I Was Howard Hughes

by Steven Carter

  AR: Mrs. Peters, you stipulated this interview had to be recorded word for word in the book and I want you to know I completely understand your concerns about accuracy. (I smile.) Let me start out by saying I’m quite honored to have the opportunity to speak with you about Howard Hughes. I know you’ve always refused requests for interviews about him. Why is that?

  JP: For one, a person’s private life should be private, and, well, the press, reporters, what’s called the media nowadays, all helped to kill Howard, in my opinion. They hounded him. Since his death they’ve also destroyed his memory, made a joke out of him. I never wanted to participate in that.

  AR: Well, I hope you know I’m writing a book unlike all the others about Hughes. And I’m not part of the media, either, I’m not a journalist, no journalist would do the kind of book I did on Herman Melville. I have a different way of telling a story and I think it’ll work well for Howard Hughes. In fact— and I hope this eases any fears you might have about talking to me— as I’ve learned more about Hughes I’ve come to feel a real kinship with him. As a matter of fact… (I pause.) You know, hold on just a second. I think you might enjoy seeing this. (I reach under the table and open my blocky pebbled leather case and pull out the brown fedora Hughes wore when he made his test flight of the <(Spruce Goose” in 1941. As I punch out the dents in the hat she watches me with interest. I set the hat on the table between us.) This was his.

  JP: Well, isn’t this something? (She reaches out and touches the hat on its brim.) The only place I know of that would have something like this is the Hughes Archives. I’ve asked them for a few things and haven’t gotten anywhere. They said nothing could leave the premises.

  AR: You’d think of all people they’d honor your requests. That place … (I shake my head.) It’s a glorified humidor, and the people running it are on a power trip. I don’t know why, but every time— ( My cellphone starts ringing.) Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to turn this thing off. The voice mail will pick up. (We wait, but the phone keeps ringing; I smile embarrassedly.) Only two people use this number much, my editor and my wife, so I know who to call back.

  JP: Maybe you should get it.

  AR: Well, maybe I better. Looks like I left the voice mail off, and also like they’re not giving up. Excuse me just a moment. (Iflip open the phone.) Hello? … I can’t right now … Look, Alene … This doesn’t have to become a legal situation unless … Look, I’ve got to go, I’m in the middle … At eight… (I turn off the phone and close it.) I’m sorry. That won’t happen again. Well, I suppose we should get started talking about Hughes, shouldn’t we? (She smiles and nods.) Are you comfortable describing how you two met?

  JP: Certainly. William Hearst was giving a weekend yacht party and Audie Murphy and I went to it together, and Howard was there. He started tagging along wherever we went, then asked us if we’d like to go up in his seaplane. Howard arranged it so I sat up front with him and Audie sat behind us. Up in the air Howard did aerial tricks, rolls, things like that. Then after the party, he just started calling me. (Herface lights up.) I loved talking to him, he was so intelligent and funny, and eventually we started dating. We’d go together for a while, but then I’d find out about one of his other women and I’d break up with him. He’d make promises and I’d take him back. That went on for years. I had to keep— ( Her telephone starts ringing. Because of her injured knee, she asks if I could bring her the handset, which she thinks is in the living room. I hurry in there and look around but don’t see it; then I notice a silver hairpin with a pearl head on the carpet near the coffee table. I pick it up, examine it, and put it on the coffee table. The ringing stops, and Jean Peters calls out and asks me to look for the phone in the laundry room, which is just off the entry foyer. In there, I find the handset on the dryer; the caller ID screen says Horton Landry called, a Houston number. On the shelving there’s a box of All detergent, a bag of bird seed, a grass-stained pair of white Keds, a stack of old newspapers. I take the handset back to the breakfast nook and sit down. She examines the caller ID.) I need to return this. It won’t take a moment. (She dials. I stare out the narrow gap between the edge of the blinds and the window frame. The sky has darkened some and the wind has picked up enough that tree branches are swaying.) Hello, H. L., it’s me … I’m fine … No, we’re still talking. We’ve just started really … Well, an hour, let’s say … Yes … Yes … All right, see you then. (She puts the handset on the table.) A gentleman friend of mine is coming over. We’re going to drive inland to ride out this hurricane at his son’s home. (I nod.) Let’s see, I was talking about dating Howard …

  AR: Yes, and if I’m not mistaken, didn’t you marry someone else during those years?

  JP: Yes, I left Hollywood and moved to Washington, D.C., with my new husband, but after two months Howard called my husband and told him to ask me whether I still loved Howard Hughes or not. Randall did that, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t lie. So I went back to Howard. I got my marriage annulled.

  AR: Did Hughes change his behavior?

  JP: No, he kept playing around.

  AR: Why did you put up with it?

  JP: I thought that somehow things would work out. Years later, after he got so bad, so ill, I did leave. I had to. When I divorced Howard I hadn’t actually seen him for three years. But even then it was hard.

  AR: Why?

  JP: I loved him.

  AR: Yes, of course. All right, the next question I have is about your wedding. Would you care to talk about that? I know the details of it.

  JP: (Smiling.) Well, then you know it was different. I wouldn’t have planned things that way. But still, all in all, I’d say it was the happiest day of my life. (She reaches for the cord on the blinds and fiddles with it absentmindedly.) Amazing, isn’t it?

  AR: I think that kind of loyalty and depth of feeling is quite admirable. There are plenty of wives who can’t even accept little inconveniences like their husband’s career requiring travel.

  JP: Oh, I know what a fool I was for putting up with Howard. I would never advise anyone else to do it.

  AR: But you also said your marriage was the happiest day of your life.

  JP: Yes, I loved Howard and I couldn’t help that, I was happy for that love, but it also nearly killed me. (At this point on the tape, the wind outside is audible.) Goodness, listen to that.

  AR: Do you consider the problems in the relationship Hughes’s fault?

  JP: Well, I was a big girl. I did what I wanted to. I was with him because I wanted to be.

  AR: That’s really refreshing. I’ve talked to Faith Domergue and Ava Gardner and they both seem to blame Hughes for everything.

  JP: Well, I’m not saying Howard wasn’t mostly to blame.

  AR: God, I’m so tired of hearing that.

  JP: Excuse me?

  (I reach over and turn the tape recorder off. My arm brushes against her cane, hooked over the edge of the table, and it clatters to the floor. I apologize, retrieve the cane and lean it against the table again. Then she reminds me of our original agreement and says we won’t continue unless I turn the recorder back on.)

  AR: I’m sorry I said that. It had nothing to do with you. It’s just that sometimes I feel like … I feel like Hughes is being crucified. I can understand a lot of what he went through since I moved to Beverly Hills myself. The pressures, the temptations, it’s all there in that town, in your face every day. (Ipause.) Don’t get me wrong, though, I love it out there. I feel like I was wasting my life before I moved there.

  JP: I’ll have to admit I hated Beverly Hills.

  AR: You know, my wife did too. She stayed a few weeks, then moved back to Baltimore. Like it or not, though, I had to stay.

  JP: Really? I’d think a writer could work anywhere.

  AR: Yes, that’s true, but I’d just paid a lot of money for a house and I couldn’t afford to turn right around and put it back on the market and maybe sell at a loss, and I also needed to stay out there and get myself established with the
right people while my book about Melville was still hot. I went to parties, meetings, made all the rounds— I’m sure you know the drill. My wife, God bless her, just didn’t understand. She’s a wonderful woman, but she doesn’t have a head for business.

  JP: Your Melville book was optioned, wasn’t it?

  AR: Yes, and this one too. I’m doing the screenplays for both of them.

  JP: Who’s got the rights?

  AR: A new production group called Isis has already bought the rights to this one, and Madonna’s production company took Melville.

  JP: (Smiling.) Madonna? She and Melville seem an odd couple.

  AR: Well, she liked these Rolling Stone articles I did on her, et cetera, et cetera— you know how it works. One thing led to another. The way things are going, though, if Melville ever gets made they’re going to shoot it in black-and-white and jiggle the camera every other shot and think they’ve done something.

  JP: That’s just the movie business. You’ll get used to it.

  AR: I’m sure I will. That’s what one of my assistants said, too. She said I was moving into a new phase of my life. She said my “soul was adjusting to a new reality.” Of course, she’s been graduated from college all of two years. (I shake my head and smile.) I’ve got two other assistants about the same age and they’re all at each other’s throats. They call me at all hours. (I pause.) We’ve gotten a little off track, haven’t we? We’re not going to have to include this last exchange in your interview, are we? And since I’m thinking about it, the phone calls, really, what would be the use of keeping those?

  JP: Alton, you mentioned the kinds of things that might happen to your screenplay?

  (I nod.)

  JP: Well, I spent my whole life having that happen to my work. Directors and film editors would cut and paste and misrepresent, and I’m tired of it.

  AR: Please reconsider. You’d have full approval over any edits.

  JP: (She shakes her head.) There are just too many things that could go wrong. I’ve had that arrangement before, but when the story appeared it was different than what I approved and once something’s published the damage is done. And this is too important to me. I’ve got to make sure the truth about Howard is told.

  AR: I see. Well, I guess it doesn’t make any difference. Not now.

  JP: What’d you mean?

  AR: Nothing. I’m just talking. (I smile.) Well, okay. I wanted to ask you about the time right after you and Hughes married, when he disappeared and went into seclusion in a screening room.

  JP: Yes, that was an awful time. I didn’t know where he was exactly … (She pauses. Her expression looks troubled.) You know, Alton, before we go on, there’s something I need to tell you. This has been bothering me since we started, and I like to be completely honest, so I’m just going to do that. Do you know Tom Lourdes?

  AR: Yes?

  JP: Well, he called me and advised against talking to you, and if I did, he advised that I insist on having full editorial control. I’m telling you because I don’t want you to find it out later, and think that’s why I insisted you use all my interview. I’m doing that for my own reasons, I want you to understand that. It has nothing to do with Tom Lourdes.

  AR: I see. What exactly did he say?

  JP: He said he didn’t think you had the proper attitude toward Howard.

  AR: Good Lord. (I sigh, and then for roughly ten seconds there’s silence on the tape, except for the faint sound of the wind howling outside. I stare at the floor, my forehead propped between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.)

  AR: (Looking up.) You don’t agree with him, do you?

  JP: Well, I didn’t know what to think, but since we’ve been talking, I’ve seen that— (Suddenly hurricane sirens sound, loud, high-pitched, continuous.)

  JP: Oh my goodness.

  AR: What does that mean?

  JP: It means it’s close. Now, Alton, about Tom Lourdes. I knew him when I was working as an actress and he’s basically a decent man. I’m sure you two can work out whatever differences you have. (The doorbell rings.) Oh, that’ll be H. L. He must’ve decided to come early. Could you please let him in for me? I’d appreciate it. (Igo answer the door, and exchange greetings with H. L. Landry, a trim, reserved, handsome man of around seventy, with short gray hair and a neat gray moustache — he immediately calls to mind an English aristocrat, except for his slow Texas accent. We walk back to the breakfast nook.)

  JP: I guess you two met. (We say yes.) Well, H. L., I suppose we should go. My bag’s packed in the bedroom, if you could get it.

  HL: Certainly, dear.

  JP: Alton, have you got a safe place to stay for the hurricane? AR: Yes, I’ll be fine. (I start gathering my papers and putting them in my case.)

  JP: Where are you?

  AR: (I chuckle.) On the fifteenth floor of the Sheraton. Three blocks from the shore.

  JP: Oh my goodness.

  AR: I’m sure I’ll be all right. (After my hurried, haphazard packing, there’s not room in the case for Hughes’s fedora, so I carry it in my free hand.) Thank you again, Mrs. Peters. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you talking to me.

  JP: Yes, of course. (She reaches up and pats me on the arm.) And you be careful. If it gets bad, get out of that hotel.

  ODYSSEY

  IT TAKES COURAGE to go on an odyssey, and Howard Hughes did it not just once, but several times. However, he doesn’t end up like Ulysses, that most famous of travelers, home again, happy, maybe just a little discomfited by domestic tedium; no, Hughes’s odysseys describe an unfolding tragedy. On the surface his adventures seem just like those of Ulysses: outlandish, improbable, quixotic. The difference between them, though, and it’s an important one, is that all of Hughes’s adventures are true. They actually happened. The suffering is real, and there’s no happy literary ending. In fact, what strains our credulity when we hear these stories about Hughes is that no matter how fantastic they are, we know they actually happened. We must remember, though, that Hughes had a lot of money and very little concern for social convention and this combination gave him the capacity to do whatever he wanted.

  In this section, we first see Hughes not long after Billie Dove left him. After a disturbing incident in a barbershop in Beverly Hills, he goes to Fort Worth, takes on a false identity to get a job with American Airlines, and establishes a relationship with a young woman, Janice Trundle. We next see Hughes ten years later, not long after he’s crashed a plane into Lake Mead in Nevada. As soon as the plane is recovered, Hughes takes off in it with two mechanics (Russelli and Tompkins from “A Gift Is A Gift”) on a rambling eighteen-month journey and everywhere he goes he takes along a large box, which I’ll say more about later. In this episode Hughes is really starting to lose touch, the tragedy is accelerating, and this continues when he is under subpoena from the Senate on charges of war racketeering and avoids federal marshals by hiding out and paying someone else to go on his odyssey for him, a man named Brucks Randall, an out-of-work actor who is a dead ringer for Hughes and travels around impersonating him. Hughes gives Randall lists of instructions to carry out that have nothing to do with avoiding the marshals, and these lists (read them as Lear raging on the heath or Hamlet muttering in the palace) reveal Hughes’s belief he is a complete failure. Finally, not long after his marriage to Jean Peters, Hughes holes up in a screening room in Hollywood for five months and endures a terrifying interior odyssey, and two short letters exchanged by Hughes and Peters during this time are enough to show us the once great man now completely fallen, the once great love now completely doomed.

  American Airlines

  One afternoon in September 1932, Howard Hughes got a close-cropped haircut at his hotel’s barbershop, put on a department-store suit and, without a word to anyone, boarded a train going from Los Angeles to Fort Worth. The next day he stood in line at an American Airlines office to fill out an employment application, giving his name as Charles Howard. He was hired as a baggage handler and pilot trainee and d
id well, within three weeks getting a raise that doubled his salary.

  Joel Pym, shoeshine boy at the Ambassador Hotel barbershop, 1931— 1933, reconstructed from Tom Lourdes’s story notes

  One day Howard Hughes was in the chair and a man wearing a white suit walked in and asked for a haircut. Brookes told him it’d be ten or fifteen minutes so the man sat down for a shine. I jumped up and opened my kit— right away I smelled liquor on him. I rolled up his pants legs to keep them out of the polish and saw the tip of a pistol holster at his right ankle, but I didn’t think anything about it. I’d seen them before.

  I had finished one shoe and was starting the other when the man said, “You’re Howard Hughes, aren’t you?”

  Hughes said he was.

  “I auditioned for you when you were casting Hell’s Angels,” the man said. “An officer who said one line during the ballroom scene. ’It’s less than I expected, but more than I hoped for.’ When Jean Harlow walks by he says that about her dress. I had the part when Howard Hawks was directing, but when you took over I had to audition again and then suddenly“— the man snapped his fingers—” no more part.”

  “Sir, are you a guest here?” Brookes said.

  “Don’t I look good enough to be staying here?” the man said. “Room one thousand eighty-three. Call the desk.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” Brookes said.

  “Damn,” the man said.

  “Hey,” Hughes said. “He didn’t mean anything.”

  “Why didn’t you like my audition?” the man said.

  “I remember you now,” Hughes said.

  “So what was it?”

  “You were drunk,” Hughes said.

  “But I did my line okay.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t want a drunk on my soundstage.”

  “Watch out, boy,” the man said and he leaned over in the chair and shoved me out of the way and unsnapped the holster and pulled the pistol out. It was a silver derringer. I hopped off the stand.