Read Online My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht - Free Book Online Page B

to?”
    â€œYou look the same as always,” said Mr. Schenck, “only get some sleep and quit crying.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    I called X Studio two days later. The casting department was very polite. Yes, they had a place for me. They would put me on the payroll and see that I was given a chance at any part that came up. Mr. A., the casting director, smiled, squeezed my hand and added, “You ought to go a long way here. I’ll watch out for a good part for you.”
    I returned to my room at the Studio Club feeling alive again. And the daydreams started coming back—kind of on tiptoe. The casting director saw hundreds of girls every week, whom he turned down, real actresses and beauties of every sort. There must be something special about me for him to have hired me right off, after a first look.
    There was something special about me in the casting director’s eyes, but I didn’t find it out till much later. Mr. Schenck had called up the head of X Studio and asked him as a favor to give me a job.
    I received several “extra girl” calls from the studio and worked in a few scenes as “background.” Then one day Mr. A., the casting director, telephoned. He wantedme in his office at four o’clock. I spent the day bathing and fixing my hair and reciting out loud different parts I had learned. And giving myself instructions. This was the big chance. Mr. A. wouldn’t have called me himself if it wasn’t for a real part. But I musn’t act overeager, or start babbling, or grin with joy. I must sit quietly and have dignity every minute.
    Mr. A. wasn’t in his office, but his secretary smiled at me and told me to go inside and wait for him.
    I sat straight in one of Mr. A’s inner office chairs waiting and practicing dignity. A door at the back of the office opened, and a man came in. I had never met him, but I knew who he was. He was head of X Studio, and as great a man as Mr. Schenck or Mr. Zanuck.
    â€œHello, Miss Monroe,” he said.
    He came over to me, put his hand on my arm, and said, “Come on, we’ll go in my office and talk.”
    â€œI don’t think I can leave,” I said. “I’m waiting for Mr. A. He telephoned me about a part.”
    â€œThe hell with Mr. A.,” said the great man. “He’ll know where you are.”
    I hesitated, and he added, “What’s the matter with you? You dopey or something? Don’t you know I’m the boss around here?”
    I followed him through the back door into an office three times larger than Mr. A’s.
    â€œTurn around,” said the great man. I turned like a model.
    â€œYou look all right,” he grinned. “Nicely put together.”
    I said, “Thank you.”
    â€œSit down,” he said, “I want to show you something.”
    The great man rummaged through his oversized desk. I looked at his office. The tables were full of bronze Oscars and silver cups and all sorts of other prizes he hadwon with his movies. I had never seen an office like this before—the office where the head of an entire studio presided. Here was where all the great stars, producers, and directors came for conferences, and where all the decisions were made by the great man behind his battleship of a desk.
    â€œHold all calls,” the great man spoke into a box on the desk. He beamed at me. “Here’s what I wanted to show you.”
    He brought a large photograph to my chair. It was a picture of a yacht.
    â€œHow do you like it?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s very beautiful,” I said.
    â€œYou’re invited,” he said. He put his hand on my neck.
    â€œThank you,” I said. “I’ve never been to a party on a yacht.”
    â€œWho said anything about a party,” the great man scowled at me. “I’m inviting you, nobody else. Do you want to come, or not?”
    â€œI’ll be glad to join you and