to me that there weren't many more suicides, what with so many people coming out, burning their bridges behind them—only to find disillusionment and failure.
My slight hangover was making me morbid. I shivered and unlocked the door. I'm usually not a brooding type, but five-thirty in the morning with rain and fog and a guilty conscience as props is not exactly a musical-comedy setting. Without switching on the lights, I tiptoed into the living-room.
The girl with whom I shared the bungalow worked days in the Columbia wardrobe department. She had to get up at seven each morning in order to punch in on time. For that reason she always crabbed about my late hours. She was a sweet kid and I'd known her for a long time, but when her sleep was interrupted she raised the roof. Without fail, almost every night when I arrived home she'd sit up in bed, all cold-creamed and kit-careered, and mutter: “Why don't you ask your boss to change your shift? For the love of Mike, here I am trying to catch a little sleep so I can get up at seven, and you... Now don't you dare cut off that alarm, Sue Harvey! You remember what I told you last time! I'm sorry it wakes you up when it goes off, but I've got a good job and I intend to keep it.” Then she would roll over, pound the pillow viciously with her fist and be asleep again in less than two minutes. Poor Ewy. She had to put up with plenty.
We lived in a bungalow-court, our unit consisting of a small living-room, a smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bath so infinitesimal that the sink overhung the tub. Ewy claimed you could brush your teeth at the same time you took a bath. Perhaps you could; I never tried it. The place was furnished with the customary cheap brand of over-stuffed furniture, faded carpets and the odds and ends of about five different sets of dishes. The rent was thirty-two dollars a month, with gas and lights extra—which wouldn't have been bad when it was divided by two. Unfortunately, very often Ewy would succumb to her weakness for gambling and lose her entire week's wages in a phone room during lunch-hour. She could pick them, but usually wrong. Like the Hollywood population in general, we were always behind with the landlord. But the place itself, while neat and inexpensive, had, like every other apartment in Hollywood, an air of impermanency. You felt that if you stood in the center of the living-room and shouted: “Strike it, boys!” the whole place would fold up and disappear like a set in a very few seconds.
It was small wonder there were so many cases of homesickness in town.
My customary way of entering was to slip off my shoes and try to creep into the bathroom to undress. Once or twice I had successfully accomplished this, but this time I heard Ewy sit up in bed and fumble for the light cord. Since there was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy, I stomped into the bedroom.
“Did I wake you, Ewy? I tried to be as quiet as I could. ”
Ewy found the little string and the lights went on. Still half-asleep, she felt around on the floor by her bed until she found the alarm clock. It was twenty minutes to six. She gave me a look which said: a-fine-time-to-be-coming-in and flopped back on to her pillow with a martyr's sigh.
“I'm sorry, Ewy. I couldn't help it. I was on a party. Why don't you stuff cotton in your ears at night like I suggested?”
“And how would I hear the alarm when it goes off?” She grumbled and pounded her pillow. “Call the Fleishmeyer Agency tomorrow morning before noon. He's been wearing out the phone all evening. God, that man's persistent. ”
“You didn't tell him what I was doing, did you?”
“Naturally not.”
“Fine. It wouldn't do me much good having people know I'm hopping cars. Someday I might need Manny Fleishmeyer.”
“Well, if you play around with him, you ought to have your head examined. He reminds me of a toad, and not a handsome toad at that. And yes, I almost forgot. There's a letter for you.
My slight hangover was making me morbid. I shivered and unlocked the door. I'm usually not a brooding type, but five-thirty in the morning with rain and fog and a guilty conscience as props is not exactly a musical-comedy setting. Without switching on the lights, I tiptoed into the living-room.
The girl with whom I shared the bungalow worked days in the Columbia wardrobe department. She had to get up at seven each morning in order to punch in on time. For that reason she always crabbed about my late hours. She was a sweet kid and I'd known her for a long time, but when her sleep was interrupted she raised the roof. Without fail, almost every night when I arrived home she'd sit up in bed, all cold-creamed and kit-careered, and mutter: “Why don't you ask your boss to change your shift? For the love of Mike, here I am trying to catch a little sleep so I can get up at seven, and you... Now don't you dare cut off that alarm, Sue Harvey! You remember what I told you last time! I'm sorry it wakes you up when it goes off, but I've got a good job and I intend to keep it.” Then she would roll over, pound the pillow viciously with her fist and be asleep again in less than two minutes. Poor Ewy. She had to put up with plenty.
We lived in a bungalow-court, our unit consisting of a small living-room, a smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bath so infinitesimal that the sink overhung the tub. Ewy claimed you could brush your teeth at the same time you took a bath. Perhaps you could; I never tried it. The place was furnished with the customary cheap brand of over-stuffed furniture, faded carpets and the odds and ends of about five different sets of dishes. The rent was thirty-two dollars a month, with gas and lights extra—which wouldn't have been bad when it was divided by two. Unfortunately, very often Ewy would succumb to her weakness for gambling and lose her entire week's wages in a phone room during lunch-hour. She could pick them, but usually wrong. Like the Hollywood population in general, we were always behind with the landlord. But the place itself, while neat and inexpensive, had, like every other apartment in Hollywood, an air of impermanency. You felt that if you stood in the center of the living-room and shouted: “Strike it, boys!” the whole place would fold up and disappear like a set in a very few seconds.
It was small wonder there were so many cases of homesickness in town.
My customary way of entering was to slip off my shoes and try to creep into the bathroom to undress. Once or twice I had successfully accomplished this, but this time I heard Ewy sit up in bed and fumble for the light cord. Since there was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy, I stomped into the bedroom.
“Did I wake you, Ewy? I tried to be as quiet as I could. ”
Ewy found the little string and the lights went on. Still half-asleep, she felt around on the floor by her bed until she found the alarm clock. It was twenty minutes to six. She gave me a look which said: a-fine-time-to-be-coming-in and flopped back on to her pillow with a martyr's sigh.
“I'm sorry, Ewy. I couldn't help it. I was on a party. Why don't you stuff cotton in your ears at night like I suggested?”
“And how would I hear the alarm when it goes off?” She grumbled and pounded her pillow. “Call the Fleishmeyer Agency tomorrow morning before noon. He's been wearing out the phone all evening. God, that man's persistent. ”
“You didn't tell him what I was doing, did you?”
“Naturally not.”
“Fine. It wouldn't do me much good having people know I'm hopping cars. Someday I might need Manny Fleishmeyer.”
“Well, if you play around with him, you ought to have your head examined. He reminds me of a toad, and not a handsome toad at that. And yes, I almost forgot. There's a letter for you.
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