Overland

by Graham Rawle

  “What about the other pastures, Mr Godfrey? Do you want me to take care of them?”

  “It’s a lot of work, Jimmy.”

  “No trouble. I’d like to feel like I’m doing something useful here.”

  “Are you sure you want to take this on? You’d need to do it twice a day—morning and afternoon. Weekends too.”

  “No problem. I get here early. I could do it before any of the Residents are up and about.”

  “Well, OK. You’ve got yourself a new job title: Shepherd.”

  “Thanks, Mr Godfrey.”

  He shook George’s hand enthusiastically. George had not been expecting such gratitude.

  “Welcome to the fold.”

  “Did you make these sheep, Mr Godfrey?”

  “Not me personally, but somebody did. These are from the props department at Paramount. They made hundreds of them for some big movie, set on a sheep farm.”

  “Why don’t they use real sheep?”

  “Because you can’t control them. Real sheep move around by themselves. Plays havoc with continuity.”

  “What’s continuity?”

  “Well, say John Wayne is talking on screen and in the background there’s a field of sheep. The big guy’s got a long speech, see, but he forgets his lines halfway through. Most actors can’t remember much more than their own name and address. So he takes a look at his script, learns the next few lines, and picks up where he left off. Later, the editor splices the two bits of film together and makes it look like one take. Trouble is, while John Wayne’s eyeballing his script, the sheep have got bored—like everyone else working on the movie—and decided to wander off. So now the two bits of film are joined together and everything looks pretty smooth, except that halfway through, the sheep in the background suddenly vanish. One minute they’re there and then poof—they’re gone. The continuity is broken, see? Now with these sheep, you don’t get that problem.”

  “How come you know all this, Mr G?”

  “I’m an art director in motion pictures.”

  “No kidding. What are you doing here then?”

  “My expertise was required. Most of the guys here are from MGM or Warners: set builders, carpenters, painters, props men.”

  “But you’re the boss, right?”

  “I guess so. We all got commissioned for this job.”

  “So now you’re working for Lockheed instead. That’s quite a switch. Two different worlds.”

  “Oh, they’re not so different. Warner Brothers’ studios are about the same size as the Lockheed plant. They’re both factories. Same number of employees, give or take. Everybody working together to manufacture their product. Lockheed, at its most productive, puts out one B-24 bomber a week, plus a number of smaller planes and parts; Warners put out one A-class feature plus a number of B movies and shorts. Some of those take off and fly; some of them get shot down—either by the public or sabotaged by the critics. They crash and burn. Sometimes the star manages to parachute to safety and their career survives; other times they go down with the plane and are never heard from again.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” said Jimmy.

  “You know, it beats me why a star would want to take a chance on piloting the plane. Hundreds of people work on that big heap of tin and any one of them could have screwed up. And the beauty of it is, you don’t get to find out about it until you’re twenty thousand feet up in the air.”

  “I guess you have to have a little faith in other people.”

  Though innocently pitched, it was quite a leveling comment. It made George seem cynical and rather callous. He stared thoughtfully at Jimmy for a moment.

  “Aren’t you from one of the studios?” he said.

  “No. I live local,” said Jimmy. “I heard there was some part-time work going so I came along and got myself hired.”

  “How come you haven’t been drafted?”

  “I enlisted. I’ve already completed my basic training. I volunteered for Parachute Training; I’m waiting to hear if I’ve been accepted. I’m just working here until I get word.”

  “Parachute? Well, well. Bit of a daredevil, huh?”

  “I guess. My brother’s already out there in the Philippines. Defending the Bataan Peninsular against the Japs. How about you, sir? You going overseas?”

  “No, I’m serving my country by creating this beautiful scenery. Seems I’m better with a paintbrush than I am with a rifle.”

  “I’m sure all this is considered important war work. Building Overland, making it seem so …” He looked down at the sheep-shaped bundles of wool. “… lifelike.”

  Jimmy’s comment sounded patronizing. George responded spikily.

  “It is, as a matter of fact. Very important. Overland isn’t only protecting the lives of the workforce below, but also the production of hundreds of planes that will defend our Pacific Fleet.”

  Jimmy nodded in eager agreement and George quickly mellowed.

  “Well. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll do great. If there’s one thing the army needs, it’s good shepherds.”

  “Good training for rounding up Jap prisoners,” said Jimmy.

  George smiled uneasily.

  The Lockheed P-38 was at 2,000 feet. The panorama was clear to the horizon where a light haze softened the distant peaks of the Verdugo mountains, lending them a bluish tint. The pilot dipped his wing a little to take in more of the city below him. Long, straight roads, sun-bleached houses with terracotta roofs, sporadically populated by bushy green trees. He consulted his charts.

  Japanese Americans were waiting patiently in line outside a flat-fronted public building. Most of them looked like professionals: proudly turned out women, businessmen in suits and hats. Keeping the group in check was a US Army corporal—garrison cap, field jacket, khaki pants with canvas leggings—who patrolled the line like a sheepdog mustering his flock. Those at the front of the line faced a second soldier armed with a rifle and who stood rigidly “at ease” at the building’s gated entrance through which the Japanese were slowly being checked and filtered by officials.

  Across the street, Mrs Ishi hurried furtively by.

  In Overland, a daisy chain of loudspeakers connected by draping wires had been haphazardly rigged throughout the town. Some hung in clusters from trees like giant mechanical flowers; others appeared as single speakers attached to buildings. They bore their original light blue paint and were scarred and battered from wear. They began to play a series of chimes, Bing bong-a-bing bong, rather like an over-amplified musical box—a sound more commonly used to hail the arrival of an ice-cream truck. The head-jarringly cheerful phrase had been looped to repeat every few seconds.

  The Overland Residents responded by sliding diligently into their assigned roles. In contrast to the visible sharpening of activities, a group of hikers stood on a nearby corner, chewing the fat. One of them glanced nonchalantly up at the skies then resumed his conversation.

  George too looked up and spotted a plane soaring overhead. On high alert, he dashed over to them, yelling, “Plane!”

  One of the hikers reassured him. “It’s OK. It’s one of ours.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s a P-38. You can spot it a mile off by the forked tail.”

  “What about the pilot? Is he one of ours?”

  “What?”

  “Can you see the pilot? From here? Is it someone you know?”

  “No, of course I can’t see the pilot.”

  “Then how can you tell who’s flying it?”

  “Well it’s not going to be a Jap, is it—in a P-38?”

  “So if you were a Japanese pilot flying over enemy soil, trying not to get shot down, what plane would you want to be in? A Zero? A Kawasaki? Or might you choose something a little less conspicuous? A Lockheed P-38, perhaps?”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “Can’t they? Why not?”

  “Well, that’s not fair, is it?”

  “Not fair?”

&nbs
p; “Pretending to be something you’re not.”

  “No, pal. It’s not fair, but it’s what people do.”

  SEVEN

  A TALL PERIMETER fence surrounded numerous vast buildings with blank high-sided walls and arched corrugated steel roofs. They looked like aircraft hangars but they weren’t. A billboard outside proclaimed that this was the home of Warner Bros. Studios. The world’s greatest entertainment is produced in this studio! Warner Bros. lead the field!

  Inside the studio gates, in the middle of an expanse of open ground sat a long trailer-type building. A man with slicked-back hair wearing a fancy sleeveless pullover looked out through the open top half of a stable door. On the lower half was a hand-painted sign: Casting Dept. Mr McKintyre. Leading up to the door was a long line of hopeful extras, bit players and stand-ins. Some were in costume, but most wore everyday clothes. Several of them carried small suitcases, looking like refugees, shabby and desperate. Old hands at the “extras” game had brought tiny folding seats.

  At the very end of the line Queenie looked at her watch and shuffled her feet impatiently. She wore a pair of red satin shorts with crossed bib straps over a white short-sleeved blouse. On her feet were classic dance shoes with a blocky heel, tied with a ribbon bow.

  A group of gaily-dressed Apache Indians—Caucasian males painted with what looked like Bosco chocolate syrup—strolled past, smoking cigarettes. A couple of them lifted their sunglasses to ogle Queenie’s clean-limbed figure. One of them responded by slapping his mouth and emitting the high oscillating woowoowoo battle cry that Hollywood would have us believe is characteristic of “his people.”

  A man drove by on a tractor; a youth in a droopy wool cap straddled the front, riding it like a horse.

  Queenie glumly waited. Up ahead she noticed a woman in her forties with her skirt hitched up to reveal shapeless bruised legs. She sat on the asphalt, cracking walnuts with the heel of her grubby tap shoe.

  The waiting line did not appear to be moving.

  One girl had a chubby-legged baby perched on her forearm. Not the smartest accessory to bring with you to a casting. It put Queenie in mind of her own little problem, which she’d been trying to ignore, hoping against hope that it would resolve itself.

  In the movie magazines the only babies ever talked about belonged to “old guard” actresses like Norma Shearer with their happy homes and doting husbands. For them, family life was “simply the most important thing in the world.” At the end of each day’s filming they would rush home to spend precious time with their darling children. As for movie stars with a baby born out of wedlock, well, if there were any, they were keeping it pretty hush-hush. According to one of Queenie’s fellow extras on Anne of Windy Poplars, if an up-and-coming contract player did get herself into trouble she would be sent by the studio to see a “special” doctor who could make the problem go away—all on the QT and no questions asked. Those kind of doctors cost money, lots of money, but stars under contract were valuable commodities so it figured that a studio would want to protect its investment. Extras, bit players and chorus girls, on the other hand, were a dime a dozen so were offered no such remedy. Queenie sighed heavily. If she couldn’t get a break now, what chance did she have if her “little problem” turned out to be the real thing? She was praying it was a false alarm, as had been the case once before, but she had to face the possibility that this time she really was in a jam. What then? What kind of parts would she be good for six months or a year down the line? Heavily pregnant flapper doing the Charleston? Postnatally depressed cigarette girl pushing a baby buggy round a nightclub?

  Gradually Queenie became aware of another line forming nearby, this one heading in the opposite direction towards a different building. She feigned nonchalance, but her eyes were drawn to the livelier group. These candidates were all young women, aspiring hoofers dressed in a variety of rehearsal costumes: jaunty gym suits; short dresses and ankle socks; culottes and halter tops; ballet leotards and tights. With their bold make-up and cute hairdos, these girls already looked like screen starlets. They laughed and chattered, flexing and stretching, while others limbered up with a few shuffling steps. Two blonde girls in matching jersey-knit playsuits were going through a syncopated duet, their heavy silver tap shoes clattering on the asphalt as they punched out the routine. The style was meat-and-potatoes Ruby Keeler: solid steps, stabs, shuffles and skids accented by snappy claps and hand gestures. Queenie was impressed. She quickly decided that this is where the action was, instinctively migrating towards the new group. By comparison, the folks in her line looked like a bunch of deadbeats.

  She approached what she thought was the end of the line only to find that it dog-legged around a corner, a trail of girls snaking back towards the studio gates and out onto the street. Her heart sank. She turned to a girl in the line.

  “What’s the audition for anyway?”

  The girl shrugged. “Must be something big—a musical or something.”

  Another girl chipped in. “I heard it was a Busby Berkeley sequence.”

  Queenie perked up. “Really? That could be a big break for some lucky girl—if she were to get a close-up.”

  Buoyed by this promising news, Queenie followed the train of girls, mentally pitching herself against the competition as she passed. Some gave her the up-and-down. She was about to join the end of the line when first one then another new girl stepped in before her. Queenie moved further towards the rear, but each time, a girl seemed to appear from nowhere to get there first, squeezing her out like in a game of musical chairs.

  Finally, she took a place in the line, but now she found herself on the wrong side of the studio perimeter fence feeling shut out, her goal no longer in clear sight.

  A scrawny dough-faced Henry with his pants hitched a little too high sauntered along the line, unashamedly checking out the talent. The clipboard he was holding indicated that this was his job and he was authorized to do so. He picked out one or two of the prettier girls for closer inspection.

  “What’s your name, toots? Carol? Turn around, Carol. Let me see how far you can bend.”

  The girl touched her toes, her shorts rode up and the kid got an eyeful.

  “Hold it like that.” The young man whistled and adjusted the crotch in his pants. “Carol, huh? How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Holy catfish. Put it away.” He covered his eyes to the temptation.

  Further down the line he spotted a lithesome lovely wearing a military style brass-buttoned tunic in powder-blue satin with a matching peaked cap. Army regulations regarding pants had been ignored in favor of bare legs and high heels. The kid looked her up and down.

  “Nice epaulettes, doll face. How about you and me getting together for a little drill practice?”

  The girl, evidently more experienced than he had thought, rolled her eyes. “Take a hike, shorty.”

  Undaunted, the “talent scout” strolled on until he came to Queenie, clearly liking what he saw.

  “How about you, sister? You play the flute?”

  Queenie missed the reference.

  “Flute? No, but I sing a little.”

  “No. The flute. Do you play? I can get you straight in to see Mr Michaels if you do.”

  She frowned quizzically. The kid’s cheek bulged out a couple of times, poked from inside with his tongue.

  The penny dropped.

  “Oh.”

  “You catch my drift?”

  She did, but pretended not to.

  “I think so. You’re looking for a flute player.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m a quick learner and I’m very musical.”

  “You looked like you might be. Just the kind of girl Mr Michaels is looking for.”

  Queenie gushed. “I am?”

  The young man beckoned her with a crooked finger. “Follow me.”

  As Queenie passed her competitors on her way to the front of the line, the girls eyed her with disdain; they all knew wh
at tune she’d soon be playing. One or two murmurs of “Whore.” But Queenie held her head high, apparently considering it an honor—as if Fred Astaire himself had chosen her for his new partner.

  In a spacious rehearsal room, with a polished wooden floor and one mirrored wall, stood a line of leggy young women in an assortment of costumes, all bright smiles and perky bobbed hair. Queenie had earned her place among them—enduring a furtive bout of rub-and-tug fumbling with the junior talent scout in a store closet—but she put the sordid encounter out of her mind. She looked radiant, full of hope.

  The choreographer, a tubby twinkle-toes in shirtsleeves, nodded to a bald man playing an upright piano who started up a lively dance number. On the choreographer’s count, the girls began a recently rehearsed basic tap routine. After eight bars they formed an advancing chain that snaked past the piano, one arm doing windmills while the other rested on the hip of the girl in front. At first glance, all the girls seemed on a par, each worthy of a place in any chorus line. The choreographer looked on, satisfied, but as the dancers passed by, his attention was drawn to Queenie, who was towards the back of the group. With her pretty face and engaging smile, she certainly looked the part, but while her arms seemed to be in unison with the others, he quickly spotted woeful inconsistencies in her footwork. Where the other girls, more experienced or more talented perhaps, fell easily into the prescribed step-step-kick-shuffle-step pattern, Queenie’s scant approximation of it seemed based on little more than a determination to “keep things moving.” The choreographer leaned forward and touched her shoulder. She ignored him and blithely carried on, still beaming, until he tapped her shoulder more firmly and pulled her from the line. The girls behind her quickly closed the gap and the line continued gaily around the room. Queenie bowed her head and slumped her shoulders; she knew the game was up. The young talent scout watched her go, smugly chuckling to himself at the outcome.