Detour (11 page)

Mr. Bloomberg shrugged his fat shoulders.

“So it's your funeral, not mine. I only try to look after my girls like a father. I don't want to see any of them in trouble. Actors out here you can get a dime a dozen, but good waitresses don't grow on trees. Now, hurry up. That sedan ain't taken care of yet.”

My work I did as usual—efficiently but mechanically. My body would be occupied carrying trays, taking orders and calculating checks while my mind would be elsewhere. I was a day-dreamer from the time I went to work until Selma came on to relieve me at midnight. There could be a terrific racket going on around me—dishes clattering, horns blowing and motors roaring—without it distracting me. I was deaf to most of these sounds. When customers addressed me it would register, but little more than just that. The fresh young fellows in huge, expensive cars with empty gas tanks could jolly me all they liked. I never complained because I took no notice of any remarks other than definite orders.

And my dreams? Oh, the usual Hollywood hopes: a contract, some money, stardom and that sort of thing. They were silly, of course; I knew that. Mathematically, I hadn't a chance in a million, Gaynor or no Gaynor. Still, in Hollywood, even the exact science of arithmetic cannot dull the hope, the secret belief even, that you will be the lucky one. Only not entirely lucky. You are talented also, and you are beautiful. The studios only have to awakened to the fact, that is all.

And then sometimes I'd pretend I was on my way back to New York to see my friends. Not as a failure, naturally. I'd step from the train at Grand Central, or from the plane at Newark Airport, dressed in a Paris frock and wearing a chinchilla coat. The press people would all be waiting, armed with flash cameras and note-books. And there would be flowers, offers for personal appearances, a handful of autograph-seekers (not too many to be annoying), and Alex. He would be wearing a new suit of clothes-made-to order, not one of his customary $19.95 specials—and a shirt that wasn't frayed at the collar. He would be shaved and his hair would be neatly cut and his shoes shined. He would know enough to tip the Red-Caps and he would refrain from slapping me on the back and calling me “Sue”. I wouldn't be Sue Harvey any more. My name would be Suzanne Harmony... And, oh, yes. There would be several legitimate stage producers at the station, too. They would wave contracts at me and beg me to sign for a role. My answer would have to be: “No, no. I'm sorry, Mr. Harris, Mr. Schubert, Mr. Pemberton. I'm signed on a long-term contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and I am not permitted to do a play.” And perhaps Bellman would be in the crowd and plead with me to come to his club for one night to help business along. My manager would object to this strenuously, but I would overrule him for the sake of old times. “Yes, I'll come, Bellman. Anything to help out a friend.” Then the opening night of
Thais,
in which I would portray the part of a notorious dancer (my past experience would come in handy there). It would be at the Music Hall in Radio City, and there would be kleigs and a long, red carpet and a broadcaster. I would step from a Duesenberg town-car, dressed in a metal-cloth creation which cost three hundred dollars—$299.85, to be exact, including the tax—and Alex would be my escort, in a full-dress suit, if I had to kill him to get him into one....

Stupid? Yes, I suppose so. And funny, when you come to think that I imagined ail this while working in a greasy hamburger-stand. Yet, I believe a goodly number of shop girls, waitresses, models, laundresses and housewives shared these dreams. There are many Garbo and Dietrich scrubbing floors, washing dishes, selling stockings; loads of Barrymores and Taylors and Colemans parking cars.

Occasionally actors or actresses drove in to the stand, sometimes even in costume and with panchromatic smeared on their faces. Although I would pretend indifference, I couldn't help feeling a thrill merely in waiting on them. They were creatures out of the world I was creating, a world more often real to me than reality. Most of them I knew were no more than extras or bit players, yet that sense of importance shrouded them—even if they went away, as so many of them did, without leaving a tip. Producers, directors, writers and technicians were pointed out to me, too. But they were different. Compared with the actors they looked very dull and ordinary.

It was nine-thirty before the dinner rush was over and I had half a minute to sit down, catch my breath and glance at the
Examiner.
I like to read the gossip columns to see who went where, did what and why. None of that, of course, is any concern of mine; however, it makes me feel that I am keeping in close touch with things. The front pages which deal chiefly with foreign wars, strikes and politics bore me to distraction. Like most Hollywood people, I believe the sun rises over Glendale and sets some place in the neighborhood of Culver City; I don't care particularly who sits down and strikes where, what party holds the reins of government, or whether Senator So-and-so proposes a bill in Congress or not. Who Selznick is planning to use in his
Gone with the Wind
cast is more in my line. Perhaps this is a very narrow attitude to take, but the picture industry is the most important thing in my life. My pet theory is that if only other people would think more about their occupations and less about what the Japanese are doing or the Germans, there would be little unrest in the country. Is that an idiotic notion? I don't know; maybe it is.

I glanced through a paper one of the customers had left behind and almost at once my eye fell on a small item which made my heart leap. FILM PLAYER HURT IN FALL. I can't understand it. The moment my eye lighted on that heading I had a feeling it was Raoul. And of course, it was. He was in the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital with lacerations and a dislocated arm.

My first reaction upon running across the article was surprise, naturally; then it became remorse for having treated the boy so shabbily when it had all been my own fault. However as I read along, I began to smile. It wasn't very nice, but I immediately began to think that here was something else for Raoul to add to his scrapbook. Here were five full paragraphs dealing with him alone. But the final paragraph, when I reached it, wiped the smile off my face:

“The accident, according to the actor, happened during the course of his morning constitutional, a climb to the top of the Hollywood mountain. Not far from the old sign at the peak, he slipped and fell. The brush growing on the steep sides of the mountain fortunately broke the fall and saved him from what easily might have been a fatal injury. Mr. Kildare, last seen as the young aviator in 'Wings of the Damned' is for the present at liberty, so his accident will cause no casting difficulties.”

I read the article through again for a more definite hint as to what time the accident occurred. Yes, it was a little before seven o'clock. That meant he must have gone up there soon after he had left me at my door. A cold hand began to close over my heart. I was responsible. The more I thought about it the more positive I grew that the mishap had not been a mishap. Try as I might to dismiss the thought, I became convinced that he had taken to heart what I'd said to him and it had made him despondent. For was it reasonable that Raoul should want to climb mountains in the rain? And at that ungodly hour? Even in Hollywood people don't do such silly things, unless they're drunk or surrounded by publicity men. Raoul had been sober as a judge, if that is an accepted simile.

I was worried. Not about Raoul particularly, for he wasn't seriously hurt, but about myself. I suddenly recognized myself to be a weapon, every bit as formidable as a knife or a gun, and liable to do untold damage unless kept in check. Now someone had actually attempted suicide because of a few words I had uttered. I didn't want anything like that to happen and, for the first time in my life, I began to realize just how deadly our tongues can be. I am afraid up until that time I had been in the habit of speaking without thinking, saying things I really didn't mean and not caring a great deal what effect my words took. Scenes came back to me out of the past: Sammie Keener, when I handed him his hat and told him I never wanted to see him again because he was a hopeless drunk; Bellman, when I laughed at his clumsy attempt to make love to me and when I told him to act his age, that he was old enough to be my father; Alex Roth, the time I bawled him out for doing no more than turn on a bed-lamp. Those things all had hurt. God knows how long the sting had lasted. I hadn't given them a thought because I didn't know any better and wasn't there to see the damage. However, now, with Raoul falling or jumping off mountains, I was afforded the privilege of witnessing the whole show. I didn't care for it, I can tell you.

I went inside the stand and telephoned the Cedars, Mr. Kildare was doing very well, thank you—as well as could be expected. Visiting hours were in the afternoon. Yes, I could come in the morning after ten if that was the only time I had free. No, Mr. Kildare could not receive a phone call at that hour. If there was any message I wanted to leave, it would be delivered to him first thing in the morning.

After I hung up I sat there in the booth biting my nails. Was I jumping to conclusions? After all, why should Raoul care one bit what I said about him? I was nothing in his life—just a girl he had been to bed with. But climbing up to the sign, and in the rain, and immediately after seeing me home.... Too much coincidence there. I stepped out of the booth and looked on the counter for the paper. I thought that maybe if I read it again... but someone had walked off with it.

The remainder of the night was ruined for me. Usually the hours went by quickly and Selma's arrival at midnight to relieve me was always something of a surprise. Tonight it was different. Time dragged like nothing human, and I was in such an unpleasant frame of mind that I slapped the short-order cook for a childish prank which at any other time I would have ignored. “What's the matter?” I heard him grumble. “Is it made of gold?”

Selma came to work thirty minutes early. That was quite a shock to everyone. Although she was conscientious and a very good worker and never even so much as a minute late, her appearance at the stand always was on the dot of twelve. You could almost regulate your watch by her. Mr. Bloomberg, who was preparing to go home, nodded in satisfaction—although he took pains to conceal his approval from her by grumbling how terrible business was in answer to her “good evening”. Mr. Bloomberg's idea of an employer was somebody who is ill-treated, a scapegoat and a martyr. Had there been any hair on his head, he would have blamed the grey ones on his cooks and waitresses. After Selma had changed into her uniform, she came out to where I was stationed. “You're not off yet, Sue. It's only eleven-forty. I came early so I could talk to you.”

There was very little business at that hour so what there was of conversation went uninterrupted. “Did you see the paper?” she asked, coming right to the point.

“Yes. Too bad, wasn't it?”

“Yes. ”

“Lucky he wasn't killed. What a fool thing to be doing in the rain.”

She fixed a penetrating stare on my face and for what seemed like a long time she didn't say anything. I felt very uncomfortable standing there, with Selma trying to read my mind. I had nothing to conceal, but my eyes felt shifty for all of that. That annoyed me. I made up my mind if she became too inquisitive I'd put her in her place. What had happened between Raoul and me was my business, not hers. Yet, there was something about her which put me on the defensive, an air of authority. I respected it, strangely enough.

“Sue, what did you do to him?”

“Do?”

“Yes. I know something happened. It would take more than just no work to drive Raoul to do thing like that.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Selma moved closer, so close that I could smell the Dentine on her breath. Her large breasts pressed against my shoulder.

“Oh, yes, you do. You were out with him last night, weren't you?”

“What if I was?”

“You were the last person with him.”

“Well? Is that any business of yours?

She hesitated a second. When at length she spoke it was in a calm, quiet voice. It was strange, but I would have felt better if she had shouted.

“Yes, I'm afraid it is. Raoul is... a friend of mine. I've known him for a long time and I wouldn't like to see him wind up wrong.”

I didn't relish the implication and I flared into a temper. I don't fly off the handle very often, but this was a deliberate slap in the face. “What's the matter, Selma? Are you jealous because he went out with me instead of taking you out?”

This time it was Selma who dropped her eyes and I knew I'd hit me sore spot. I felt repaid, and with it a generous mood came over me. I would give up Raoul, nobly, like the wife in a movie to “the other woman.” Selma could not fail to appreciate the sacrifice... Of course, since I really didn't care about the man it wouldn't hurt very much. But Selma needn't know this. Selma, however, spoiled it all.

“No, I'm not jealous. Nothing of the kind. I don't care how many little tramps Raoul runs around with—providing they're harmless. But I'm not so sure about you, Harvey. You have a mean streak.”

Can you imagine such a thing!

No one, not even my mother, had ever spoken that way to me before. A mean streak, indeed! While all my life I may have been thoughtless, I had never been deliberately mean, that I know of. My dander was up. I wanted to fly into her with my nails and rake that sullen look from her face. I don't know what kept me from doing it—unless it was because I realized that was exactly what Selma was hoping to do. Selma was built like a peasant.

“Yes,” she continued, “you're hard and mean. I've only known you a few months, but it sticks out all over you. You want to get ahead and you don't care who you step on if you can make the grade. Now Raoul Kildare is a nice boy—too good for your kind. I'm not going to sit by and watch you play him for a sucker. I saw him this afternoon at the hospital. From what I gathered, that fall wasn't an accident. I'm giving you fair warning that...”