Screenland (Apr-Sep 1924)

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Your money back if not satisfactory. AMERICAN NOVELTY CO., 2455 Archer Ave., Chicago QfZlass — A Story of Hollywood—from page 45. NEXT MONTH another article by Tamar Lane Ready July first Arising at seven-thirty, Fanette would rush through her toilet except for the strata of facial pigment, the application of which consumed fifteen minutes. She would not have been bad looking if anyone had seen her original face. Hair which nature had made soft brown to go with an olive complexion was not only henna-rinsed and cut off within an inch of its life, but what remained of it was frizzed into kinks no white person ever came by honestly. Mrs. Bischel would wait on her daughter at breakfast and urge her to have an egg. Fanette would murmur "no time" between mouthfulls of cold cereal and her mother would say, "If you got up when I called you. . . " which Fanette would intercept with "Hurry up with the coffee Ma, I'm late." This constituted the daily dozen words between them. They were fond of each other but like many people of their type were inarticulate. Demonstrative maternal and filial love had its place and that was in the movies. On the way to the subway she would buy a newspaper that made reading easy, telling its stories in pictures. She would peruse it from first page to last, kept from swaying as the train lurched by an equal pressure of humanity on all sides. She reached the office just in time to look settled when old Wilcox or Jones came in. She lunched on a tuna fish sandwich and a chocolate nut sundae, except the days when it was a pimento sandwich and a banana split. If the minutes she spent in the dressing-room retrieving a cupid's bow that had lost itself in luncheon, and patting imaginary stray hairs into place could be stretched end to end, it would take several weeks a year from her service to Messrs. Wilcox and Jones. The evening subway ride differed from the morning one in that Fanette's attention was centered in a serial story of married life and advice on problems of the heart. Dinner at the Bischel home was a simple meal with plenty of food and little service. Sometimes Fanette helped her mother dry the dishes, more often not. She was an only child and "spoiled" her mother would say, proudly. All days were more or less alike. And then a wonderful thing happened. Fanette bid adieu to dusty files, to the subway crush, to the drab flat. One Saturday afternoon she waved a light farewell to her mother and a few friends from the observation platform of the Twentieth Century, Ltd. The philosopher who said truth was stranger than fiction uttered a folio-full. Some washerwomen win derby sweepstakes and retire to palaces; the entire course of a coolie's life is often deflected by the lottery, and the fluctuations of Wall Street have performed more miracles than Merlin. Fanette had gambled and won. She had capitalized the one thing in which she excelled, her knowledge of the movies. HpHE daily paper which had been supplyJL ingjier with the news of the world had been running a contest on its last page. Each day an unfamiliar photograph of a film star would appear and the contestants were to guess who it was, the reward for the highest number of correct answers being a thirty-day trip to the American Mecca, Hollywood, all expenses paid. Each day for months Fanette had mailed in a picture with the name of an actor or actress neatly written on the first dotted line and her own name and address on the other two. Some weeks after the publication of the last picture Fanette received notice to come to the newspaper office with some of her photographs. She was congratulated, interviewed and duly presented with yards of railroad ticket and a letter of credit. II as the departing train slowly drew her x\ back from the platform and the figures merged into a waving mass, Fanette smiled. "Remember me to Mary and Doug," "Be sure and get all the dope," "Be careful about signing a contract" — parting phrases of her facetious friends rang in her ears. "Ain't it just like a book!" she mused, visualizing herself as the frontispiece. She was conscious of the chic of her little brown toque, though she would have pronounced it to rhyme with wick, and she knew that her tan crepe de chine dress didn't look home-made and that her stockings were nuder than skin itself. It was difficult for .Fanette, as for most people unused to dining cars, to avoid staring into the mouth of the person across the table. She looked out of the window, down at her plate, across the aisle and out of the window again; everywhere but at the lady opposite. On one of her occular excursions she encountered a pair of merry blue eyes looking at her. "I wonder if that fresh guy thinks I owe him something," thought she. The "fresh guy" sat alone across the aisle at one of the smaller tables and his eyes rested on Fanette, perhaps because she was the most eye-resting object within the radius of his vision which comprised two school teachers on a holiday, the back of a bald head and some negro waiters. Fanette returned his stare with a look of challenge. Romance didn't wear a moustache and a soft collar, none too clean. They finished dinner at the same time and as they walked back through the train he held the doors of the cars open for her — Lawanda, Turlbut, Braxton. Such silly names for cars was her thought. "Don't they give the cars ridiculous names?" he said. "That's just what I was thinking." "I'm psychic." "I'm in Braxton," she replied and wondered why he laughed. His teeth were rather nice, under the mustache, reminded