by Jane Allen
“Anything else?” I ask coldly.
“Oh, yes. Have you finished wrapping Mrs. Brand’s presents?”
I point out that I cannot finish the wrapping until he makes up his mind about the baubles in my office.
They can wait, he says. He has to go into a huddle with Tussler and Skinner.
I come out to find my desk laden with beribboned packages and am stunned to find they are all for me! It is peculiar, I think, for I but barely know the names of some of these people who are making merry with my Christmas.
There is, too, a note from Jim Palmer warning me there will be no Christmas from him to me unless I dine with him that evening. I dispatch a note back saying I will be delighted to, but it is not because I am material-minded. I crave only the pleasure of his exotic company. I am busy dispatching S. B.’s communications when Messrs. Tussler and Skinner enter.
“Merry Christmas,” whoops Skinner, scooping me around the waist and kissing me.
I inwardly rage but manage to control myself for I can see that Mr. Skinner is already on the alcoholic side.
Mr. Tussler, unaffected by Christmas, is looking as wretched as usual.
I ring S. B. and inform him the writers are here. He responds by coming into my office to personally greet the boys. He has changed his mind. This is Christmas Eve and he doesn’t want to press anyone with work. Besides he has some gifts to select.
They leave, whereat Amanda, Bud, the boss and I go into a huddle to see which of the three fur coats Selma will have for Christmas. Each has its points, so we arrive at a deadlock. Bud breaks out with a bright suggestion to get one of the show girls off the set to model them for Mr. Brand.
“It’s a great idea,” says S. B. “Call Casting and arrange for it.”
So I do and while we are waiting, I usher in a few actors who have been warming the benches all morning and are getting fretful. In between-times I tie up baubles in fancy wrappings and ribbons. Messenger boys dash in and out with packages and I realize with amazement that I have accumulated enough presents myself with which to start a modest gift shoppe.
Outside the bungalow I can already hear reverberations of merriment. Vacuous laughter and bits of song float in through the window.
“Hello, Maggie!” It is Jim. He advises me that I am to grace Publicity with my presence at their party.
Gleefully I show him all the graft I have collected and boast that I must have a lot of unknown admirers.
“Maggie,” says Jim, “I hate to be the one to tear down your illusions, but in your modest way you are an important guy in this studio; you have access to the great man and can do a lot of people favors. They all want something.”
That last crack echoes a faint sound of something I have heard long ago and then I remember my friend, Mr. Sellers, Max to you, who gave me my first lesson in Hollywood ways and manners and who got off to that one as a starter. I have lived a lifetime since then.
“It isn’t true of everyone!” I burst out; then realize I am being unnecessarily vehement about it. For I am sure Art Department fixed the tree just to please me. I point to it in mute evidence.
“It’s beautiful, Maggie,” says Jim quietly. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just an old sour-puss.”
Then I remember about Rawley and am on the point of blubbering.
“Darling…” Jim starts. “I didn’t mean…”
The phone rings. It is Casting and they are sending a model over immediately.
“Why don’t you stay, Jim?” I suggested cattily. “A beautiful model is coming over to help S. B. decide on Selma’s coat. If you like I’ll wrap her up and give her to you for Christmas.”
“To hell with models,” says Jim. “Listen, Maggie…”
But a lot of other phones ring and S. B. buzzes and the model arrives.
She is a most regal blonde and seeing Jim at my desk apparently takes him for someone important, for she turns on a battery of eye-work that would make Dietrich look like an amateur.
“Hello,” Jim says to her. “How do you do, Miss…Oh, I know. It’s Miss America, 1935, 6, or 7?”
“Thirty-five,” she says proudly.
“How would you like to be in pictures, Miss America?” Jim asks in a killing imitation of S. B.’s wolf manner.
“I’d adore it,” she gasps.
“What’s your telephone number?” he asks.
She smells a rat and disdainfully lifts an expressive and plucked eyebrow.
I ring S. B. and inform him the model is here.
Jim, after winking elaborately at Miss America, does a fade.
“Don’t take any notice of him,” I soothe her. “He’s just an old newspaper man.”
“Fresh, huh!” she sniffs, then confidentially to me across the desk confides, “Honey, when they told me to report to Mr. Brand’s office, you could have put me away! What’s it all about?”
She is wanted, I enlighten her, to model some coats but to soften the blow I point out that you never know your luck. At least she will get a chance to meet the head man. This both pacifies and lures her.
However, S. B. isn’t feeling wolfish at this moment and is most businesslike with Miss America.
She parades all three coats for us and I must say graces them with true elegance.
We are, however, still undecided and finally S. B. puts it up to Miss America.
She throws the full force of her personality in the answer.
“Why not,” she elocutes, “choose the one which is most expensive?”
It is, when you come to think of it, a most rational conclusion.
“Just like a woman,” laughs Mr. Brand, but you can see he is pleased for he decides on the chinchilla. I am thinking in my philosophical way that Miss America will go places and it won’t be very long before she acquires a chinchilla number herself.
By noon there is a high-voltage pitch of excitement around the studio. One minute the din and buzz of studio activity; then a dramatic cessation. The clatter of typewriters ceases; the telephones are quiet; the ever-present whir of projection machines, the hum of laboratories, the clamor of sound departments are lulled. The slaves high and low burst their shackles and drop their tools. Every department, every stage is given over to high, individual revelry. I myself have received fourteen invitations.
I manage to escape and drink a toast on the set where Sarya reigns benevolently and creates good will and cheer by dishing out champagne and caviar to prop men and stars alike. I think it is very democratic of her, which proves to be the keynote of the whole afternoon. For once we can take down our hair and fraternize in the manner for which our ancestors fought and bled.
Little shots and big shots embrace each other affectionately and everyone thinks everyone else is a great guy. Prop men, electricians and laborers are doing nip-ups with chorus girls and for one day the girls are ceasing to be career-minded and are very impartial and generous with their favors. Today every man is Pan and every girl an irresistible nymph.
A little of this goes a long way with me and besides I cannot linger long for I must cover the publicity party and then back to the bungalow where S. B. expects me to see that his soirée goes off smoothly.
In Publicity, typists, phone operators and stenographers are having their field day on the laps of lugubrious, amorous publicists. Here the drinking is in deadly earnest for these scoffers of the press are really disillusioned gentlemen and need their whiskey neat.
Jim, glass raised in hand, is proposing a toast.
“Here’s to the heels! May we all heel merrily and live to win Academy awards!”
That is the trouble with newspapermen. They are all bitter in their cups.
I stay long enough to assure Jim that I will have dinner with him tonight about which point he is surprisingly
insistent, and then I dash back to the bungalow.
Through the studio streets dance the revelers, linked arm in arm, in delightful abandon. Song is high, Christmas carols, raucous ditties and seasonal greetings mingle discordantly on the air.
In our bungalow, too, alcohol is the great equalizer. Bud is sprawled in a chair intimately engaged in conversation with a high executive. Mr. Brand is himself mixing a drink for our janitor. Mr. Skinner has his hand on Amanda’s knee. Rawley, Eric, and Tyson are there, too, together with big-wigs, more writers, glamour boys and girls, and a smattering of small fry. All of them exude unfettered cheer with the exception of poor Mr. Tussler. He alone appears unhappy. He is glaring murderously at Mr. Skinner but at the same time, I notice, is managing to put away his share of whiskey.
I meander over to the bar to see if S. B. needs me, whereat he takes advantage of the presence of company to sling an arm around me and deliver a kiss on my cheek.
“Merry Christmas!” I say meekly, but I can feel my face burning.
“She’s blushing! Look boys, Madge can blush!” booms my hateful boss.
He gets a laugh.
“It’s a Hollywood phenomenon!” yells Skinner.
Mr. Tussler then does a curious thing. He walks steadily over to Skinner and in a loud voice says pleasantly, “You’re a louse!”
“Thanks, comrade! Merry Christmas.” Skinner shoos him in the manner of a man brushing off a gnat.
Mr. Tussler, with as much dignity as he can muster, returns to his seat and his whiskey.
I gather up my courage to thank Rawley for his gift. Miserably I make my way to him and toss off some wretchedly inadequate appreciation. At the same time I toy with the idea of telling him the truth so he will be prepared. Then I realize that it is neither the time nor the place and at least he may enjoy his holidays free of anxiety.
This depresses me so I decide to do a little escaping myself and am heading for the bar when Mr. Skinner proposes a toast to the boss.
“Here’s to Sidney Brand,” he says. “He’s a real man.”
Everybody raises their glasses.
Mr. Brand beams.
“Boys…and girls!” He raises his hand for silence. “I am not accustomed to making speeches but I do want you boys…and girls…to know that I appreciate the cooperation and spirit which you give me and I’m looking forward to having you with me for many years to come. Let’s make next year and every other year banner years for Brand and Super Films!”
“Ray! Hoo—ray!”
I look at Rawley and feel ill.
“You’re a rat, Skinner!”
It is Mr. Tussler again sideswiping his enemy. I fear he is very inebriated, for after having his little say he staggers back to his bench and hugs it. Apparently no one is disturbed by this side-play but me.
The air is dense with smoke and thick with fatuous talk. I am very tired and would like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for days. But I am expected to make merry.
The afternoon waxes to a furious heat. Drunks reel in and out. Glasses are shattered; drinks are spilled all over the room. Outside a few casualties are sleeping it off. But inside all is toujours gai and toujours l’amour, l’amour. Amanda is struggling in Skinner’s embrace.
Mr. Tussler makes one epochal move. Up he rises and zigzags over to Skinner, his face screwed up in the most alarming fashion. I think he is going to hit Skinner. Instead he reaches up his hand, hesitates a second, then recklessly snaps his fingers! After this herculean effort he falls flat on his face.
I am quite ready to leave when Mr. Brand advises me that he must be off. He has to stop at MGM before going home, but he is counting upon me to stay until the final curtain so that everything will be under control and the office cleared and ready for action the day after Christmas.
“But,” I argue feebly, “I would like to leave now. I have a dinner engagement.”
“You don’t mind breaking it?”
“I do,” I protest.
“Oh—I forgot to tell you,” he says, “that you are having dinner at my house. Selma wants you to help fix the Christmas decorations. Besides, what do you want to eat out in a restaurant for when you can have a really homey Christmas Eve with us? I’ll send the car back for you.”
It may be an invite to him but I know it’s a royal command. Wearily I compose a note to send to Jim for I haven’t the heart to face him myself.
By the time I quit the lot only an occasional shout from a lone reveler can be heard. For the rest, all is the funereal silence of a ghost city.
I pile myself and the Christmas packages into Mr. Brand’s car and am whisked out to the suburban elegance of Beverly Hills.
Selma, swathed in swansdown and velvet, languidly graces a couch in the living room and permits me to offer her my congratulations in person. It is going to be very homey, I see, just Selma, Sidney and I.
The homey meal consists of an elaborate dinner taken off trays in the living room. I am thinking I would prefer the more homey simplicity of a hamburger with Jim Palmer in a lunchwagon. But I squelch these errant thoughts and make pretty thanks for the meal.
Immediately after dinner, under the supervision of Selma, the butler and I go to work erecting an enormous tree. Sidney has already made his excuses and is out on some nefarious business of his own.
I climb precarious ladders and entwine ornaments and lights while Selma from her position below directs the operations. She is a rugged individualist and has very definite ideas of what she wants. My arms ache with weariness but Selma is still going strong. Her sense of symmetry and balance is entirely too acute for my comfort. In other words, she irks me.
Three hours later, Selma’s artistic sensibilities are finally appeased and, believe it or not, I am permitted to leave. I arrive home, drop my packages helter-skelter, peel off my clothes, and am dead to the world inside of five minutes.
I plunge into a nightmare in which the events of the day are hair-raisingly jumbled. Then a heavy shape seems to envelop me and I fight my way out of sleep and sit up sharply in bed, clammy, fearful. However, all is dark and serene. My luminous watch reveals the hour as four.
I try to compose myself when I become conscious of a bulky shape pressing close to me. I am too frightened to scream. I try to convince myself that it is just part of the nightmare and manage to switch on the light.
There on the cover beside me lies Santa Claus. To be sure he is minus his usual red garb and cap but the beard is indubitably his. Long and luxurious it reaches clear to his abdomen.
A closer scrutiny, however, reveals that it is Jim Palmer. In rapid succession I feel reassurance, confusion and then rage. Violently I shake him. He doesn’t respond. I am not surprised for he has brought with him the strong odor of a bar.
I climb out of bed and pull at him with all my puny strength. I manage to get a good grip and roll him over the side. Down he goes with a terrific crash. For a moment I think I have killed him, but then he emits a few unintelligible noises.
I go into the kitchen to get a pitcher of water for I mean to do this job right. There I find that the window screen has been cut, which doubtless explains how Santa arrived. I work up a really good mad.
I dash the pitcher of water over his recumbent form. He shakes, shivers and finally snaps to. “Wh…a…wha…”
“Wha…yourself,” I snarl back. “What’s the big idea?”
He opens a cautious eye.
“Hullo! Merry Christmas, Maggie!”
I forget I am a lady and really tell him off. This brings him to his feet.
“But darling,” he breaks into my abuse, “I was lonely. I had to come. I had to be near you….Besides I had some presents for you.”
“That is no reason,” I scold, “to break into people’s houses. What would the
neighbors think?”
I admit this is a weak argument.
“Look who’s worrying about the neighbors,” he jeers. “I’ll wager you haven’t seen a neighbor since you’ve been here.”
It is true but it makes me seethe.
“Just because you are a scoffer of conventions,” I yell, “is no reason to laugh at them. I know a lot of conventional people and they are very happy.”
I confess I make no sense.
“But, Maggie,” he cries, “I haven’t done a thing. Your honor is intact.”
“To hell with my honor,” I say inelegantly. “It’s my sleep you’ve ruined!”
Which leaves me as ever loitering on the vine.
Celibately,
Maggie
9
Girl Meets Boy
FROM A SECRETARY’S PRIVATE JOURNAL
Sunday, January 16
I have always boasted that there are two things I would not do.
A. I would never attempt to write the great American novel.
B. I would never—but never—be emotional about an actor.
It is a cinch to avoid A. But I have gone and committed B, which only goes to show you it is flying absolutely straight into the teeth of Fate to make any flat avowals.
Last Monday morning I arise and mechanically go through the accustomed process of pulling myself together for the week’s grind, little reckoning that this day is to mark an epochal turn in the career of Madge Lawrence—the Woman!
Of course, there is really nothing to prepare me for this milestone. The holidays are over. The ghosts are abroad. The slaves are again shackled. In other words the studio is back into norm.
At the office Amanda is operating on a new lipstick and Bud is examining the race charts. Since the Santa Anita track opening he has been a very conspicuous character in studio life but of little use as an office boy. Everyone hereabouts is horse-conscious and they think nothing of neglecting production and mortgaging their pay for the track. But there is nothing odd about this. It is the same with the football season and the tennis tournaments. We are very civic-minded. To me, however, it is all just another headache for it devolves upon me, besides my other duties, to be a policeman and remind our staff whenever I corner them that we are making a picture.
