Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

and Unc, sitting there, holding their glasses. They both seemed very contented. And so, after a moment, he found himself pouring a drink. . . . "I went to bed dead drunk that night," he recalls, "and I was relaxed and happy for the first time I could remember, and glad I'd gone there to stay. I stayed two years, in fact, until about a year after I graduated from high school. Practically every night of those two years I got drunk. Not rowdy. Not out in bars. But home, just me and Aunt and Unc together, real quietly, slowly, friendly-like, watching our TV till the moment came when I just went to bed and forgot everything that had happened in my past and didn't care what happened in my future. Drunk. Happy. Glad I'd come to stay . . . The one thing I didn't count on, though, was getting sick. After high school. I'd taken on some jobs. Construction gangs, lifting crates in a TV factory, stuff like that. Heavy work. Sweat work. Almost like self-punishment work. Well, after a while, between the work and the drink, I got sick. I dropped about twenty pounds, to 115. I had headaches all the time, stomachaches, aches in the neck, the arms, everyplace. . . . Then one night Aunt and Unc had a talk with me. They said they didn't want to butt into my personal affairs, but that maybe what I needed was to get back to acting. We talked a long time, me saying that it was the last thing I wanted to do. ever, and them saying maybe now that I'd been away from it two years I would find it different to go back to, better. While they talked, I began to realize something. That these people had been carrying me for a long time now, that I was becoming a broken arm to them, that I'd never given them more than a few bucks a week and that maybe it was about time I did something to pay them back. So I said okay. And a few days later I got myself an agent ... I'd never had an agent before. Pop had always handled everything for me. But I signed with this fellow Carlos Alvarado now and I went back to work. There was plenty of work, mostly TV, some movies. And I started making plenty of money. The checks really came flying in and for the first time they were addressed to me and came to me. The money felt good. I payed back Aunt and Unc every cent I owed them. I bought a car, too, an old Ford jalopy, yeah, but the first thing I'd ever actually owned. It felt great sometimes at night to sit back and think I was paying my debts and had a car and that if I stuck with this acting thing I'd never have a debt again and own lots more things. Beatnik But in the morning, mornings I had to go to work, back to the studio, the feeling was different — lousy and sick again, as if getting out of bed and knowing that in a little while I'd be walking through that studio gate was like knowing I'd be walking right into my own coffin. The memories were still with me. My father. The big star I was supposed to be to him. School. The teachers calling me Snotty. The kids laughing, pushing, hitting, hating. The brand of Outcast, my label to the outside world. Me. me myself, running away from home and taking to drink and practically turning into a vegetable. And why? I knew why. That it was because of studios like this one I had to get up and go to that all this had happened to me. Because of that great industry known as the movies, TV, acting. Because of the big swell glamorous life you were supposed to get out of all this and never, except in few rare cases, did ... So one morning, waking up, thinking. I decided the hell with it all again, and I stayed in bed. I'd be a vegetable again, I figured. Nobody'll be hurt but me, so what difference did it make. I hung around. I didn't work — not at construction, not at acting, not at anything. I became a bum. I became a Beatnik bum, the worst kind. I didn't want any friends, but I couldn't take being alone either, so I joined the Hollywood coffee house herd, the weirdos in sandals and jeans, the phonies, the people who had settled for their misery. I wallowed in their company, in the stink of their life. And when, after about six months, I got my letter from Uncle Sam, telling me he wanted me to come serve in this man's Army, I couldn't have cared less. Even when, after basic training, they sent me up to Alaska and stationed me at Anchorage and I met a girl, a beautiful girl named Gloria Cross, a ballerina, and we thought we were in love, me for the first time in my life, and then her father forbade her to see me — he didn't like soldiers, he said; we were all a bunch of no -goods out for no good, he said — I didn't care. Even when, after Anchorage, they sent me up to the north part of Alaska and put me into a guinea-pig experimental outfit that had to live in fifty degree-below weather, I didn't care. I didn't care about anything anymore. I didn't care the day that sergeant with the big fat face, the one who used to roar with laughter every time he saw me and called me Little Beaver — Hollywood's Answer to the United States Army, the day he came and told me I was going to be court-martialed. I just didn't care about anything anymore. . . ." "I was caught stealing . . ." The Chaplain, a big Irishman, a Catholic priest, asked Bob to have a seat. "I've sent for you, Private," he said, smiling a little, "so that we could have a talk about this court-martial. A private talk." "There's nothing much to talk about," 150 FOR YOU! Fill in the form below (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) as soon as you've read all the stories in this issue. Then mail it to us right away. Promptness counts. Three $10 winners will be chosen from each of the following areas — on a basis of the date and time on your postmark: Eastern states; Southern s+ates; Midwestern states; Rocky Mountain and Pacific states; Canada. And even if you don't earn $10, you'll be glad you sent this ballot in— because you're helping us pick the stories you'll really love. MAIL TO: MODERN SCREEN POLL, BOX 2291, GRAND CENTRAL STATION, N. Y. 17, N. Y. Please circle the box to the left of the one 1. I LIKE DEBBIE REYNOLDS: B more than almost any star B a lot dO fairly well E very little B not at all GO am not very familiar with her I READ: B all of her story E part E none IT HELD MY INTEREST: [TJ super-completely B completely QTj fairly well B very little GO not at all 2. I LIKE ROBERT BLAKE: B more than almost any star B a lot [H fairly well B very little QD not at all GO am not very familiar with him I READ: UJ all of his story [Tj part GO none IT HELD MY INTEREST: [TJ super-completely QO completely GO fairly well GO very little GO not at all 3. I LIKE ELVIS PRESLEY: [TJ more than almost any star GO a lot GO fairly well GO very little GO not at all GO am not very familiar with him phrase which best answers each question: I READ: GO all of his story GO part GO none IT HELD MY INTEREST: E super-completely GO completely GO fairly well GO very little Q{] not at all 4. I LIKE ELIZABETH TAYLOR: GO more than almost any star GO a lot GO fairly well GO very little B not at all E am not very familiar with her I LIKE EDDIE FISHER: E more than almost any star GO a lot E fairly well E very little E not at all E am not very familiar with him I READ: B all of their story E part E none IT HELD MY INTEREST: E super-completely E completely E fairly well E very little E not at all 5. I LIKE DIANE BAKER: E more than almost any star E a lot E fairly well E very little E not at all E am not very familiar with her I READ: E all of her story E part E none IT HELD MY INTEREST: E super-completely E completely E fairly well E very little E not at all 6. I LIKE PAMELA LINCOLN: E more than almost any star E a lot E fairly well E very little E not at all E am not very familiar with her I LIKE DARRYL HICKMAN: E more than almost any star E a lot E fairly well E very little E not at all E am not very familiar with him I READ: E all of their story E part E none IT HELO MY INTEREST: E super-completely E completely E fairly well B very little E not at all