Dora Leindorf never picked her nose. She blew it. Loud honks that drowned out nearby churchbells. They would come with a suddenness, like the sharp trumpeting of moose, causing us to leap from our chairs because the sky was falling. And we’d look up to see her, tossing Kleenex like a drunken semaphorer. Then it would subside, having registered a 5.2 on the Mount McKinley seismograph, and the people would return to their homes, grateful at having survived what could only have been the anger of Zeus.
Roland, even though our desks were adjacent, was as aloof and as foreign as always, bringing in his lunch, speaking to strange people on the phone about strange show business deals, but performing his job admirably, all the while maintaining a brand of isolationism that was easily the equal of Dora’s. The pair of them, like cogged wheels, touched only in the performance of their duties, the rest of their 359 degrees being spent in the turning away from each other. Roland chain-smoked and Dora blew her nose. They were a great comedy team—“The Hales”—“In” and “Ex.”
It was Mickey Green who took me under his wing, skinny as it was. Mickey, thirty-four years of thin, with purplish lips and a complexion the color and consistency of a dried-out pen-wiper, was, by his own admission, the greatest movie copywriter of all time. He had been doing it for years and knew all the tricks, like putting the paper into the typewriter at an angle so that the copy ran rakishly off the page. He knew how to use three dots, exclamation points, underlining, and caps, and how to write variations of the traditional movie puffery, such as:
Always to be remembered—
The never-to-be-forgotten story of…
A MOTION PICTURE AS BIG AND AS SPRAWLING
AS ALL OUTDOORS…
Together Again for the First Time…
NOW—from 20th Century-Fox—
the Studio that Gave You…
Mickey also wrote great “SEE” ads, such as:
SEE The Palace of the 1,000 Sorrows!
SEE The World Beneath the Twelve-Mile Reef!
SEE Two Great Stars Together Again
for the First Time
in a Never-to-be-forgotten
Motion Picture as Big and as Sprawling
as All Outdoors.
Mickey could do it all and he did. When no one could decide whether “Cinema” and “Scope” should be one word or two, it was Mickey who split the difference and astounded the world with “Cinemascope.” And it was Mickey who got the West Coast office to pose an unknown actress looking seductively over her shoulder at the camera while walking away. The actress was Marilyn Monroe.
I strongly believe that Mickey Green knew more about movie advertising than anyone I’ve ever met, but he was so out of focus on everything else that he always translated as some kind of mystical quirk barely able to function more than ten feet away from his desk. He had a wife, a son, a new car that he never drove because he had never taken driving lessons, a wristwatch on each wrist because one was fast and the other slow and so, to get the proper time, he took an average. He had socks that never matched (“I’ve got another pair at home just like ’em”), suits five sizes too large (“I like ’em snug”), hair that he couldn’t manage (“I’ve had three combs shot out from under me”), and an ethnocentric view on politics (“I’m voting for Alf Landon or Davy Crockett—whichever is best for the Jews”).
There was a certain insanity to it all in those days. Things were changing in the industry, yet we were like the palace guards, loyal to the czar but not knowing why. Fresh breezes were blowing that we could have filled our lungs with, but, fascinated with what the movie business once was, we took our places on the parapets alongside the very people who would have tossed us to the Red-hunters if it meant saving their own asses.
Spyros Skouras secured the motion picture rights to The Greatest Story Ever Told and, gathering his advertising and publicity people into 20th’s bronze-crusted screening room (designed in 1930 by Mrs. William Fox on a day when she should have been committed), he told us how hard we would have to work on “ziss beautifully motioned pixture.” Peppering his speech with archaic English words and phrases, he went on to paint the eventual glory of it all. “Pixture, if you will, how audiences will be mesmerized at the panorama of Christ and his desiplus at the Final Luncheon…”
That one almost put us under our seats. This next one did. “Gentlemens and laddies, I offer you an oath. Ziss motioned pixture will be bigger than The Twelve Commandments!”
That’s the way it was. The old moguls, sensing the end of their dynasties, were flailing against their fate, flogging their underlings to tote one more barge, lift one more bale. The courts were giving them a hard time, too, for no longer would they be allowed to both produce the films and own the theatres. There had to be a divorce in that they had been in clear defiance of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act and had been since the beginning.
Rumors flew. Zanuck was out. Zanuck and Skouras were out. 20th was bust. 20th was being purchased by the United Cigar Corporation (“Everything’s going up in smoke”—Big Al Epstein). And, at the height of it all, in the middle of all that marvelous uncertainty, with people looking for other jobs in other businesses in other towns—I was drafted.
I had gone for my physical some six weeks earlier, not of my own volition but at the insistence of the land I lived in. And it was there determined that though I was hardly perfect, I was well enough to serve. I was a, little deaf in one ear and a little blind in one eye (those fights in Pittsburgh) and had two floating cartilages in my knees, a lumbar situation in my back, and some separated ribs through which my heart could easily pop out if I ran fast and stopped short, but, they were still going to take me because I was such a sporty guy.
They stamped my papers “Limited Service” and told me to go home and not worry because, unless the Chinese came down into Korea from across the Yalu River, the US could handle it and without military conscription.
Wrong. The Chinese came down and if the US could handle it, they couldn’t quite handle it without me. I was punchy. Too young for World War II which I had dearly wanted to get into, there I was, among the first to be called for something that wasn’t even considered a “war.” It was called a “police action” (“So why don’t they send cops?”—Arnie Felsen).
The day before I left they threw a farewell luncheon for me at the Howard Johnson’s on West Fifty-seventh Street. Everyone came except Gruber who was in the steam room, and Skouras, who was in Europe, and Zanuck, who was on safari. Josh Meyerberg was there and made a nice speech, after which everyone applauded, and gave me a nice watch. It was a beautiful thing but hardly worth going to war to receive. I made a speech, too, a silly one because I was uncomfortable. I thanked my coach and my blockers and my offensive line and, believe it or not, Patricia Jarvas cried and had to be helped from the room. When she came back she received more applause than I had.
After it was over they all pumped my hand and wished me well. Dora Leindorf blew her nose, three quick blasts, denoting emotion rather than chilblains (I had learned to differentiate and interpret her basic nose calls). Roland just shrugged and walked away, feeling guilty because, as a devout homosexual, the Army had no use for him. Mickey Green, who had served in the Pacific in World War II as a cadaver, 3rd class, bet me ten bucks that on my return he’d be able to drink five bottles of cheap champagne in a half hour. I accepted the bet and Mickey slunk away, his shoulders very small in his too big jacket. Big Al and Arnie asked me to drop them a line when I had a chance and I said I would. Don said he’d see me later at the apartment because all that breast-beating was breaking his collarbone.
It was Bob Steinman who grabbed my arm and steered me off to an Eighth Avenue bar. He was very supportive, telling me that I would have no problems and that, with any luck, it would all be over soon. Also, according to Bob, being Limited Service was a bona fide guarantee that I’d never come close to combat.
He also told me that he had been wounded and shot down over Germany, waking up in a hospital where for tw
o days he was afraid to look down and see if he still had his legs. After he had recuperated he was transferred to a prison camp, where he remained until the end of the War. The worst thing about the prison was that American bombers came over nightly and, unable to distinguish one target from another, they just pasted everything. Whenever the American POW’s heard the warning sirens they had to duck for cover under anything available—out of windows, under tables, into holes—and they suffered twenty-five percent casualties as a result of American bombings.
It wasn’t a cheerful story and I wondered why the hell Bob was telling it to me. Still, I was grateful at being let in on a story that he had apparently told very few people. We had a few drinks and Bob picked up and tab and smiled that very winning smile at me. “Ben, you’re gonna have it all. You’re gonna be fine.” He dropped me off at the apartment and cabbed on to his, where, no doubt, some girl was waiting.
When I got up the stairs, Don was there. “How you doing, kid?”
“Fine.”
“Bob get you to tie one on?”
“A little, yeah.”
“You don’t want to report for duty with a hangover.”
“Why not?”
“They’re liable to make you an officer.”
“You mean I’m not? See what happens when you don’t check the small print?”
“How come you never asked my draft status? You know I took a physical, too.”
“I wasn’t interested.”
“I’m 4-F.”
“Nobody’s 4-F. You must be dead.”
“Rheumatic heart.”
“As long as it’s not your cock.”
“No such thing as rheumatic cock.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Had it since I was a kid. Rheumatic heart. I’m ashamed of it. I mean, it’s something I don’t even want my doctor to know. I’d rather the world think I have hemorrhoids.”
“I’ll tell Hedda Hopper.”
“Anyway, I wanted you to know. Not that I’m disappointed at not being drafted. It’s just that I’d prefer that my affliction be somewhat more glamorous, like a football injury, or a sabre wound, or third degree burns suffered while pulling six kids out of an orphanage fire. Also, I don’t know how I’m going to pay the fucking rent with you gone.”
“Take in a new roommate.”
“Yeah. But not right away. I’m hoping you’ll desert. Maybe you’ll desert.”
“Maybe I won’t even go.”
“Speaking of roommates. There’s somebody in your room.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a surprise. At least it surprised the hell out of me.”
“Not Roland.”
“No. He was busy.”
“Who?”
“Someone who evidently has a strong feeling for you, who wants to do something for your manhood.”
“Mr. Geppetto?”
“Benjamin—go to your room.”
Patricia Jarvas was in my room. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t crying. She was just talking. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not really sorry. I mean, if you mind or you’re offended I’ll go, but—I took this moment, because of the situation, because it’s dramatic and who knows if you’ll ever come back.” Her Brooklyn voice was very high. Then it lowered and came out with a smile. “I’ve had a couple drinks, ya know.”
“Don talk you into coming up here?”
“Oh, no. It was my own idea. My very own. I approached him. Told him that—oh, Jesus—told him that I had this strong feeling for you and that, if you weren’t busy tonight, neither was I.”
I was getting used to the dim light. She was sitting up in my bed and she was naked, holding the sheet up to her chin as if being surprised by a private eye in a motel. She was there. She looked good. And she was ready.
I started to take my clothes off, unable to say anything particularly pertinent and not caring to.
“You’ve got a good built,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Very masculine.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you’re not angry. You see—everytime I’d see you, in the hall, at meetings, at screenings—I didn’t know how to express my feelings. I tried reaching you through telepathy.”
“Yeah, well, I never get my messages.”
“Anyway, I think—in this day and age—I think that a girl can tell a fella what’s on her mind and—that’s what I’m doing, Ben. I’m afraid I’ll never see you again so—you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes.” I slipped into the bed alongside her, kind of lazily kissing her neck, running my hand up her flanks to her washboard ribs, behind which her heart was pounding like a nonstop tennis ball.
“Ben—” She snaked her arms around me, then her legs, more strongly than I would have imagined her capable of. “You gotta fuck me, Ben, or—” She was reaching for my penis which, clever girl, she knew exactly where to find. “You gotta do it, Ben.”
“All right.”
“Yeah—Oh!” She was pulling me by the root of it, urging me on but causing me some pain and disenchantment.
“Easy. Easy, kid. It’s hooked on, you know.”
“Oh, Jesus—” She was on top of me, spinning around, getting in place, handling me as if she owned me, as if getting the pipe ready because the drill had struck oil. “Ben!…”
“Yes?”
“Ben! Oooooh!”
She was having a difficult time getting me in and, because it occurred to me, I thought I’d ask. “Listen—Pat?”
“Wha? Oooooh!”
“Are you a virgin?”
“No. Oooooh! I’m married, Ahhhhhh!”
Fortunately I had just made my entrance when she gave me that little bit of information, otherwise I’d never have made it. “Married?”
“Divorced. Shut up! Fuck!”
“Well, I—”
“Just fuck! Will ya just fuck? Oooooh! Aaaaah!”
At her suggestion, we fucked. We fucked for quite a while. Until I climaxed and the skinny girl went limp, rolling off me as though lassoed from somewhere across the room.
Moments later, moving like a collapsed lung, she wiped the perspiration from her body with the sheet. “Listen, I gotta go, okay? I mean, I’d like to stay here, but I can’t. Unnerstand?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“God, you are so cute!”
“Thank you.”
“I mean, your prick fits me like I’m a glove.”
“I’d rather it fit you like you were a catcher’s mitt.”
She laughed. “God, you’re cute!” She was smoothing the sheet. “Little wet spot here. You did it so you clean it up. Listen, I gotta go. My car is waitin’.”
“Your car? You have a chauffeur?”
She laughed. “Yeah. Kinda. Maybe we can do this again, when you come home on a furlough or somethin’. On the sly, huh?”
“On the sly? Why on the sly?”
“Oh, shit. I din’t tell ya, did I?”
“No, you din’t.”
“I belong to Charlie. Charlie? You know, Gruber?”
“Ahhhh, Charlie.”
“Yeah. He sent me over as kind of a goin’ away present. In his limousine yet. Everything but a gift wrap.” She was just about dressed and bent down and across me to lay a kiss on my dead snake. “Mmmmmm. Maybe next time we’ll go French, huh?”
“Oo-la-la.”
“French is what I give Charlie. I take lousy dictation but I give great head.” She gave me a few seconds of coming attractions and then pulled away.
“Whoops,” I said.
“Ben, I’d really like to stay longer but Charlie said no longer than eight. Where the fuck were you? I been waitin’ here a couple hours.”
“Had I known—Listen, do you really have to run off?”
“Oh, I gotta go. But one day—when you get back—I mean, I could tell you such stories you could write a book.” She worked her hand up and down my very confused shaft. “Keep up th
e good work, huh? huh?”
“Yeah.”
She got up and headed out. “Don’t get yourself killed, Ben. Just think of me, waitin’ for you.”
“Okay.”
She raised her imaginary glass in a toast. “To the perfect fuck.”
“Amen.”
“I think that’s Hemingway.”
“It ain’t Louisa May Alcott.”
She left. In the other room I could hear her saying good-bye to Don and then go down the stairs. After which, Don came into my room and surveyed me, all laid out, as on a crucifix.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“You got it.”
“Was good?”
“Was very good.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pondered. “I never thought that about her.”
“Neither did I.”
“Think Charlie knows?”
“I doubt it. Even if he did, the old fart probably couldn’t handle it.”
“Makes a guy wonder about secretaries.”
“Yeah.”
The next morning at four A.M. my alarm rattled my brains and I lost my place in a dream in which skinny girls the world over were lining up at my bedside, ready to work wonders. I got up gropingly but aware. Don was asleep and I didn’t want to waken him, especially as we had said good-bye the night before. Had I known how long it would be before I’d ever see him again, I might have tossed down a few more beers with him before sacking in. I packed a small bag, toilet articles and such, and I left ye olde pad, the wild smell of Patricia Jarvas still clinging to both my body and soul.
There Should Have Been Castles Page 8
