Modern Screen (Jan-Jun 1945)

drums are punctured. That's why he's not in the Army, lady. His basic needs are fairly simple. Work. Friends. Music. Animals. Books. Recently he rented a house on a Hollywood hilltop — so high and inaccessible that the milk company refused to make deliveries. So he told them he had a six-weeks-old baby, and strung diapers on the line to prove it. One day the milkman turned inquisitive. "Where's that kid of yours? Never see him around." "Oh. He's out walking." "You don't say! Pretty advanced for his age." "Oh, not on his legs — in a carriage — the nursemaid wheels him — you know." "Yeah," said the milkman. "Well, give him my best regards." Sure, the milk still comes. For you and me it wouldn't, but for Bill it does. Since renting the house, he's annexed two dogs and a cat. Shillelagh, the setter — Bonnet, the dachshund — and Galla, the Siamese. Bonnet's the character. Does double takes like Durante. Loves perfume. Evenings, Bill takes them out. The dogs run, Galla's on leash, and Bill collects kindling. The fire's always going — even in summer, with all the doors open. He'd sooner live without a roof than a fireplace. The phonograph's always going, too. The radio he loathes. Threw one out of the window in New York. To save money, he was sharing a place with five boys who were bugs on radio. Turned it on in the morning and kept it on all day. Bill tried to be cooperative for a while. But this day he'd been out job hunting, and there weren't any jobs and probably never would be. As he opened the door, noise smote him between the eyes. He picked up the radio and dropped it into 11th Street. Next thing he knew, five guys were beating the tar out of him. He had to send home for his own radio, but not till they'd all put their fists to a contract — certain hours the damn thing could be played, and certain hours it couldn't. On working days he's in bed by 9:30. Wakes up at midnight and raids the icebox. Yearns for a garlic sandwich but settles for cheese, out of deference to his fellow -workers. Incidentally, he's a Grade-A cook. It started in Mars, where the kids helped Mom round the kitchen, and continued in New York. Alfred Lunt, a brilliant cook, gave a series of lessons at the Stage Door Canteen. The fee was purchase of a War Bond. Bill scraped pennies to buy one and took the course. Lunt had always been one of his idols, and he turned fairly starry-eyed when Alfred the Great came out with this gem of wisdom. "Good food has nothing to do with recipes. That's why men make better cooks than women. They've got more daring and imagination. If the book says rub the pan with garlic, woman rubs it. Man says what the hell, and chucks in a couple of cloves." Bill's sentiments exactly. He's been thrown out of New York's best eating places. Every new dish he tried, he'd go back and ask the chef how to make it. Now his meals are famous. Gets his pals together Saturday nights and feeds them. The service is something else again — casual, let's say. and about girls — . . . Five guests are his limit. More than six people in a room drive him crazy. On bridge nights they're four. Bill's a glutton for bridge — once played thirty-six hours straight. Generally plays with his standin, Tommy Noonan — Anne Baxter's standin, Betty Adair— and Winkie. He went to school with Winkie, who now runs a bookshop in LA. She's the girl he sees most of. Sometimes they doubledate with Anne and John Hodiak. Bill and Anne used to be rumored a romance, but he says they My mother could have j i J If only she had told me these intimate physical facts! 99 ""^^■ell it's happened. Jim has left me and never was there a better husband! I felt it coming — first his 'indifference' — then a decided resentment. 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