Moving Picture World (Jan-Feb 1927)

January 22, 1927 MOVING PICTURE WORLD 257 The Short Short Story of a Movie Man Whose Ambitions Led Him to Look Too High “And a perfect lady, to o,” h e raved. “Do you want to get into the movies ?” 1 14 Tim „ IliMBEB, By SurrmeT* Smith.. rLWAYS there is something wrong with my stars,” mourned Samuel Schwartzenwalder, producer. ‘‘Yvonne is to tiny that I oughta put her in short dresses, Mary gets tight every Friday night and bruises easy, and Florabelle’s feet cast shadows. Now where can I find me a nice young girl with oodles of looks and personality; one I can train to be a nice actress and farm out to Mr. Zukor and Mr. Loew now that our pictures can’t find bookings. If I had such a girl, maybe I could buy a few theatres myself.” “You just leave it to me,” consoled Peter Patzkampf, first-aid man. “I’ll find you one sure.” “Always you are good on the promises,” remarked Sam. “But you should say ‘no’ once in a while. Maybe you are one of these ‘yes men’ that the magazines write about. For why did you make me sign up Florabelle? Ugh, such feet! The fillum critic of the Daily Gossip said she could walk on water.” “Well, we was going to use her in a football picture,” retorted Peter. “Never mind about talking back to me,” Sam lectured. “All right, I take you up. You find me a nice young star that maybe Mr. Zukor and Mr. Loew will go crazy over. You send her to me out on the Coast. I’m going tomorrow.” For two weeks Peter combed New York City for screen talent. But though he became a familiar object of every stage door guardian along Broadway, not a single girl did he discover who could be depended on to put it over for the boss. And for himself too, Peter mused. He dimly suspected that his job hung in the balance. Why had he let himself in for a definite assignment? This girl’s eyes were set too close together, that girl had high cheek bones. Othors were temperamental, or hadn’t an ounce of brains in their heads, or were anchored in New York by reason of profitable love affairs. Only one good prospect did he run across. But she was red-headed, and Peter, understanding the boss’s domestic situation, knew that he would throw her out of the studio. So, at the end of the second week, the first-aid man was desperate. “Why,” he muttered, as he entered a cigar store on Sixth avenue, “am I such a no-luck guy. With the thousands of girls in the city, I can’t find a sure-fire one cheap.” He turned his attention to the showcase. “The Corona Coronas.” “Yes, sir.” The melodious voice, as rich and vibrant as contralto’s, made Peter look up. His eyes bulged. A goddess stood behind the counter. “What a pip !” he exclaimed in ecstasy. “I beg your pardon, sir I” she said indignantly. “And you are not a flip girl either 1” cried Peter. “Sir!” she said, “leave this place at once!” “No, no,” begged Peter. “I apologize. It is the result of too great emotion. It is not that I try to vamp you.” He studied her. Such a paragon of beauty ! And behind a cigar store counter ! Her perfect head, crowned with blonde hair unspoiled by shears, was thrown back indignantly. Her dark eyes flashed. Her figure to the edge of the show case was perfect — absolutely perfect. Peter walked around the show case and observed her figure in full. “What a pip !” he repeated. A cigar box crashed into his face. “And a perfect lady, too,” he raved. “Say, wait a minute. Do you want to get into the movies?” “Oh, sir,” she said. “I’m admiring you impersonally, that’s all,” reassured Peter. “Maybe I can make you a big star.” Even her feet, Peter noted, were trim and neat. What a goddess! “How much do they pay you here?” he asked. “Twenty dollars a week.” “I give you a three months’ contract at fifty dollars a week and a free trip to the boss in Hollywood.” “Oh, sir,” she breathed, and signed the paper. “The ticket will be sent to you,” Peter explained, “You will leave tomorrow, yes?” “Absolutely,” she replied. “You’ll excuse the cigar box? I didn’t know I had met a perfect gentleman.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said Peter carelessly. “You don’t know what you going to do for me, and my job.” The next day the office boy took her to the train, and she was on her way to Hollywood. Peter celebrated. For a week he sampled every liquid and culinary delicacy that New York afforded. As the week drew to a close he rubbed his hands and smiled so incessantly that everyone said, “For why, Peter? Have you made your million dollars?” At last came the long awaited telegram from the boss. Peter ripped it open joyously. “Are you crazy,” he read. “I’ve seen plenty of girls with wooden heads, but never before one with a wooden leg. You’re fired !”