Dorothy, Angela, and Luanne giggled when they saw her—but only after she had moved well on—as they giggled in confused respect when passing the old dark house smothered in foliage, which was the home of the ninety-odd-year-old widow of L. Frank Baum, the original Wizard of Oz. The original house where he had dreamed his strange—and strangely profitable—dreams.
Sometimes the three girls went to buy snacks at the all-night Ranch Market on Vine, and sometimes they went there just to stare at the odd types who went there to stare at the other odd types. Once they heard a squat woman who looked as though Central Casting had selected her as a Ma Kettle standin say to her equally typical Farmer-Husband: “Land sakes, Pa, what is this?”— holding up the scaly green fruit of the cherimoya-tree—and Pa had said: “Looks like a armadillo egg to me, Ma!”
Past the Hollywood Hotel, which presumably dated from the Spanish Conquista, and near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, built like an oriental shrine with hand-and-foot-prints of the famous set into cement out front for the faithful pilgrims to worship, was the business place of Angelo, the dwarf newsvendor. Sometimes they would see Angelo darting across Hollywood Boulevard to pick up a bundle of papers while he meanwhile waved a large white sheet of cardboard as a signal to drivers that he was not merely a driven leaf. Angelo had been in the movies, too.
Side by side, waving and squealing, Dorothy, Angela, and Luanne had seen Robert Cummings ride past in an open car with his family, and Robert Cummings had waved back and smiled widely—but did not squeal.
More than once they had clutched each other to see, walking on the sidewalk, just like anybody else, the movie-villainous Porter Hall, not looking the least villainous, looking dapper and rosy-cheeked—and Porter Hall had tipped his dapper hat and said: “Hello, lovely ladies!”
Lovely ladies!
As for names even more (well…much more) glamorous than Robert Cummings, or Porter Hall—well, Dorothy, Angela, and Luanne seldom saw them … in the flesh. Very seldom, though, at great and rare intervals, some of the Very Biggest Stars could be seen cruising majestically along at less than top speed. Showing the flag, as it were. Tryone. Lana. Lauren and Bogie. Bette. Ava. Joan. Clark.
In a Company Town, people naturally hope to get jobs with The Company. In Hollywood there is no one company—there is The Industry. So, although none of their parents had ever become even minor stars, it remained the natural hope of Dorothy, Luanne, and Angela that she…and she…and she…would nevertheless become Major Ones.
Outsiders, had they ever penetrated the neighborhood of squat, scaly palm trees and pseudo-Spanish stucco houses in the Hollywood Foothills, where the smog meets the ocean breezes, might have seen merely three perfectly ordinary teen-age girls—wearing fluffy bouffant felt skirts and fluffy bouffant hairdos, or pedal pushers and pageboys. One with large dark eyes and a slight, skimpy figure (Dorothy), one a tall and narrow blonde with a face marked chiefly by freckles and zits (Angela), one with a lovely complexion and a lavish bosom, but stocky hips and legs (Luanne).
To themselves, however, they were far from ordinary. They were Daughters of Hollywood. Moviedom was their birthright; obstacles in the form of imperfectly good looks were merely temporary. Things to be overcome. They were still at Hollywood High School, yes, but they merely endured the boring academic routine (really! classes in English! Like they were some kind of foreigners!). They saved all enthusiasm for their drama courses.
If there were diets, Luanne dieted them. If there were complexion creams, Angela creamed her complexion with them. If there were exercises, all three exercised them—Luanne for hips and legs, Angela and Dorothy for bosoms.
And—did it help?
Well.
Luanne at least obtained a one-shot modeling job, with her picture cut off above the hips.
Angela did get, once, an extra part in a scene at a youth rally. (Politics? Circa 1953? Bless your Adam’s apple, no! The youths rallied for—in the film—a newer and larger football stadium.)
These opportunities never knocked again; even so—
But Dorothy got…nothing at all.
*Sigh*
The last straw was the sign in the storefront window: Now Signing Up! For Open-Air Spectacular! WANTED. One Hundred Teen-Aged GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! In she went. Surely, if a hundred were wanted, she—
“No.”
“But why not?”
The woman at the table heaped with application forms said, “Because, honey, who goes to see these things? Men.” She pronounced this last word as though she were pronouncing “pubic lice.” And went on to explain, “My dear, the average American man has never been weaned. If a girl is not prominent in the mammary section, if she doesn’t have what is called ‘a full figure,’ though one might ask, ‘full of what?’—well, Mr. Average American John hasn’t gotten his money’s worth, the fool!”
Perhaps she should have stayed? Only perhaps not.
What she did do, after getting the hell out, was to walk fast. Next to walk rapidly, and next to run. Then to stumble, then to halt. And then to start weeping. She didn’t burst into tears, she just wept.
And cried.
At that moment, Dorothy caught sight of her slender, tiny self reflected in a store window. Even amidst her grief and woe she realized that, if her life had been a movie, someone would have come up behind her and asked, “Why are you crying?”
At that moment someone came up behind her and asked, “Why are you crying?”
The moment was one of genuine thrill. Mingled with its pleasure, however, was an element of alarm. The voice wasn’t that of a wholesome, handsome American Boy with a mouthful of large white teeth set in a cornflakes smile; no: it definitely had a Foreign Accent.
Dorothy looked up. Was the man who had spoken—was he tall, dark, and handsome? Truth to say—not altogether. He was rather short. He was kind of dark; sallow, one might say. He had large and shining eyes. Now there was nothing wrong with all of this, or with any of this. Dorothy had long ago learned that even the most wholesome-looking of American Boys was not above urging her into some rotten old Nash or Chevy or Studebaker, stinking of grease, and then trying to Get Fresh with her. She gave a cautious sniff: no auto grease. However: something else. What? Something odd. But something not unpleasant.
“Why are you crying?” the man repeated. Impossible to guess his age.
“It’s my figure,” she said mournfully. “It’s too thin and skimpy.”
This was the strange man’s signal to say, “Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with your figure; it’s all in your mind, you have a lovely figure.” Which would be her signal to slip away and get going. Men and boys had lied to her before, and with what result? (Never mind.)
What the strange man did say was, “Hmm, yes, that is certainly true. It is too thin and skimpy. About that you should something do.”
So right. “I need to see a doctor,” she whimpered.
“I am a doctor,” said the stranger. In his hand he held a small, wet-glistening bottle of a brown liquid, which he shifted to draw a wallet out, and out of the wallet a card. He handed the card to her. It read:
Songhabhongbhong Van Leeuwenhoek
Dr. Philosof Batavia.
The word Batavia had been crossed out with a thin-point fountain pen and the word Djakarta written above. The word Djakarta had been scratched out with a thick-point fountain pen and the word Hollywood written beneath. In pencil.
“I have only come down to buy this bottle of celery tonic at the deli store. Of course you are familiar with it, an American drink. I wish to have it with my Reistafel. How. ‘Rice Table,’ you would say. It is a mixed dish, such as me, self. Part Nederlandse, part Indonesian. Are you fond of?”
Dorothy had no idea if she was fond, or not fond of. She had a certain feeling that this doctor with the funny name was weird. Weird. But still there was the chance that he might be able to help her. If anything, it increased the chance, for everything normal had certainly failed.
“Is your office near he
re?” she asked.
It wasn’t like other doctors’ offices, for sure. It had funny things in it: skulls, stuffed things, carved things, things in bottles. Other doctors didn’t give her a spicy meal. Was she fond of? Or not? Well, it was different.
So—“What kind of medicine do you think will help me?”
The doctor, who had been eyeing her intently, seemed surprised by the question. “What? Ah, the medicine. Oh, to sure be. Hmm!”
He got up and opened a few drawers, then took out a funny-looking bottle with a funny-looking powder in it. “In my native island Sumatra,” he explained, “I was very interested in natural history and botany, zoology and pharmacology, also hunting and fishing. And so therefore. But. Details.”
She eyed the powder. “Do I take it by the spoonful? Or in a capsule, Doctor?”
He was again staring at her with his odd and shining eyes. “Take—Oh, but first I must you examine,” said he.
Well, what he did with Dorothy before, during, and after the examination was certainly no worse than what had been done with her by others, not that most of them had been doctors, though this doctor used his fingers fairly freely. It was…well…interesting. And the couch was nicer than the back seat of a tatty old jalopy, and the spices and incense certainly smelled lots better than auto grease.
“Gnumph,” he said, after helping her on with her clothes. “You seem in excellent physical condition, exception of thin, skimpy figure, of course. The medicine substance; it is a glandular one which I prepared myself from—but details you would not be fond. I will dilute with water,” he said, moving to the sink. But nothing came from the faucet save a wheeze, a grind, and a trickle of rust.
“Ah, I had forgotten. Repairs; they had informed me. No water for a while. So. Another liquid. Not alcoholic. What? Ho!” He took up the small bottle of celery tonic. It was still half full, and he pulled the odd stopper out of the odd bottle and emptied the carbonated beverage into it. Swirled it several times. Handed it to her.
Well! This certainly beat paying a drugstore, and it was better than an injection! She closed her eyes and swallowed. And swallowed. How did it taste? A little like celery and no worse than she had expected. Much easier than exercises ! “How much do I owe you?” she asked.
Once again the liquid look. “Owe? Oh. Please pay me with the pleasure of listening with me some of my maternally native music. Here is one gramophone. I shall play some gamalan.”
After quite some of this unusual music the doctor asked how she felt. She said she felt sort of funny; he said he would examine her again. She said she would go to the bathroom first; and then, removing her shoes and holding them in her hands, she silently left the premises of Songhabhongbhong Van Leeuwenhoek, Dr. Philosof, and went home.
After a night of odd and restless dreaming, in which she seemed to be rather high up in a greenish place with lots of grass and trees and some rather, well, funny-peculiar people, Dorothy awoke with a faint sick-headache. Was it—? No, it wasn’t; wrong time of the month, for one thing, and it really didn’t feel like that anyway. She drifted back to sleep, this time with no dreams, and awoke again. As she stirred in her bed the thought came that she did feel heavier than usual. The medicine! Had it begun to work so soon? She hurried to the bathroom and hopped onto the scales. As she looked down she realized two things: For one, she had certainly gained weight! And, for another, her feet were covered with dark hair.
“Oh, my God!” she whimpered and, slipping off her nightie, she turned to face the full-length mirror.
It wasn’t just her feet.
It was all of her.
As far as she could see, and even in the mirror she couldn’t see all of her—she had turned into a gorilla.
It was certainly better than turning into a giant cockroach. But that was all she could think of in its favor.
The pounding on the door had been going on for a long time. Of course it was impossible to let anyone see her—and what good luck that her father had gotten one of the irregularly occurring jobs which kept the household going, and was away helping build sets on location somewhere. She’d better speak through the door. But someone was speaking through the door to her!
“I know you’re in there, hairy!” the voice was shouting. Hairy! Then…then they already knew! How—? Who—?
She peered through a gap in her bedroom curtain, being careful not to move it, but in vain! Though she scuttled away in terror, whoever was outside began tapping, rapping on the bedroom window. Suddenly she remembered whom she’d seen. Not “hairy”! The man was shouting for “Harry,” her father!
Dorothy’s mother, smelling of whisky and perfume, had vanished from their lives some years ago—but she had left debts. Lots of debts. Dad had borrowed to pay the debts, then he borrowed to pay the money he had borrowed.
The whole thing had spiraled and doubled and tripled, and then fallen into the hands of the Greater Los Angeles Punitive Collection Agency. In fact, as she tiptoed into the living room she saw that another of the familiar cards had been slipped under the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! “I know you’re in there, Harry! Better open up and let me talk, Harry! We can’t wait forever, Harry!”
On the card was printed the name of Hubbard E. Glutt, District Agent. Mr. Glutt wasn’t an entire stranger. He wore a once-white shirt and a once-gray suit, both with ingrown ketchup stains, and he had extremely hairy nostrils. It could not be said, even with the best of intentions, that he was a very nice man. His breath smelled, too.
“Go away, please go away,” Dorothy said through the door. She was thankful to note that her voice was unchanged. She wasn’t thankful for much else. “My dad’s not in—”
“I don’t care who’s not in,” yelped Mr. Glutt. “Ya gunna pay sompthing?”
“But I have no money!”
Mr. Glutt made a noise between a grunt and a snarl. “Same old story: ‘My dad’s not in and I have no money.’ Huh? Still not in? Well, I gotta sudgestion.” Here his voice sank and grew even nastier. “Lemme in, and I’ll tell ya how we can, mmm, take mebbe twenty dollas affa the bill, liddle gurl, huh, huh, huh…”
Dorothy could stand it no longer. She jerked the door open and pulled Mr. Glutt inside. The scream had not even reached his throat when Dorothy’s new-formed fangs sank into it.
As though in a blur, she dragged the suddenly inert body into the breakfast nook. And feasted on it.
Moments passed.
The blur vanished. Oh God, what had she done? Killed and partially eaten someone, was what. But how? Gorillas don’t eat people, gorillas eat bananas…don’t they?
Therefore she wasn’t even a gorilla. She was some sort of monster—like a werewolf? A were-gorilla? Trembling with shock and horror and fear, she stared at her image in the big front hall mirror…and gave a squeal of terrified loathing. The hair that covered her was now darker and coarser, and her facial features had coarsened, too. Her fingernails had become talons, although fragments of the Pearly Peach nail polish still remained. And examining her mouth as the squeal died away, she saw that it was full of yellow fangs. She began to sob.
How could something like this have happened to her? That’s what girls always asked when they found themselves unwantedly pregnant—as if they didn’t know how! But this was worse than pregnancy, a million times worse…and besides, pregnancy had a well-known cause, and she really couldn’t imagine what had caused this.
Then a sudden thought came, echoing like a clap of thunder, illuminated as by a flash of lightning: that…that weird glandular-extract medicine which she had taken only yesterday! To make her figure fuller. Well, fuller it certainly was! But oh, at what a price! There was nothing to do but call the doctor and have him come over, and give her something to undo its effects. Only—only—would he make house calls? Well, she’d just have to see.
Only alas, she could not see. The most searching examination of the L.A. phone books, all several of them, failed to show any listing for a Doctor Van Leeuwenhoek…however spelled
. Nor could she remember a phone in his small apartment. She was afraid to go out as she was now, at least by day. At night? Maybe. If anybody found out about what she’d done to Mr. Glutt they’d have her jailed…or even killed…or put in a mental home. She’d have to conceal the body, run away and hide in the woods of Griffith Park, high in the Hollywood Hills, where she would roam and kill like a wild beast…until she was finally discovered and slain with a silver bullet.
At this thought she gave another tearful squeal.
Weeping, Dorothy cleaned the blood off the Spanish-style tiles in the entry hall and kitchen with her O-Cello sponge mop, and methodically put the remains of the collection agent in a large plastic bag, which she placed in the refrigerator to eat later. Oh, how lucky that her father wouldn’t be home for another week! She had until then to decide what to do. Well, at least she had enough food.
Although, between weeping and listening to Jack Benny, the Whistler, and Stella Dallas on the radio, and watching Uncle Milton Berle and Kukla, Fran, and Ollie cavort on their prized new television set, she grew hungry again—she realized that she had no appetite at all for the rest of Mr. Hubbard E. Glutt. Evidently she had partially devoured him out of mere rage and shock. Listlessly, Dorothy ate some lasagna instead.
And so passed the remainder of the week inside the psuedo-Spanish house in the Hollywood foothills. A few times Angela or Luanne or other friends, and twice religious representatives of two different exclusive Truths, came to the door (besides phone calls)—Dorothy said (over the phone and through the door) that she had a highly contagious flu. She gave the same excuse to the newsboy, the Avon Lady, and the highly confused Welcome Wagon Woman.
As the week’s end approached with no thoughts except flight into the hills, etc., her mood became almost frantic. Then one glorious morning she woke to find the hair vanished, her body lighter, and her teeth and nails returned to normal. She hastened to replace the Pearly Peach Polish.
But…wasn’t there something else she had to do? The answer came at the week’s absolute end, with her body again distressingly short and thin—but human. Clicking her tongue reproachfully at her forgetfulness, she dressed quickly and toted Mr. Hubbard E. Glutt’s very chilled remains in their plastic sack, and deposited them fairly late at night in a public trash bin.
The Avram Davidson Treasury Page 49
