Legends and Lipstick: My Scandalous Stories of Hollywood's Golden Era

by Nancy Bacon

  ‘Hi, Beautiful,’ he said, holding me at arm’s length as his lazy brown gaze traveled the length of my body and back again. ‘God, you’re a pretty little thing.’ He took my hand and pulled me inside, through long sliding glass doors and into the kind of living room I’d only seen in Doris Day movies. The low lighting was Hollywood perfect, the furnishings movie star plush, the curved mahogany bar sophisticated and well stocked. He mixed us a cocktail then plopped down on the sofa, a sun-browned hand trailing teasingly along my bare shoulders.

  We talked about his series and my aspirations of becoming an actress and every so often he would excuse himself and saunter sexily into the kitchen to check on dinner—and even this insignificant act set my pulses racing. I was being ‘catered to’ by a desirable screen star that many thousands of women had wet dreams about nightly, fantasizing, I’m sure, that Hugh would kick down their bedroom doors and carry them off on his studio-rented white steed into some painted sunset, compliments of Warner Bros.

  Hugh was an excellent cook and after dinner he gently took my hand, gathered me into his arms, lifting me completely off the floor, and kissed me long and deep. I wondered if I should tell him I was underage but I didn’t. It’s a good thing he carried me into his bedroom for I’m sure I could not have walked!

  He put me down and begin to casually undress as I stared around me in awe. I’d never seen a king-size bed before and his huge expanse of masculine velvet seemed to dominate the entire room. I couldn’t speak, but I felt I should object or at least protest weakly, but it all seemed so natural. With Hugh’s mouth on mine and his gentle hands stripping me of my clothes, I surrendered completely. The velvet voice of Johnny Mathis carried us to cloud nine.

  When we had finally calmed ourselves and lay side by side, our breathing labored and our limbs heavy with satisfaction, he grinned down at me and tousled my hair much like a fond uncle would his favorite niece. His naked body glistened with sweat and his dark hair was damp and curly on his forehead. ‘Whew,’ he sighed, ‘what have I found here? You’re dynamite, baby—you should go a long, long way in Hollywood!’ I accepted it as a compliment and put it down to beginner’s luck.

  Hugh and I dated quite a lot after that. He even called for me on occasion, and when we were cornered by a photographer or gossip columnist, he was always accurate in the spelling of my name. In fact, my name appeared in print for the first time linked with Hugh’s and when I saw that black, boldfaced type spelling out for the world the fact that Hugh and I had been seen at a famous nightery, I was in second heaven.

  What is it about seeing your plain, everyday old name in print? I don’t know, but something happens. Especially if you have a need to be known, as most people who emigrate to Hollywood do. I was certainly no exception. I bought several copies of the newspaper and sent them to family and friends. To hear me tell it, you’d think I had Hollywood by the short hairs-and this after only a few dates with a notorious swinger. I had a lot to learn. But I pasted that tiny item in my scrapbook, the first of many to follow. It was true, I used movie stars to get attention, and they used me for my face and body, as well as the wit and intellect I was rapidly acquiring. I figured it balanced out.

  Now, decades later, I browse through those old scrapbooks and see my life yellowing on the dog-eared pages and I feel no remorse. Rather, I feel delighted that I have lived so fully and am still alive to appreciate my past. Not only has a lot of water passed under my bridge, but raging floods have threatened my foundation and have chipped off splinters and whole planks of wood here and there. This has not weakened the bridge, however, it has merely given to it a richer patina and a stronger character.

  For every prick I ever met, there were ten or twenty truly wonderful human beings who gave me a hell of a lot more than I gave them. In my lifetime, I have had an extraordinary range of experiences of the world; met people who would one day win awards for their genius; saw, first hand, history in the making; cried for and laughed with some pretty important personages.

  Glenway Wescott, writing of Somerset Maugham, summed it up rather well. He said, ‘Maugham had never gone anywhere or cared to have any new person introduced to him, or pursued a particular acquaintance with anyone, unless he had some idea of a function or utility for his literary art in so doing; some study of the narratable world up to date; or a search for types of humanity, in the way of a painter needing models to pose for him; or a glimpse into strange ways of living; or an experimental discussion of ideas important to him with reference to work coming up.’

  I was not thinking of future works when I hobnobbed with the illustrious. However, I was filled with a peculiar hunger that only these chosen souls could satiate. There is just something different about movie stars, kings, writers, presidents, senators, and millionaires that the commoners could not possess at any price. I suppose that is why they are who they are.

  My life is certainly richer for having known them. And sadder as well. They’re all gone now.

  griff the bear

  Thanks to Hugh, I had gotten a couple of bit parts in movies and it had gone straight to my head. I was sure this was it—I would be the next Elizabeth Taylor. My poor little country head had been turned at a 180-degree angle and I thought I was pretty hot stuff. It seemed I could do no wrong. Everyone exclaimed over my looks and assured me that I would become a big, big star. Of course, I believed them. (In retrospect, that’s really odd because I never set out to be an actress. I had gone to Hollywood to become an artist and work for Walt Disney Studios!)

  I joined an acting class and devoted myself completely to losing my farm girl accent, to learning how to dress and walk and apply makeup. Gossip columnists had linked Hugh and I romantically and our names often appeared in newspapers as having been seen at this or that fabulous party or nightclub—and fan magazines ran stories on us, suggesting that we were secretly married or about to be. I loved it! Something happens to you when you see your name in print, it makes you feel set apart, special, chosen, even. I soon became the ‘star’ of the agency with photographers clamoring for my services and the other models deferring to me with something akin to awe. They were dazzled by my connection with the Hollywood set and by mere association, some of the glitter had rubbed off on me.

  Early in the year of 1956, I was sixteen and living the dream. I was sitting in the outer office of the agency, waiting to get my shooting schedule for the next day. It was cold and rainy and I was anxious to get home to a warm dinner and a hot bath. The door opened and I glanced up idly, smiling when the handsome young man shook himself like a dog after a bath. ‘Jesus, it’s cold out there,’ he said. ‘Is there any coffee left?’ He went to the table in the corner where the models had set up a coffee urn and helped himself. ‘Hi’, he said, ‘my name’s Griff.’

  ‘Buni Bacon,’ I said, offering my hand.

  ‘I’ll call you Rabbit.’

  There were four or five other models in the room and they all knew him. They were rushing forward to hug and kiss him and complain that he hadn’t called and where had he been, etcetera. I watched him kiss, hug and pat all the girls, pacifying them with his quick, charming smile and sparkling blue eyes. There was no doubt that he was Irish. His hair was crisp, curly black, hugging his well-shaped head and waving in damp ringlets on his neck. His eyes were pure blue, filled with life, mischief, excitement and could only be described as ‘dancing.’ He had a terrific body, broad shoulders and narrow hips and a certain magnetism radiated from him that kept all the girls clustered around him. Putting his arms around two of the closest ones, he asked, ‘Okay, who’s going to take me to dinner?’ His eyes met mine above a blonde curly head and he winked, wriggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  ‘Where’s your dice, Griff?’ one of the girls said. ‘We’ll shoot craps for you—like the thieves gambling over Jesus’ robe!’ Good God, I thought, who the hell this guy? He was certainly handsome enough to be an actor but I was sure I hadn’t seen him in anything; his were the kind of looks
you didn’t forget.

  ‘Come on, Buni,’ the curly blonde, Layne, said to me. ‘Get in the game—believe me, he’s worth it!’ She rolled her eyes in exaggerated bliss and the other girls laughed and nodded in agreement. They called him ‘the bear.’

  We formed a semi-circle on the floor and rolled the dice against the wall, giggling and getting crazy, and Layne filled me in on Griff. He was indeed a struggling actor, fresh off the bus from Cleveland, Ohio with a head full of dreams and pockets full of lint. Extra and bit parts were few and far between and Griff was broke more often than not. But he was never without charm and soon had set up a ‘food route,’ ‘shower route’ and ‘telephone route’ whereas he would ‘visit’ a friend on Monday, take a shower, ‘visit’ another friend on Tuesday for his shower and on through the week, never having worn his welcome out at any of his stops. Later in the day on Monday, he would visit another friend, have a snack and some meaningful conversation then move on to his next stop where he would ask to use the telephone to call his agent and answer a few calls—local, of course, if not, he’d offer to pay for it.

  He didn’t have a car and could be seen striding briskly up and down Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards any day of the week, his warm, quick smile ready for anyone he met along the way. He was a bit eccentric and definitely marched to the tune of a different drummer, particularly in the staid Eisenhower Era. He was a pioneer teenybopper and the first authentic hippie a decade before Flower Power surfaced in Haight Ashbury.

  Born Myron Peter Griffin, of upper class parents, he migrated to Hollywood, burning to set the screen on fire. The star system was still in effect then and it was hard for an unknown to get a contract with one of the major studios, and harder still to get an agent of any consequence, so most discouraged kids wound up calling home (collect) to ask for a bus ticket out of the land of broken dreams. But not Griff. He was ingenious as hell and had a knack for surviving that I’ve never seen in anyone else. When he was earning, he lived in decent little bachelor apartments and conducted himself in a normal fashion, but when work was hard to find and his bank account was low, he resorted to the most brilliant means of finding shelter.

  When I met him, he was living in the pantry of an old mansion in Laurel Canyon. The house was at least sixty years old with huge rooms and thick, solid walls. An old couple lived there alone, and probably had for the past thirty years, with four long haired cats that looked as aged as their owners. I believe it was the so-called Houdini Mansion (though the magician never actually lived there). Griff had taken shelter from a rain storm there one night, not knowing at the time that the house was occupied. It was one of those torrential downpours that assault Los Angeles every spring and fall and it lasted for a good two weeks, trapping Griff in the pantry of the old house and forcing him to forage for food at night when the couple was asleep. This wasn’t difficult as the walls were thick and the rooms large, with their bedroom situated on the other side of the house from the kitchen. So, Griff settled in to wait out the storm and when it was over he decided to stay on awhile, just until spring when movies and television began casting for the fall shows. He liked the accommodations and the rent was certainly fair, his surroundings couldn’t have been more pleasant. The walls of the large pantry were lined with shelves filled with canned fruits and vegetables and the odor of cinnamon and cloves filled the room. It was warm and cozy, being right off the kitchen, and well lighted which allowed him to read his acting books, make notes in his journal and nap when he wanted to.

  That pantry was only the first of a long line of ‘free rentals’ that Griff would occupy over the years. The list is too numerous to mention here, but a few of his more bizarre residences deserve attention. He once lived for an entire summer on the old Universal-International Studio lot, on the set of Doris Day movie that was a big hit that year. I was doing a C-movie on the same lot, an Albert Zugsmith film starring Mamie Van Doren and Mickey Rooney, and as I didn’t have a car—and Griff did for once—he would drive me to the studio each morning then wander around the vast backlot while I toiled before the cameras. Several movies, as well as several television series, were always in production and the lot was always humming with activity. Sometimes Griff would pick up a couple days’ work as an extra and earn a few bucks as well as playing my chauffeur. He knew almost everyone in Hollywood so no matter what set he wandered onto, he’d see a friendly face. When he visited the set, he couldn’t wait to pick me up after work and show it to me. It was magnificent, as only a Doris Day set could be. A two-story mansion had been erected with a splendid spiral staircase, a booklined study with a real wood burning fireplace, an elegant living room tastefully furnished with real antiques and authentic pieces of art. Upstairs the lavish bedroom held a king-size bed covered in black satin sheets and a puffy velvet spread. Griff could go no further. He fell wildly in love with that bed, fantasizing aloud how it would feel to sleep a whole night through snuggled between those black satin sheets and velvet comforter, the huge sound stage utterly quiet and peaceful. He talked about it until he had convinced himself he just had to try it. What did he have to lose? If a guard spotted him all he could do was kick him off the lot.

  The next night I took Griff’s car and drove myself home and he stayed behind , hiding out until the huge, bustling lot finally quieted down for the night and the studio guards had settled into their usual posts, then he sneaked onto the set, made his way upstairs, lit a small, discreet lamp by the bed and slid blissfully between the cool black satin sheet propped up by oversize black satin pillows as he read the current issue of The Hollywood Reporter. Once again, he loved the accommodations, he couldn’t argue with the price, so he decided to make it his home for the duration of the film. Besides, it was hot in the city, Hollywood was suffering another heat wave, and it was cool and pleasant in the enormous, dark sound stage. He stayed until the wrap party, even managing to integrate himself into the group of cast and crew, eagerly joining them at the sumptuous buffet table and bar that had been set up. He was as sad to see the movie end as anyone else at the party.

  Another time he set up living quarters in the empty space above an elevator. He was riding alone in the car one day and his curious Aquarius mind was racing, as usual, and he glanced up and saw that a small handle was attached to the roof. He had to see where it led so he opened it and discovered a cozy little room, the size of the elevator and easily six feet tall or more. The walls were a pleasant natural wood and there was enough space for a cot, a lamp and possibly a small table. It was located in an office building on the Sunset Strip, close to all his regular hangouts and assorted ‘routes’, most of his friends lived in West Hollywood—it was the place to live if you wanted to feel like you were in show business; every square foot was filled to over flowing with aspiring actors, writers, singers, comedians—you name it, if it was show biz somebody wanted to be in it!

  Griff made the move late one night when the office building was empty and found to his delight that the elevator attic was large enough for all his belongings. He had acquired a goldfish somewhere along the way and he placed it on his orange crate night stand next to his army surplus cot. A battery run lamp completed the picture of domestic bliss and Griff lived there until his wanderlust took him to other places.

  In the early sixties, when Jayne Mansfield was the hottest thing going, Griff was working for her as a sort of assistant/gofer, helping her out with her line of bar bells and exercise equipment. Her husband, the former Mr. Universe, Mickey Hargitay, had a daily television show on health and fitness where he demonstrated his and Jayne’s new line of gadgets and it was Griff’s job to drive Jayne and Mickey wherever they had to go, as well as helping them load and unload the heavy bar bells. At the end of each day, after spending almost ten hours with the most fabulous sex symbol of the decade, dining on catered delicacies and sipping imported wine, cruising around Hollywood in a gleaming pink Cadillac, Griff would turn over the wheel to Mickey and wave them off on Sunset Boulevard in front of Schw
ab’s Drugstore, insisting his apartment was within walking distance.

  As soon as the Caddy’s taillights had disappeared, he would walk quickly across the street to the lot in front of Pandora’s Box nightclub and duck into a side door of the long, narrow tool shed that set beneath a huge neon sign that advertised The Tropicana in Las Vegas. Construction workers stored their tools there but there was still plenty of vacant space left—and Griff had partitioned off at least a third of it, turning one end of the shed into a cozy little nest. He had room for his cot, table and lamp and now he had a radio as well and a new electric lamp. He tampered with the wiring on the neon sign above, somehow feeding it into the shed below so he was able to plug in his lamp and radio. It was a bit disconcerting at first, he admitted, because every time the neon sign blinked off and on, his lamp and radio followed suit! It was a reasonable enough adjustment to make for such a good neighborhood and he figured he could get a night job working as a bouncer for Pandora’s Box. He wouldn’t be able to get any sleep until the young, rambunctious crowd left anyway.

  So he settled in, making excuses every time Jayne dropped him off in front of Schwab’s because she always asked where his apartment was; this part of the Strip was all businesses. Also, being the big tease that she was, she often suggested coming in with him for a nightcap. Griff had his hands full of the Blonde Bombshell of the 60’s that summer—and so did Mickey! Jayne was completely outrageous and I adored her.