Screenland (Nov 1934-Apr 1935)

for April 19 5 5 87 " 'That's fine,' I told him. 'That's what I get for eatin' raw wine in Milan.' "Well, that was twenty. At thirty I thought I was washed up in vaudeville. I made up my mind to come out West, get a job managin' some little theatre, draw cartoons for the papers, play around in the sunshine, live like a human being. Then Ziegfeld hired me, and I stayed with him nine years. One 'Follies' after another, but not much sunshine. My racket was pantomime in those days, and the silents never gave me a tumble. The minute I started usin' dialogue, they made me an offer. Why?" Again his eyes crinkled in that amiably derisive grin. "Look for the answer in the back of the book, lady. / never found it. "That was when I was about forty. I played in seven silents and then I got the gate, and went back to the stage. But I was sick and tired of the stage — sick and tired of racin' over my dinner till I got indigestion and racin' off to a show. People in the theatrical business are supposed to be harum-scarum. Take it from me, there's no train in the world so on time as a ham actor. If he's on at 8:32, he's ready and waitin' in the wings at 8:31^ — whether his insides are twisted with colic or the thought that he's left his mother dying at home. Yes, I know — they've kidded the shirt off that line: 'The show must go on' — but they can't kid the truth out of it. "Anyway, I was fed to the gills with livin' in a trunk. Suppose you're playin' one-week stands in vaudeville. You arrive in town on Monday. The baggage man doesn't get your trunks in on time. You rush over to the theatre to rehearse your music and see that your props are set. You grab a sandwich or you don't, and rush back for your act. If things go wrong, you fuss and fume yourself into a stew, and by dinner time at five or six you're so upset that you're better off not to eat. You do your night show, prayin' it'll go better than the matinee. You know the critics are sittin' there, ready to_ roast hell out of you, so instead of bein' better, it's probably worse. You go home and drown your sorrows in sleep, and oversleep next day because Sunday night on the train you didn't sleep at all. After the matinee you unpack your trunk. You send out your laundry, and in the hope of gettin' it back by Friday night, you tell 'em you've got to have it Thursday mornin'. But they know you're a liar. "Wednesday's comparatively calm. All you have to do is find out when the train leaves and worry about how things are goin' to be in the next town. Thursday you start stewin' over your laundry, and find a gravy spot on the only decent suit you own. You dash to the tailor's and go down on your knees to him, and for double the regular fee and a couple of passes he promises to get the suit back to you next day. Next day's Friday, and you _ have to pack. The baggage man's comin' for your trunk at 7 in the morning. You ask him to come later but he can't. He's got a date to pitch horseshoes. Your laundry hasn't come. Between the matinee and the evening performance you dash over there. You can't swear at them, because they might get sore and play you a dirty trick. They promise to deliver it in an hour. You rush back to the theatre, then go home in fear and tremblin'. You open your door and peek in like a lovesick kid, waitin' for a letter from his sweetheart. No laundry, no suit. You control yourself because you know, if you don't, it's only yourself you're hurtin'. The baggage man wakes you at 6 :30 for your trunk. The laundry comes at 8. The suit doesn't come at all. You phone the tailor before the matinee, and he says he'll Poor Complexion? 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