My Story (10 page)

When we were sitting in the living room Mr. Schenck said to me, “How are things going at the studio?”

I smiled at him because I was glad he hadn't had a hand in my being fired.

“I lost my job there last week,” I said.

Mr. Schenck looked at me and I saw a thousand stories in his face—stories of all the girls he had known who had lost jobs, of all the actresses he had heard boasting and giggling with success and then moaning and sobbing with defeat. He didn't try to console me. He didn't take my hand or make any promises. The history of Hollywood looked out of his tired eyes at me and he said, “Keep going.”

“I will,” I said.

“Try X Studio,” Mr. Schenck said. “There might be something there.”

When I was leaving Mr. Schenck's house I said to him, “I'd like to ask you a personal question. Do I look any different to you than I used to?”

“You look the same as always,” said Mr. Schenck, “only get some sleep and quit crying.”

“Thank 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 wanted
me 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.

“Hello, 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.”

“I don't think I can leave,” I said. “I'm waiting for Mr. A. He telephoned me about a part.”

“The 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.

“Turn around,” said the great man. I turned like a model.

“You look all right,” he grinned. “Nicely put together.”

I said, “Thank you.”

“Sit 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 had
won 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.

“Hold 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.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

“It's very beautiful,” I said.

“You're invited,” he said. He put his hand on my neck.

“Thank you,” I said. “I've never been to a party on a yacht.”

“Who said anything about a party,” the great man scowled at me. “I'm inviting you, nobody else. Do you want to come, or not?”

“I'll be glad to join you and your wife on your yacht, Mr. X.,” I said.

The great man looked fiercely at me.

“Leave my wife out of this,” he said. “There'll be nobody on the yacht except you and me. And some expensive sailors. We'll leave in an hour. And we'll take a cruise overnight. I have to be back tomorrow evening for my wife's dinner party. No way of getting out of it.”

He stopped and scowled at me again.

“What's the idea of standing there and staring at me,” he demanded, “like I had insulted you. I know who you are. You're Joe Schenck's girl. He called me up to do him a favor and give you a job. Is that a reason for you to get insulting?”

I smiled at the great man.

“I don't mean to be insulting, Mr. X,” I said.

“Good,” he was beaming again. “We'll have a fine cruise, and I can tell you now, you won't regret it.”

He put his arms around me. I didn't move.

“I'm very grateful to you for the invitation, Mr. X,” I said, “but I'm busy this week and so I shall have to refuse it.”

His arm dropped from me. I started for the door. He stood still, and I felt I had to say something else. He was a great man, and he held my future in his hands. Seducing employees was just a normal routine for him. I mustn't act as if I thought he was some kind of monster, or he would never—

I turned in the doorway. Mr. X was standing glaring at me. I had never seen a man so angry. I made my voice as casual and friendly as I could.

“I hope you invite me some time again when I can accept your invitation,” I said.

The great man pointed his finger at me.

“This is your last chance,” he said fiercely.

I walked through the door and out of the office where movie stars were made.

“Maybe he's watching me,” I thought. “I mustn't let him see me upset.”

I drove to my room in my car. Yes, there was something special about me, and I knew what it was. I was the kind of girl they found dead in a hall bedroom with an empty bottle of sleeping pills in her hand.

 

 

But things weren't entirely black—not yet. They really never are. When you're young and healthy you can plan on Monday to commit suicide, and by Wednesday you're laughing again.

After lying around for a few days feeling sorry for myself and feeling what a failure I was, something would come back into my heart again. I wouldn't say things out loud, but I could hear them as if voices were talking to me, get up, you haven't begun yet, you're different, something wonderful is going to happen.

And wonderful things did happen on the ocean bottom—in a small way.

I met kind people.

I had met a married couple who lived in Burbank in a small house. They said to me one evening while I was visiting them, “We're going away for a few months. Why don't you just live in our house while we're gone and save rent?”

I moved my suitcase and make up box to Burbank. I owned one suit, two plain dresses, two pairs of shoes, some darned stockings, a little lingerie, and a bathrobe. Moving wasn't hard.

It was around Christmas time, and I was worrying about where I would get money to buy a few Christmas presents with. It had been fun buying presents when I was on the studio payroll. I bought them chiefly for Aunt Grace or Aunt Anna.

When Aunt Grace was ill I would go shopping a whole day for her and buy a silk bed jacket, silk slippers, a fancy nightgown, and a bottle of perfume. I would put them all in one box and take it to her. Her happiness on seeing all the things in the box was worth a thousand times more than what they had cost.

This Christmas everything seemed extra gloomy. Not only had I flopped in my career, but there was a laziness in me that kept me from getting jobs. I preferred to lie around feeling sorry for myself and thinking how cruel and unfair the world was. As a result I didn't have any money. Even to eat, let alone to spend on presents.

Then one day I received word from the studio that I had forty dollars coming to me. I hurried over and collected it. The cashier handed me a check for the money. I was so excited I left the studio forgetting to cash it.

When I got off the bus in Hollywood Boulevard to do some shopping I didn't have a dime in my purse. I went into a drugstore and ate dinner, and then I offered to pay with the check. The manager refused to cash it, but he said he'd trust me if I'd give him my name and address. I did.

Then I went out and tried to cash the check in different places. Nobody would cash it.

I saw a policeman looking at me; so I went up to him.

“Pardon me, officer,” I said. “Could you help me please? I want to get a check cashed, and I don't know where.”

He smiled and said, “Well, that is a serious predicament. Come along, I'll see what I can do. What sort of a check is it?”

“It's a payroll check,” I said, “from the 20th Century Fox studio.”

“Are you employed there?” the policeman asked.

“I'm not employed there any longer,” I said. “But they are still in business.”

The policeman took me into a store. He spoke to the manager who agreed to cash the check.

“So you're an actress,” said the policeman.

“I used to be,” I said, “but, as I told you, I'm not working at the moment.”

The manager brought the check back and said, “Would you mind putting your name and address on the back of this?”

I did and noticed the policeman watching me write. I also looked at his face for the first time. He had dark hair and his eyes were close together.

After doing my shopping, I stopped in a doctor's office. I had a cold, and I had not slept for several nights. The doctor gave me a sleeping pill.

“I don't usually recommend sleeping pills,” he said, “but you've been having hysterics too long. A good sleep will not only be good for your cold but cheer you up.”

I went to bed early and took the pill. I'd been sleeping for a few hours when a noise woke me. I'd never heard this sort of noise before, but I knew what it was. Somebody was cutting the screen of the bedroom window.

I jumped out of bed and ran out of the house. I went around the side to look. A man was starting to climb into my bedroom window. I imitated a gruff male voice and called indignantly, “Hey, what are you doing there?”

The man pulled his head out of the window and looked toward me.

“Get away from here,” I shouted again in a gruff voice, “or I'll call the police.”

The man started toward me. I turned and ran like sixty.

It was around midnight. I ran down the deserted suburban street. I was barefooted, and I was wearing the new style of half nightgown. It came just a little below the waist.

I arrived at a neighbor's house and yelled. He came down with his wife behind him. She started yelling when she saw me. I explained about the man trying to break into my bedroom and asked the neighbor to go capture him.

The neighbor shook his head.

“The fellow probably has a gun,” he said. “Burglars usually carry them.” “He's not a burglar,” I said. “He was after me.”

I telephoned the police and covered myself with a quilt. The police took an hour to arrive. I went back to the house with them. They found the cut screen and footprints and everything.

“Well, you scared him off,” the detective said. “You have nothing to worry about. You can go back to bed.”