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22: The Sorrows of Satan
/C"N HORTLY after Paramount gave me my starring contract I ^<3\ developed an acute case of Hollywood's favorite ailment— \s^jP ulcers. A couple of eminent specialists poked, stethoscoped, X-rayed, and fmoroscoped me but failed to diagnose or cure my pains.
It wasn't their fault; I happened to have a very bashful ulcer. It was the retiring or hide-and-seek type. Several years later, when X-ray equipment was improved, they found it and explained to me that my trouble was hypertension.
In my early days of stardom I had plenty of that, for I was trying to handle all my business affairs without assistance. I had no agent, not even a secretary. Every day was a jumble of appointments, phone calls, and social engagements combined with the strain of picture making.
Finally, I realized that I had to have a manager or I would soon be cutting out paper dolls. But it was no easy matter to find the right person. I needed someone who could fight my battles with Lasky, tactfully remove misty-eyed spinsters from my doorstep, explain to star-struck high-school girls that I was not a candidate for their affections, threaten persistent stock salesmen with violence, answer fan mail, impersonate me over the telephone, be my constant shadow, work unconscionable hours, and still love me like a brother even when I had the stomach-ache. Since I had a brother who was at that time manager of the Manhattan advertising office of the Brooklyn Eagle, it was a simple matter to get him on the phone and offer him the job. The moment he accepted I dropped all my problems into his broad lap.
Hank hustled around and found us a furnished apartment on
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