Overland

by Graham Rawle

  She grabbed at one of the buggies and began to back it out of the line when she suddenly saw the baby inside—the vent doll—and changed her mind. “Oh, Jeez. I can’t look at that ugly bastard all afternoon.”

  She inspected the contents of the other buggies, picked one and wheeled it past Queenie.

  “Get the door for me would you, hon?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Queenie had not yet noticed the door behind her. A big sign on it read Residents Only. No workwear. Underneath it, a smaller sign: You are now entering Overland. Are you wearing your Resident pin? And a third: Cameras strictly prohibited. She lifted the crude latch and swung open the heavy door. Dazzling sunlight filled the room, making her squint. The nurse stepped out into the midday sun, pushing her buggy. Intrigued, Queenie peered out after her.

  Although logically she knew that this must be on top of the aircraft factory, everything before her was telling her otherwise. Up here was a regular downtown street just like any other, with houses, stores, automobiles and people milling about. She had opened a door to another world.

  MEANWHILE In a report to President Franklin Roosevelt, General John L. DeWitt, commanding officer of the Western Defense Command, argued that although no cases of sabotage by Japanese Americans had yet been reported, “the very fact that no sabotage has taken place to date is a disturbing and confirming indication that such action will be taken.”

  General DeWitt’s justification for the broad-scale removal of Japanese on the Pacific coast is to thwart espionage and military sabotage. Newborn babies, young children, the elderly, the infirm, the handicapped, the mentally ill, children in orphanages, and even children adopted by Caucasian parents are not exempt. “They are a dangerous element,” DeWitt told Congress. “There is no way to determine their loyalty.”

  A man on a motorcycle sailed slowly by—apparently freewheeling, as his vehicle produced absolutely no sound. Queenie pushed the door further ajar, hoping to see more, but felt resistance from the other side. A man wearing a burgundy doorman’s uniform with a double row of brass buttons blocked her view.

  “No workwear, miss. You gotta get changed first.”

  He pressed the door gently but firmly towards her until it was shut again, leaving Queenie in comparative darkness.

  Exploring further, she pulled back the curtain on one of the other cubicles and saw another pair of denim coveralls hanging on a hook. Below them was a pair of work shoes stained with oil and grease.

  There were several free-standing metal clothing rails—the kind one might find in a department store—from which hung a variety of costumes. Queenie skimmed through them and saw that some had labels, not from the manufacturer, but from film studios. A gray long-sleeved dress with a wide, lace collar had a label with the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer trademark in green embroidered script. Beneath it, handwritten in inked block capitals, OLIVIA DE HAVILLAND. There were several labels from Warner Bros. Pictures—mostly allocated to names she didn’t recognize, but one, sewn inside the collar of a man’s tailcoat, bore the name James Cagney. Queenie pulled it from the rail to study the label more closely. The production number was given as 363, the date, 11/13/41. She held the accompanying pants up to her waist and kicked out one leg; even on her, they ran a little short. Further along the rail, she found another Warner Bros. label, this time showing the name E. Flynn with the word doubles faintly stamped under it. One of the baby carriages, she noticed, also carried a label that revealed its origin. Property Department. C/11 Baby Buggy 1934. Queenie was excited.

  She gingerly tried the door again, intrigued by what might be going on outside. No sign of any headline stars. Instead, through a gap an inch or two wide, she spotted the doorman a little way off chatting to a man with a wheelbarrow. She closed the door and returned to the clothes rail, scooting hangers of clothes along it. Picking out a drum majorette uniform—short white skirt and red jacket with gold braid frogging down the front and chunky fringed epaulettes at the shoulders—she held it up against herself, checking the size.

  Five minutes later she was out on the sidewalk, her outfit now complete with white mid-calf tasseled boots, and topped off with a tall peaked cap that had a bushy plume of white feathers attached to its front. The hat was a little on the large side; she nudged the peak up her brow to allow her to see more freely. She was feeling rather conspicuous, but since no one seemed to be paying her any attention she began to wander along the street, taking in her new surroundings.

  The trees were clearly artificial, like ones she had seen used on other movie sets, but shorter than normal, as were the telegraph poles and street lamps. Close up, she noticed that the grass verges lining the street were nothing more than strips of green canvas; the cobblestones were smooth underfoot, the stones painted onto the flat surface of the road.

  A sprightly old man in golfing attire passed by carrying a golf bag.

  “Good morning. Great day for a game.”

  “You said it.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Um. No, not really. But I’m a quick learner.”

  “A lot of women do these days, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Well. Keep twirling.”

  “I will.” Queenie found herself saluting him.

  She looked back at the barn-like prop room from which she had just emerged and saw that it had the exterior of a movie theater with big red cut-out letters spelling out “Orpheum” mounted on top of the marquee. The movie purportedly playing was Sullivan’s Travels, starring Joel McCrea and “on-the-take” Veronica Lake, a film Queenie had not seen on account of Joel McCrea being, in her opinion, nothing to write home about.

  She wandered to the corner to explore more of the goofy-looking town. There was a mailbox, a news kiosk, a park with a garden of colorful flowers and shrubs. A drugstore, Kaiser’s, had green awnings to shade the windows; she noticed a handwritten sign pinned to the fabric: Red, not green. Please adjust. A woman standing stiffly in the doorway—white dress, shoes and hat—turned out to be a window display mannequin.

  Though this was largely in keeping with other film sets she had been on, Queenie was puzzled by the level of activity. Rather than standing round waiting for the director’s call of “action,” the extras and bit players here seemed to have come up with background business of their own. Everyone was doing something. It was as though she had blundered into the middle of a well-rehearsed scene that was in full swing—yet nobody seemed to mind.

  A man on the sidewalk picked up a clock the size of a bass drum. He rested it on his shoulder with the side of his face pressed against the dial as though listening to check whether it was still ticking. Queenie wasn’t sure if he was an actor or part of the crew.

  “If you’re looking for a marching band they went thataway,” the man said, catching sight of her in his peripheral vision.

  She dutifully acknowledged the quip.

  “Could you steady that stepladder for me, sweetheart?”

  “Sure. You need a hand?”

  “I got it. Just make sure the ladder don’t slip.”

  He stepped blindly onto the first step, gingerly negotiating the other steps by feel until he had climbed to the right height. With a burst of extra effort he hoisted the clock aloft so that the hooks on top of it fitted onto the hanging bracket that extended from the building. Once it was in place, he climbed down from the ladder and stepped back to admire it.

  Queenie checked her watch. “It’s ten after twelve, not seven fifteen.”

  “That don’t matter. The clocks on public buildings often tell the wrong time.”

  “What is this place?”

  “This is the new library.”

  “No. I mean this whole area. Where are we?”

  “Overland, of course. Are you a new Resident?”

  “Er, no. I …”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I’m just visiting. Is this like a movie set or something?”

  “Didn’t anyone
explain it to you?”

  “Er. Not really.”

  An enthusiastic woman in glasses and a big hat stepped up, holding a clipboard.

  “I don’t think we have your vote yet, do we? Regarding the flowerbeds in the town square. Red or yellow?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re voting on what color flowers to have.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You must have your say. As a Resident.”

  “Well, I’m not really … er … sure. Yellow, I guess.”

  “Yellow? Excellent choice.” The woman made a note.

  The clock man, clearly a partisan of the reds, shook his head slowly from side to side at Queenie’s careless betrayal.

  Jimmy was sitting on a park bench near the half-built schoolhouse, whittling a piece of wood with his new knife, when he first caught sight of Queenie in her majorette uniform. She appeared not to have seen him so he was able to observe her as she walked along Main Street, twirling her baton with limited success. When she came to the junction with Lake Street, she reviewed all her options before making a decision to turn left into it.

  Jimmy continued to watch her until she was out of sight.

  SIXTEEN

  QUEENIE APPROACHED A woman who was window shopping at Jennings Grocery and Delicatessen, checking out the display of bottles and cans.

  “Hey, sister. You got a script I could take a look at?”

  The woman turned, distracted by Queenie’s costume, her eyes transfixed by the bobbing feather in her cap. “A script?”

  Queenie noticed she wore a Resident lapel pin, just like the nurse.

  “You’re one of the Residents, right?”

  The woman nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “A non-speaking role, I assume.”

  “What of it?”

  “Doesn’t anyone have a script?”

  “No. We just get told what Mr Godfrey wants us to do.”

  “Who’s Mr Godfrey?”

  “He’s the boss. He’s running the show.”

  “Oh, like the director? Which one is he?”

  “He’s usually around someplace. Probably down by the lake.”

  Queenie took this in. “I don’t see any cameras. When do they start filming?”

  “Nobody knows. That’s why we’re supposed to be performing all the time, just in case.”

  “Do you think they might be filming now?”

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Could be.”

  Queenie touched her hair and affected a false smile, looking nervously about her for where the camera might be.

  “Peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots.”

  The woman frowned. “What?”

  Queenie lowered her voice, speaking out of the side of her mouth. “Peas and carrots. Background conversation. What are we supposed to be doing?”

  “Relax. We’re just incidental pedestrians. You don’t have to worry too much until you hear the chimes playing over the speaker system. That’s when you’re supposed to jump to it.”

  “Action!”

  “Right.”

  “So what’s your part in this?”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s your bit of action when the chimes sound?”

  “Oh, it varies. I often picnic with friends. Today I’m window shopping.”

  “What’s the day rate?”

  “Day rate?”

  “Pay. What are you getting—to be a Resident?”

  The woman shook her head. “Nothing. It’s volunteer work.”

  “Volunteer work? You’re kidding me. What is this, the Red Cross or something?”

  “We do it because we enjoy it.”

  “Are there any bit parts up for grabs?”

  “They’re all bit parts, sweetie.”

  “I mean like a speaking part. Something bigger. Something with the promise of either a career or a paycheck at the end of it.”

  “Uh-uh. There aren’t any speaking parts.”

  To Queenie this made no sense. “What about Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland?”

  The shopper smiled weakly. “What about them?”

  “Have any of the Residents been given close-ups?”

  “It doesn’t work like that, dear. There are no close-ups.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.”

  George was sitting on a wall, drawing in his notebook when Queenie pitched up.

  “You seen this Mr Godfrey around?”

  George looked her up and down. He was about to volunteer his identity, but decided to keep it under his hat for a while. “Who’s looking for him?”

  “I’m Queenie Meyer. I want to ask him about a speaking part.”

  “Let me guess. You want to be a movie star.”

  “I’ve been doing some work as an extra, but I really want to—”

  “Yeah? Well so do half the girls in America. Hundreds of them arrive in Hollywood every day hoping to become movie stars. What do you think you’ve got that’s so special?”

  Queenie was affronted. “Thanks very much.”

  “A pretty face, a nice figure? The studios have got cover-girl beauties lining up from here to Poughkeepsie.”

  “What’s in Poughkeepsie?”

  “Nothin’. Just a whole load of cute-looking potatoes like you.”

  George smiled to himself. He was rather enjoying playing the hard-bitten movie producer. He could really have used a fat cigar to chew on, maybe bitten off the end and spat it out on the ground. Why, you dames are all the same.

  Queenie was undeterred. “Oh, I know all about potatoes. I read the film magazines. I know there’s stiff competition. But I’m different. I can act. And I can sing and dance too.”

  He folded his arms. “Really? Well now tell me. Where did you gain your acting experience?”

  “High school. I was told I was pretty good too. Don’t pull a face. I was.”

  “I believe you, but it’s Mr Godfrey you’ve got to convince.”

  “Well, don’t think I won’t.”

  “I haven’t seen you before, have I? Are you a new Resident?”

  Queenie hesitated.

  “You’re not supposed to be here if you’re not a Resident.”

  “Oh … but I am.”

  “You’ve been checked?”

  “Oh sure.”

  “Where’s your Resident’s pin?”

  Queenie touched her tunic. “Oh, no … I must have dropped it.”

  A young man passed by, providing Queenie with a welcome diversion. He greeted George cheerily: “Afternoon, Mr Godfrey. Beautiful day.”

  “Hey, Bob,” George answered sheepishly, aware that his cover was blown.

  Queenie nodded, acknowledging that she’d been duped. “Swell place you got here.”

  George ignored the sarcasm. “Yeah. Something, isn’t it?”

  “So you’re the director.”

  “Artistic director.”

  “Oh. Artistic director. Pardon me. Do you work for one of the big studios?”

  “MGM. Before that I was at Warner Brothers. Right now I’m kind of on leave of absence.”

  “Me too. I should really be getting back.”

  “To Warner’s?”

  “No, not Warner’s.”

  “Back where then?”

  “Well where do you think?”

  “I don’t know. MGM?”

  “No. I work at the aircraft plant.”

  “You don’t say. Which one?”

  She stalled, worried that she had broken some Residents’ taboo about mentioning the factory. Then she figured he was goofing with her so she answered.

  “The Lockheed plant.”

  “Oh. Is that near here?”

  “Yes. It’s very near. You should come visit sometime—see what it’s like in the real world.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I like it here. This world feels real enough to me. Sun shines all day long, beautiful scenery …”

  “There is a war on, you kno
w.”

  “War? Oh yeah, yeah. War. I did hear something about that. I figured it was none of my business.”

  “The war is everybody’s business.” There was a serious note to her voice; George’s flippancy had backfired.

  Queenie took a moment to survey the town.

  “So this is all your idea? This scenery.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why does it look like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “The trees for a start—they’re too short.”

  “How tall should they be?”

  “I don’t know. Tree height, I guess.”

  George looked along the row of trees as if considering the idea.

  “And what’s with the houses? There’s no upstairs.”

  “Don’t need an upstairs.”

  “Who built all this anyway?”

  “I did.”

  “On your own?”

  “I had my team of elves helping me.”

  “How far does it extend, this place of yours? I can’t see where it joins the real town.”

  “It doesn’t join.”

  “You built everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Those mountains. The entire state of California. The whole world perhaps? Hey, you’re not God are you? Your face is awful familiar.”

  George was amused. He wanted to tell her that according to Jimmy’s new naming system he actually was, but it would have taken too long to explain.

  “You can’t see where it joins because Overland is as real as any other place.”

  “Overland. Is that what you call this place? Cute. Well, it doesn’t look real.”

  “Ah. That’s because you’re not seeing it from the right perspective.”

  Queenie was unconvinced. “Yeah, that must be it.”

  “I thought you wanted to be part of my phony little world.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is this how you talk to your prospective employers? I bet you never get further than the studio gates.”

  She had no comeback; George’s remark was a little too close to the truth. “So can you help me or not?” she said.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Let me be one of the Residents.”