Detour

by Martin M. Goldsmith

  “There are plenty of places open along the Boulevard and on Vine,” I retorted sharply. “We could have gone to the Coco Tree.” It rankled me because he hadn't offered me a cigarette before lighting one himself. I didn't really want one, but who wouldn't be irritated to think that once somebody had you he was taking you for granted? Especially a person like Raoul Kildare, with his Hollywood-British accent and his installment plan Cadillac. A bit-player in the bargain. Ye gods, what was this town doing to me? With my looks I should have been working in the studios, not hopping cars in a Melrose Avenue hot-dog stand; going around with directors and producers and even stars, not with nobodies like Mr. Kildare. As jealous as girls usually are, even the ones I worked with agreed on that point. But what was there to do if the studios refused to test me? Two of them had promised they would, but, as I soon found out, in Hollywood promises don't count. The only person in town I could count on to get me in was Mr. Fleishmeyer, who was an agent, and fat, and old, but not too old. However, as anxious as I was to break in, I was not ready for Mr. Fleishmeyer.

  Raoul had nothing more to say to me. When he finished eating he just sat there with the empty tray clamped to the door over his lap, running his fingers through his silky blond hair. He was only too well aware of the fact that he was handsome, so he affected this gesture of mussing himself up as though he didn't give a hang about his appearance. Nevertheless, I noticed that he was always careful not to ruin the part. Oh, I was on to him from the first and not one of his little tricks escaped me. The man was Hollywood personified; from the open-necked polo shirt and tweed sports jacket to the silk scarf knotted around his throat. There were thousands like him in town, each one trying terribly hard to be different, each one a Greek god, walking around and spilling glamour all over the streets for the benefit of the tourists.

  It seemed scarcely believable, but only a few months before I too had thought Hollywood a glamorous place. I had arrived so thoroughly read-up on the misinformation of the fan magazines that it took me a full week before I realized that the “Mecca” was no more than a jerkwater suburb which publicity had sliced from Los Angeles—a suburb peopled chiefly by out and out hicks (the kind of dumbbells who think they are being wild and sophisticated if they stay up all night) or by Minnesota farmers and Brooklyn smart alecks who think they know it all. I soon saw that there were only two classes of society: the suckers, like myself, who had come to take the town; and the slickers who had come to take the suckers. Both groups were plotters and schemers and both on the verge of starvation.

  There was also a third group which I'd heard about and read about but never seemed to come in contact with: those who were actually under contract. From what I understood, these fortunates barricade themselves in their magnificent Beverly Hills or Bel-Air estates for fear someone might want to borrow a dollar.

  And Vine Street at Hollywood Boulevard, the so-called Times Square of the West, reminded me of the outside of an Eighth Avenue poolroom. There were more well-dressed young men (who obviously were bums) hanging around in front of the Owl Drug Store, the barber shop and the Brown Derby than any place I had ever been before. They made themselves obnoxious by whistling at the girls and passing crude, audible remarks. Also, they seemed to have X-ray eyes focused on strangers' pockets to count their change. I honestly believe that if somebody were foolish enough to drop a quarter on the pavement, twenty or thirty Esquire fashion plates would be trampled to death in the rush.

  And where, I asked myself, were all the beautiful women the fan magazines raved about? I had expected to have very tough competition, but, frankly, most of the girls were nothing extraordinary. The ones I passed on the streets wore old slacks, cheap little sweaters and flat heeled shoes. Either they had too much make-up on their faces or none whatever. Nine-tenths of them ran around with bandannas tied over their heads, like immigrants stepping off Ellis Island, or as if they'd just finished with the hairdresser. A person could almost read Kansas, Iowa and Nebraska on their flat, countrified faces.

  All told, the town was a disappointment. There was no glamour that I could see—unless twenty thousand or so kids scrambling for a dollar is glamorous.

  Then that wave came over me, that sudden suspicion it was all a hoax, a frame-up plotted by the publicity-greedy studios and the Chamber of Commerce to lure people out here, away from their regular jobs, their families and friends. The lies of the movie magazine's, the lush literature of railroad companies and the exaggerated salaries the press agents announced, all combined to bait one of the foulest traps imaginable. And I was only one of the little mice it had captured. It hadn't taken very long. In less than six weeks time I was whipped and broke, ready to work as a waitress and darned lucky to get the chance. Oh, I still made the rounds, whenever possible; but it was without much hope, and each time with less confidence.

  I sat there in the car, staring at the steady fall of rain, at the flimsily constructed drive-in, at the dark windows of a squat apartment house and at the illuminated Paramount Pictures water-tower in the distance. There was a heaviness in me which wasn't caused by the drinks I'd put away, a pressure that swelled up in my throat and threatened to burst. I was sick of it all, thwarted. What was the use?

  I tried to pull myself together. Lately these spells were coming over me more and more often, making me wish I was back in New York, working at the club and living with Alex. I had been happy then—only I didn't know it. Back east something like this never would have happened. Alex would have been there. I turned to Raoul, trying to keep my thoughts in the present. I didn't want to think of New York; I didn't want to admit to myself that I was homesick; and I couldn't bear to think of Alex, especially so soon after I'd... “Come on. Please take me home,” I said to Raoul. “I've got an appointment tomorrow afternoon at three.”

  “You mean today, don't you?”

  “Today, then. What time is it, anyway?” He pulled up his sleeve and made sure I noticed his elegant gold wrist-watch.

  “Five-ten.”

  “Let's go home,” I moaned. “I'll never make it.”

  “All right. But first I want another cup of coffee.” When Raoul brought the car to a stop in front of the bungalow he surprised me. He actually made a move to get out and see me to the door!

  “Never mind, Raoul,” I said. “I can find my way in all right by myself. It's raining and there's no sense you getting drenched too. Good night.”

  I reached for the door-handle quickly, lest he try to kiss me good night. I didn't feel like being kissed. The mood I was in, I could cheerfully have murdered someone—I didn't care who. I felt common and unclean.

  Raoul caught me by the arm. “Wait a moment, Sue. We haven't made any arrangements about seeing each other again. I don't even know your phone number.”

  I hesitated. I didn't want to start any arguments at that hour; I wasn't up to it. If I told him I never wished to see him again, that tonight was all a mistake and I didn't care pins for him, he would demand that I tell him why not, what had he done to deserve this treatment and so forth. On the other hand, if I gave him my phone number and said good night as though everything was quite all right and as it should be, the chances were he'd plague me to death in the future. I didn't want that to happen. I'd had quite enough of Mr. Raoul Kildare.

  While I was trying to decide which was the better course to pursue, he was taking out his address book and a fountain-pen. He seemed so cocksure of himself, so confident I would want to go out with him again, that my temper was aroused and I brought him up short. I wanted to hurt him, to puncture and deflate that enormous ego of his. Thank God, I thought, there is one weapon a woman can employ, more effective than biting or scratching or any other form of violence.

  “I'm sorry, Raoul. I didn't like you,” I said, swiftly. “I didn't like you and I don't particularly care to see you again, ever.”

  “What was that? What...?”

  Then it began to dawn on him and he was so flabbergasted that the pen with which he was wri
ting my name slipped out of his hand and rolled away in the dark. “Why... why, what do you mean, Sue? I'm afraid I don't quite get you.”

  “You get me, all right.” He started to open his mouth to say something but evidently found nothing he could say. By his expression I saw that he was trying to persuade himself he had misunderstood the implication.

  “You're not a good lover,” I went on quietly, fully aware of the wound my words were inflicting.

  “I don't have to make it any plainer, do I?”

  There was a jubilance in me for the first time in ages. I watched him flinch and I knew I had struck home, into the most vulnerable spot in the man's armor. Most men, of course, think they are incomparable when it comes to making love; but Raoul even more so. The arrogant way he carried his head and the condescending air he had with me proved that only too conclusively. Honestly, I believe the man had actually considered he had done me a favor! Well, this would take some of the wind out of his sails for a long time. While I was conscious that it wasn't exactly ladylike for me to come out with bold statements of that nature, I couldn't resist the urge. In a way it helped to avenge poor Alex.

  Raoul couldn't find his tongue. His mouth hung open and he stared blankly at me with perhaps the most astonished look on his handsome face I had ever seen. He appeared so forlorn that I felt a momentary touch of pity for him. What I had said, of course, was untrue, so absolutely false that I could scarcely believe he had swallowed it.

  “Good night, Raoul,” I said sweetly, perversely driving in the nail deeper. “At least I enjoyed looking at your scrapbook.”

  “Good night.” He breathed the words so mournfully that I almost relented and kissed him good night. He was dazed, like a prizefighter who has just been dealt one below the belt. I stood outside the door of the bungalow fishing in my purse for the latch-key and watched the violet tail-lights of Raoul's Cadillac disappear down the winding, rain-swept street. I could hear the musical note of his horn when he sounded it at the Beachwood corner. It was a gay sound, so out-of-place in the gloom of early morning, reflecting nobody's feelings at that hour, especially not my own.

  It was rotten of me, I decided, to have said that to him. Certainly it was the last word in cruelty. Why, something on that order, coming from a girl, was enough to ruin a man for life—to instill a complex, a fixation, or whatever the psycho-analysts chose to label it. Yes, the man did need taking down; but not to that extent. Probably that superior air of his was not his nature, but merely a defense. In Hollywood a person has to think highly of himself—because if he doesn't, who will? In any event it wasn't Raoul's fault I had been weak or crazy...

  What on earth had possessed me to give myself to a stranger when I was in love with Alex? It hadn't been sheer need. My physical make-up doesn't require much attention. Oh, I'm not emotionally cold, by any means, but... well, good lord, not with anyone!

  The heavy fog that usually accompanies the California dawns was gradually lifting and the rain for the moment had stopped. I could barely make out the Hollywood sign erected on the mountain at the far end of Beachwood canyon. I remembered the story of the number of girls who had committed suicide from that sign and the legend of the onetime silent-picture star who had climbed to the top of the letter “W” and thrown herself off. A dramatic death, stagy yet suitable. It was a source of wonder to me that there weren't many more suicides, what with so many people coming out, burning their bridges behind them—only to find disillusionment and failure.

  My slight hangover was making me morbid. I shivered and unlocked the door. I'm usually not a brooding type, but five-thirty in the morning with rain and fog and a guilty conscience as props is not exactly a musical-comedy setting. Without switching on the lights, I tiptoed into the living-room.

  The girl with whom I shared the bungalow worked days in the Columbia wardrobe department. She had to get up at seven each morning in order to punch in on time. For that reason she always crabbed about my late hours. She was a sweet kid and I'd known her for a long time, but when her sleep was interrupted she raised the roof. Without fail, almost every night when I arrived home she'd sit up in bed, all cold-creamed and kit-careered, and mutter: “Why don't you ask your boss to change your shift? For the love of Mike, here I am trying to catch a little sleep so I can get up at seven, and you... Now don't you dare cut off that alarm, Sue Harvey! You remember what I told you last time! I'm sorry it wakes you up when it goes off, but I've got a good job and I intend to keep it.” Then she would roll over, pound the pillow viciously with her fist and be asleep again in less than two minutes. Poor Ewy. She had to put up with plenty.

  We lived in a bungalow-court, our unit consisting of a small living-room, a smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bath so infinitesimal that the sink overhung the tub. Ewy claimed you could brush your teeth at the same time you took a bath. Perhaps you could; I never tried it. The place was furnished with the customary cheap brand of over-stuffed furniture, faded carpets and the odds and ends of about five different sets of dishes. The rent was thirty-two dollars a month, with gas and lights extra—which wouldn't have been bad when it was divided by two. Unfortunately, very often Ewy would succumb to her weakness for gambling and lose her entire week's wages in a phone room during lunch-hour. She could pick them, but usually wrong. Like the Hollywood population in general, we were always behind with the landlord. But the place itself, while neat and inexpensive, had, like every other apartment in Hollywood, an air of impermanency. You felt that if you stood in the center of the living-room and shouted: “Strike it, boys!” the whole place would fold up and disappear like a set in a very few seconds.

  It was small wonder there were so many cases of homesickness in town.

  My customary way of entering was to slip off my shoes and try to creep into the bathroom to undress. Once or twice I had successfully accomplished this, but this time I heard Ewy sit up in bed and fumble for the light cord. Since there was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy, I stomped into the bedroom.

  “Did I wake you, Ewy? I tried to be as quiet as I could. ”

  Ewy found the little string and the lights went on. Still half-asleep, she felt around on the floor by her bed until she found the alarm clock. It was twenty minutes to six. She gave me a look which said: a-fine-time-to-be-coming-in and flopped back on to her pillow with a martyr's sigh.

  “I'm sorry, Ewy. I couldn't help it. I was on a party. Why don't you stuff cotton in your ears at night like I suggested?”

  “And how would I hear the alarm when it goes off?” She grumbled and pounded her pillow. “Call the Fleishmeyer Agency tomorrow morning before noon. He's been wearing out the phone all evening. God, that man's persistent. ”

  “You didn't tell him what I was doing, did you?”

  “Naturally not.”

  “Fine. It wouldn't do me much good having people know I'm hopping cars. Someday I might need Manny Fleishmeyer.”

  “Well, if you play around with him, you ought to have your head examined. He reminds me of a toad, and not a handsome toad at that. And yes, I almost forgot. There's a letter for you. Came in the afternoon mail. I stuck it in the bathroom on top of your cold-cream jar—or my cold-cream jar, to be exact, if you'll pardon the implication—so you'd be sure to find it.”

  “Alex?”

  “How should I know? I didn't open it.”

  I began to pray it would be from Alex. He hadn't written for such a long time—months and it worried me. I was so used to hearing from him regularly once a week. Of course it was my own fault. I hadn't kept up my end of the correspondence because there really was nothing to write about. I didn't have the cheek to write lies to him like I did to mother, saying that I was doing splendidly, that the studios would soon be fighting for me, etc. Alex would know better.

  As I hurried into the bathroom and felt around in the dark for the envelope, I had his name on my lips. I needed Alex that night more than I had ever needed him before. Just his familiar scrawl would help me to g
et out of the rotten mood I was in, would surely aid in forgetting the impossible thing I'd done. Alex was a dear. He was a clumsy old thing, bashful as a schoolboy, and, except for his music, a dummy; but I adored him. Although he was occasionally annoying, he alone had the power to quiet my nerves whenever they might be on edge. Sometimes his solicitousness would make things worse, but soon I couldn't help but love him for his clumsy attempts to please me. It was practically impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. If I spoke harshly to him I was always instantly sorry, for he hurt easily.

  Reviewing our affair, I decided it must have been one of those everyday cases of love at first sight. I had first taken notice of him during a chorus rehearsal when he stood up and asked Bellman's permission to leave the room. He wasn't trying to be funny, either. He really had to go. Of course everyone laughed and he blushed like a child. Then, when one of the girls offered him her hat, he got so flustered and looked so pathetic up there on the stand, that it went to my heart. I felt like running up and kissing him, the boob. Yes, he was a boob. I had to work on him all of three weeks before the poor fish even asked to take me out. I threw myself in his path at every opportunity and flashed him my prettiest smiles; I asked him the time and would he give me a cigarette and match. Finally, after a siege, when I kissed him good night for the first time, he didn't even make a move to follow it up. Perhaps he was frightened or bashful or something, I don't know. Men are funny, sometimes. A girl can semaphore every signal in the book before the fellow wakes up and finds the war is over. Now Raoul....

  The letter was not from Alex. When I carried it into the bedroom I saw it was from my mother, with the usual sob story and broad hint. She could use this; she could use that. Mother could always use something, the old parasite. If only she knew how tough it was for me to lay my hands on a few dollars! I don't suppose it is very nice for a daughter to talk about her mother that way but what had she ever done for me? Bear me, that's all. And probably she would have avoided that if she hadn't been such a rabid Catholic. Just the way she talked to Alex that day when he tried to reinstate me alone was enough to sour me on her for life. We had done nothing wrong. We were having an affair, yes. But we loved each other and Alex would have married me in a minute if I'd said the word. Anyway, what right had she to complain? She wasn't the one who had to worry...