken. He took me off in a corner. ‘Listen, Lanny,’ he said, ‘please, for God’s sake, don’t tell anybody you saw me out with my wife—my mistress would leave me cold!’ So you see how it is. We’ve always been Like That. I admire him. He’s a sport! Brandy?”

  “No.”

  “Hockey is also a sport. Have you ever given pause to meditate on what a fine, dean game it is? No? Nor did the racketeers who muscled in, greedy for the dirt which is money. Not for one minute did they realize the spirit of the game! Sir, they were at last coping with something bigger than tommy guns. In the end Jack Armstrong triumphed. A victory for dean living! Shoot if you must this young blond head—but wave the flag for Hudson High, he said!”

  “God!”

  “Screen play by papa.”

  “So I gathered. But hell, Lanny—do some TV”

  “I’ve got news for you, buddy-boy. I have to be stoned to admit something like this: I’ve been trying TV on the side. And you know what I found out? This’ll shake you. It’s tougher than writing movies. Some of those half hour shows even want you to have talent. What gall! Imagine! Anyway—I’ve spun out seven different half hour scripts and I can’t even get Lassie to buy one of them!”

  “What about your credits?”

  “I’ve got seventeen. I call them the drone of the B’s. They won’t help. Only your name on decent pictures, on solid grosses, do you good.”

  “Then write books.”

  “Do what?”

  “Write a book.”

  “But that’s work!”

  “Oh.”

  “It’d take me weeks, maybe months. I used to write English mysteries. I’d never been to England but I was young and ambitious. My stuff had something then … listen, you bastard, why don’t you shuddup?”

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “Just shuddup! What’d you come around here for? Did you want to see the Inner Man? Well, I’ll show you to him. He stinks. I always knew what he was like but I never had to face him before. Funny, isn’t it? It’s a little like dying. Funny!”

  “Well, Lanny, what—”

  “You want to know what I’m going to do? I’ll tell you. I’m going back to New York. Snow and slush, freezing winters, a crappy apartment—a walk-up on Charles Street. I’ll write for fact detective magazines. A penny, two pennies a word. When and if you peddle. That’s the way I began—before I wrote my first book. Now I’ll complete the cirde. Round trip through paradise! I’ll have a portable radio, see, an old typewriter, and a dose of Greenwich Village clap. I’ll be fine!— Brandy?”

  “No.”

  “I thought I’d ask.”

  “Hello, Ed Cornell. What goes with you?”

  “It goes very well with me, mister. Everything is just dandy.”

  “You frighten me, Cornell.”

  “I don’t mean to. If you see me around, across the street when you’re in a house, or looking in th
e window when you’re at a bar, or walking behind you in the rain, just don’t pay any attention. I don’t want to scare you.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  “It’s quite all right, mister. But I think it’s only fair that I should warn you that it won’t be long now.”

  “What won’t be long?”

  “The completion of my case. I’ll very soon have enough concrete proof to send you to the gas chamber.”

  “Goodnight, Cornell. It’s been very nice.”

  “Goodnight, mister.”

  It is November, and the days are short, and this is Hollywood. The bell is ringing. They’re shooting on stage thirteen. The red sign wags back and forth. Don’t try to go in while it’s wagging. Extras are walking in a group on the studio street. The executive commissary is packed. Over there is Sophia Loren. Isn’t she lovely? Across the street the song writers are going crazy. They’ve got a new tune. It’ll be on the hit parade. Outside the cutting room you can hear the sound of film being run through. Snatches of dialogue scream out at you. Laughter and the sound of a car starting up. A producer and a director are playing ping pong in the studio gym. You hear the balls ticking back and forth. The red sign on stage ten is wagging now. They’re shooting. A truck goes by with carpenters in it. The air is crisp and it tastes fine. Here comes a cute kid surrounded by half a dozen flunkeys. It’s hard to believe she’s a big star. But she is. She’s box office. Her pictures gross.

  “Hello, guy.”

  “Hello, darling.”

  “See you tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  11

  FOR A WHILE I escaped. I remember now that for a long time I wasn’t myself. I was a guy caught up in a glorious vortex. I was mad and gay and that isn’t me at all. I was in the middle of a silver cyclone and the days and the nights whirled by with a shrill musical screaming. I was a guy in evening dress. Champagne’s bright child. I was carried along in a clique of crazy people and I didn’t have to think. I dined here. I slept there. Table conversation, with a sparkle. Splendid bedrooms, and dialogue in the dark. Breakfasts at noon. It was fun. I thought it would never end.

  But I began thinking of Jill. I tried to fight it but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to hear her name. But in the middle of a party I would think of her. I would think of the night she sat and listened while I told her how we were going to build up Vicky. I would think of her in my hotel room, wearing that damp linen dress that was tight on her hips. I would think of her in grease paint and a Civil War costume. When I drove in my car and saw the palms and the stars I remembered her. When I kissed girls that didn’t mean anything to me at all I remembered Jill. I don’t know why. Because I hated her. I was scared, thinking of her. Maybe she killed Vicky! Maybe it was Jill! I was crazy. It was insanity to think like that. And yet I did not know why I was afraid of her!

  It was as though I could feel her naked arms around my neck pulling me down … down and out of my golden cloud. The glamour dissolved from silver into steam. The world was sordid and ugly and I felt Jill dragging me down. I walked along the street; and I kept feeling that she was trying to pull me into the curb. It was a psychosis that stifled my breathing. She became an obsession. I was frightened. I didn’t know what was the matter with me. I hadn’t seen her again nor heard from her. But she was with me night and day. Once I was lucid and I thought it was like a voodoo hex. I thought that she was deliberately thinking of me and doing this to me.

  I didn’t like this and I stayed away from her. There is a coward’s philosophy that time heals all wounds. Cover up your ugly deeds with days; pile the days on and on until the deed is buried deep. But Jill kept rising out of the grave of these days. It became worse. I would remember verbatim things she had said. I drank, but whiskey no longer lifted me. Twice I ran into Ed Cornell. I ran smack into him on the street. I do not remember what he said either time. I didn’t think about him after he was gone. I thought only of Jill. I couldn’t eat. I forced sandwiches and malted milks into my belly but I couldn’t eat. There were nights in my room when I walked up and down and tried to make myself dedde to go and see her. But my fear grew with the obsession. I had a horror that I would some day run into her on the street.

  Then I could stand it no longer. I thought I was losing my mind. There was no reason why I shouldn’t see her. I drove over to the apartment. For a long time I sat outside in the car trembling. Then I got out. I felt numb. I walked in and asked the boy at the switchboard for Jill. He announced me and I went up.

  The apartment was a one-room single on the second floor. The windows faced the building next door and it was dark. It was not nearly as nice as the other apartment. I had been in so many fine places. This was sordid. The divan was a wine red. The bed folded into the wall. There was a table, and flowers in a vase. The flowers were wilted. The room was hot and I smelled cooking. Jill had opened the door. She was wearing a red silk dress and an apron over it. She had a pancake turner in her hand. She didn’t say hello and I didn’t speak. Now she stood in the middle of the room and looked at me. The electric light was dim. Then there was a voice from the kitchen.

  “Bring him in, Jill.”

  Jill didn’t say anything. I walked over to the little kitchen and looked in. A tall, straight-haired brunette was sitting at the table. She was thin and her face was hard. I don’t think she was pretty but she was in thick motion picture make-up and she looked pretty. She glanced up at me.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello.” I said.

  Jill went past me and over to the stove. She took out some hamburger and put it on plates. She gave this girl one of the plates. The girl looked at Jill and then at me and laughed. It was a short laugh.

  “What’s the matter with you two?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  The girl gazed at me. “I’m Wanda Hale.”

  “Jill’s spoken of you.”

  “I’ve got a job tonight.” she said. “I won’t be here long.” Jill was doing something at the sink. She was trembling.

  “I’ve got a job at U-I,” Wanda Hale said. “Some night scenes.”

  Jill didn’t look at me. She sat down and pretended to eat. She got up again and fetched the coffee and poured it in two cups. She sipped the coffee black.

  “You get time and a half at night,” Wanda Hale said. “I like to work at night.”

  “I’m not averse to night work myself.”

  “Sometimes there’s a party afterwards,” Wanda said.

  “Yum. Yum.”

  Wanda ate her hamburger. “Sit down,” she said.

  But I kept standing. I leaned against the door jamb.

  “Something ought to be done about extras.” Wanda said. “They’ve made it a racket. One guy said we were just like migrant field workers. But if they give us a job they come around and take away half of the pay envelope. There are men that make a living that way.”

  “I’ve heard that. Nice boys!”

  “Sure,” Wanda said, “straight from the Young Men’s Earnest Endeavor. They worked their way up from pimps. But if you don’t cut back you don’t work!”

  “It’s either a cut or nothing.”

  “It’s either a cut or a God-damned empty stomach!” Wanda said. “Starvation. But one day there’ll be a payoff. You can kick a dog only so long, you know!”

  “I’d rather kick a cat. It’s safer.”

  “The extras,” said Wanda, “they get the crap. But it can’t last forever!”

  “Certainly not. God will protect the working girl.”

  “You’re funny, aren’t you, mister? Well, it’s our lives! It ain’t funny to us!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  ”Sorry! A helluva lot you care!”

  “What do you want me to do—wave a tambourine?”

  “You write, don’t you?”

  “Only plays,” I said.

  “And you don’t care anyway; the only ones that really care haven’t the talent to tell it
on paper. The only ones that care are the ones that eat dog food and live out their miserable lives here, hoping to hell they get a break. And if they get a break they don’t care any more. But some of us will always be extras and this is our lives.”

  “You’re going to be late, Wanda,” Jill said.

  “Some sweet day a John Steinbeck will come and tell about it,” said Wanda. “He’ll tell about it because it’ll make him money. But he’ll tell. The way guys are beaten up because they don’t want to give their dough to racketeers. How girls have to sleep with fat slobs to get work. How girls get pregnant and climb the hills and jump off the Hollywoodland sign.”

  Wanda squeezed out from behind the table now and got to her feet. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “It’s too bad you don’t care. Maybe you could tell it. It would take a very long book. But you have to care. Otherwise it’ll just sound cheap and dirty.”

  She left the kitchen and went to a closet and got her coat. I looked at Jill but Jill was sipping at the coffee and wouldn’t look up. Wanda Hale was in the middle of the room now. Her face glowed with the grease paint. She had a little round hat stuck back on her head. She held a purse in her hand.

  “Do you ever see Hurd Evans?”

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “I don’t,” she said. “He won’t see me. I wired him for money when I was in New York. He didn’t send it, but now he won’t see me.”

  “I’ll tell him I saw you.”

  “Never mind.” She went to the door. “It’s too bad you don’t care. A lot of silly things have been written about Hollywood. But nobody’s ever written the real book yet.”

  “It isn’t my line,” I said.

  “No. It would take an older guy. A guy with ulcers in his stomach and acid in his heart. Too bad Horace McCoy died. He could have done it. He wrote a sweet book when he wrote They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Somebody ought to reprint it.”

  “Yeah. It was a fine book.”

  “I’m glad I met you. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  “It’s really too bad you don’t care,” she said. Then she went out and closed the door.