Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (299 page)
Read Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) Online
Authors: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Charlie got up. He took his coat and hat and started down the corridor. Then he opened the door of the dining room and said in a strange voice, “Good night, children.”
Honoria rose and ran around the table to hug him.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he said vaguely, and then trying to make his voice more tender, trying to conciliate something, “Good night, dear children.”
V
Charlie went directly to the Ritz bar with the furious idea of finding Lorraine and Duncan, but they were not there, and he realized that in any case there was nothing he could do. He had not touched his drink at the Peters’, and now he ordered a whisky-and-soda. Paul came over to say hello.
“It’s a great change,” he said sadly. “We do about half the business we did. So many fellows I hear about back in the States lost everything, maybe not in the first crash, but then in the second. Your friend George Hardt lost every cent, I hear. Are you back in the States?”
“No, I’m in business in Prague.”
“I heard that you lost a lot in the crash.”
“I did,” and he added grimly, “but I lost everything I wanted in the boom.”
“Selling short.”
“Something like that.”
Again the memory of those days swept over him like a nightmare--the people they had met travelling; then people who couldn’t add a row of figures or speak a coherent sentence. The little man Helen had consented to dance with at the ship’s party, who had insulted her ten feet from the table; the women and girls carried screaming with drink or drugs out of public places--
--The men who locked their wives out in the snow, because the snow of twenty-nine wasn’t real snow. If you didn’t want it to be snow, you just paid some money.
He went to the phone and called the Peters’ apartment; Lincoln answered.
“I called up because this thing is on my mind. Has Marion said anything definite?”
“Marion’s sick,” Lincoln answered shortly. “I know this thing isn’t altogether your fault, but I can’t have her go to pieces about it. I’m afraid we’ll have to let it slide for six months; I can’t take the chance of working her up to this state again.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
He went back to his table. His whisky glass was empty, but he shook his head when Alix looked at it questioningly. There wasn’t much he could do now except send Honoria some things; he would send her a lot of things tomorrow. He thought rather angrily that this was just money--he had given so many people money. . . .
“No, no more,” he said to another waiter. “What do I owe you?”
He would come back some day; they couldn’t make him pay forever. But he wanted his child, and nothing was much good now, beside that fact. He wasn’t young any more, with a lot of nice thoughts and dreams to have by himself. He was absolutely sure Helen wouldn’t have wanted him to be so alone.
THE PAT HOBBY STORIES
The 17 short stories in this collection were first published by Arnold Gingrich of
Esquire
magazine between January 1940 and May 1941, and later collected in a volume in 1962. The last installments in
Esquire
were published posthumously, as Fitzgerald passed away in 1940.
The tales concern Pat Hobby, a down-and-out screenwriter in Hollywood, who was once successful in the silent age of cinema, but now reduced to an alcoholic hack plaguing the studio lot. Many of the stories are based on Fitzgerald’s own experiences in Hollywood as a screenwriter.
Scott and his wife Zelda, mid 1920s
CONTENTS
PAT HOBBY’S CHRISTMAS WISH
Esquire
(January 1940)
I
It was Christmas Eve in the studio. By eleven o’clock in the morning, Santa Claus had called on most of the huge population according to each one’s deserts.
Sumptuous gifts from producers to stars, and from agents to producers arrived at offices and studio bungalows: on every stage one heard of the roguish gifts of casts to directors or directors to casts; champagne had gone out from publicity office to the press. And tips of fifties, tens and fives from producers, directors and writers fell like manna upon the white collar class.
In this sort of transaction there were exceptions. Pat Hobby, for example, who knew the game from twenty years’ experience, had had the idea of getting rid of his secretary the day before. They were sending over a new one any minute--but she would scarcely expect a present the first day.
Waiting for her, he walked the corridor, glancing into open offices for signs of life. He stopped to chat with Joe Hopper from the scenario department.
‘Not like the old days,’ he mourned, ‘Then there was a bottle on every desk.’
‘There’re a few around.’
‘Not many.’ Pat sighed. ‘And afterwards we’d run a picture--made up out of cutting-room scraps.’
‘I’ve heard. All the suppressed stuff,’ said Hopper.
Pat nodded, his eyes glistening.
‘Oh, it was juicy. You darned near ripped your guts laughing--’
He broke off as the sight of a woman, pad in hand, entering his office down the hall recalled him to the sorry present.
‘Gooddorf has me working over the holiday,’ he complained bitterly.
‘I wouldn’t do it.’
‘I wouldn’t either except my four weeks are up next Friday, and if I bucked him he wouldn’t extend me.’
As he turned away Hopper knew that Pat was not being extended anyhow. He had been hired to script an old-fashioned horse-opera and the boys who were ‘writing behind him’--that is working over his stuff--said that all of it was old and some didn’t make sense.
‘I’m Miss Kagle,’ said Pat’s new secretary.
She was about thirty-six, handsome, faded, tired, efficient. She went to the typewriter, examined it, sat down and burst into sobs.
Pat started. Self-control, from below anyhow, was the rule around here. Wasn’t it bad enough to be working on Christmas Eve? Well--less bad than not working at all. He walked over and shut the door--someone might suspect him of insulting the girl.
‘Cheer up,’ he advised her. ‘This is Christmas.’
Her burst of emotion had died away. She sat upright now, choking and wiping her eyes.
‘Nothing’s as bad as it seems,’ he assured her unconvincingly. ‘What’s it, anyhow? They going to lay you off?’
She shook her head, did a sniffle to end sniffles, and opened her note book.
‘Who you been working for?’
She answered between suddenly gritted teeth.
‘Mr Harry Gooddorf.’
Pat widened his permanently bloodshot eyes. Now he remembered he had seen her in Harry’s outer office,
‘Since 1921. Eighteen years. And yesterday he sent me back to the department. He said I depressed him--I reminded him he was getting on.’ Her face was grim. ‘That isn’t the way he talked after hours eighteen years ago.’
‘Yeah, he was a skirt chaser then,’ said Pat.
‘I should have done something then when I had the chance.’
Pat felt righteous stirrings.
‘Breach of promise? That’s no angle!’
‘But I had something to clinch it. Something bigger than breach of promise. I still have too. But then, you see, I thought I was in love with him.’ She brooded for a moment. ‘Do you want to dictate something now?’
Pat remembered his job and opened a script.
‘It’s an insert,’ he began, ‘Scene 114A.’
Pat paced the office.
‘Ext. Long Shot of the Plains,’ he decreed. ‘Buck and Mexicans approaching the hyacenda.’
‘The what?’
‘The hyacenda--the ranch house.’ He looked at her reproachfully, ‘114 B. Two Shot: Buck and Pedro. Buck: “The dirty son-of-a-bitch. I’ll tear his guts out!”‘
Miss Kagle looked up, startled.
‘You want me to write that down?’
‘Sure.’
‘It won’t get by.’
‘I’m writing this. Of course, it won’t get by. But if I put “you rat” the scene won’t have any force.’
‘But won’t somebody have to change it to “you rat”?’
He glared at her--he didn’t want to change secretaries every day.
‘Harry Gooddorf can worry about that.’
‘Are you working for Mr Gooddorf?’ Miss Kagle asked in alarm.
‘Until he throws me out.’
‘I shouldn’t have said--’
‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘He’s no pal of mine anymore. Not at three-fifty a week, when I used to get two thousand . . . Where was I?’
He paced the floor again, repeating his last line aloud with relish. But now it seemed to apply not to a personage of the story but to Harry Gooddorf. Suddenly he stood still, lost in thought. ‘Say, what is it you got on him? You know where the body is buried?’
‘That’s too true to be funny.’
‘He knock somebody off?’
‘Mr Hobby, I’m sorry I ever opened my mouth.’
‘Just call me Pat. What’s your first name?’
‘Helen.’
‘Married?’
‘Not now.’
‘Well, listen Helen: What do you say we have dinner?’
II
On the afternoon of Christmas Day he was still trying to get the secret out of her. They had the studio almost to themselves--only a skeleton staff of technical men dotted the walks and the commissary. They had exchanged Christmas presents. Pat gave her a five dollar bill, Helen bought him a white linen handkerchief. Very well he could remember the day when many dozen such handkerchiefs had been his Christmas harvest.
The script was progressing at a snail’s pace but their friendship had considerably ripened. Her secret, he considered, was a very valuable asset, and he wondered how many careers had turned on just such an asset. Some, he felt sure, had been thus raised to affluence. Why, it was almost as good as being in the family, and he pictured an imaginary conversation with Harry Gooddorf.
‘Harry, it’s this way. I don’t think my experience is being made use of. It’s the young squirts who ought to do the writing--I ought to do more supervising.’
‘Or--?’
‘Or else,’ said Pat firmly.
He was in the midst of his day dream when Harry Gooddorf unexpectedly walked in.
‘Merry Christmas, Pat,’ he said jovially. His smile was less robust when he saw Helen, ‘Oh, hello Helen--didn’t know you and Pat had got together. I sent you a remembrance over to the script department.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
Harry turned swiftly to Pat.
‘The boss is on my neck,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to have a finished script Thursday.’
‘Well, here I am,’ said Pat. ‘You’ll have it. Did I ever fail you?’
‘Usually,’ said Harry. ‘Usually.’
He seemed about to add more when a call boy entered with an envelope and handed it to Helen Kagle--whereupon Harry turned and hurried out.
‘He’d better get out!’ burst forth Miss Kagle, after opening the envelope. ‘Ten bucks--just
ten bucks--
from an executive--after eighteen years.’
It was Pat’s chance. Sitting on her desk he told her his plan.
‘It’s soft jobs for you and me,’ he said. ‘You the head of a script department, me an associate producer. We’re on the gravy train for life--no more writing--no more pounding the keys. We might even--we might even--if things go good we could get married.’
She hesitated a long time. When she put a fresh sheet in the typewriter Pat feared he had lost.
