Screenland (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

6,8 SCREENLAND A Real Day With Robert Taylor music while he's driving, wherever he goes to eat, and Joe has orders to turn on the living-room radio the minute Bob's awake. Melodies flood the house and Joe flicks on the music when Bob's car rolls into the driveway after a day at the studio. You know how many folks try to awe you with their zeal for classical pieces ? Bob studied the cello for years and he can appreciate the finest symphonies. But he hasn't a piano — because "I can't play one." He tunes in on classical numbers "only when I'm in the mood, which seems to be seldom." He thrills, frankly, to swing rhythm. "Bennie Goodman's orchestra is tops in my estimation. Next I search for Lud Gluskin. The Casa Loma band is third choice." His pet songs are I'll Get By, Avalon, China Boy, and When Did You Leave Heaven.' Joe brought in orange juice, toast and coffee, and served it on the coffee table before the fireplace in the living-room. "Guess you'll have to take a beating on your breakfast," mine host smiled. "I hate breakfast myself; it's a hideous ordeal for me, getting up and suddenly commencing to eat. And I can't ask Joe to bring in more — for there isn't anything else in the house !" The refrigerator at Bob Taylor's is bare — except for cream and butter ! I was stumbling onto one of the most amazing, hitherto undisclosed Taylor idiosyncrasies. Bob is not to be won via his stomach ! He actually classifies food as just a necessary evil, and meals are routines to be rushed through. All you who aspire to be Mrs. Taylor can now not only stop struggling with the Harvard Classics, but you can throw away your jolly old cook-book. If you slave over a hot stove it's love's labor lost. "I have breakfast, such as it is, out here in the living-room," Bob went on to explain. "I can't stand formality in meals and I don't like to sit in there at the diningroom table. I don't have any other food here because I hate to eat at home." "But don't you get tired of restaurants?" "I've been eating in them since I was five, and I'm not tired of them yet," he vowed. I gasped, "But — when you were at home with your parents — ?" "We ate out," he retorted. "We liked to !" Still, here's more surprising data on Bob. He never touches vegetables, salads, or fruits — the orange juice in the morning being his only concession. "I don't like any kind of vegetables. Spinach ? Ugh ! Carrots, and lettuce, and apples — ? I've never liked anything like that and never indulge." Bob goes for meat and potatoes and gravy, with ample salting. The easier to swallow, the better. He avoids steaks that have bones — "too much trouble to cut around the bone" — and requests ground steak ! He doesn't care for a cocktail before dinner. "So far as I'm concerned, they could eliminate all hors-d'oeuvres and desserts, also." Fashionable lingering over coffee cups bores him. "I should be Continental, but I'm not !" Don't forget to keep the merry music on, though. After we finished breakfast Bob retired to put on brown slacks and a white polo shirt and comfortable golf shoes. He never wears a suit until he has to. He remembered his" desk in the corner of the livingroom. "Mind if I do something there before we go forth?" I didn't, naturally, so he phoned his secretary, who lives at his mother's. "Bring over the photos you have for me to sign," he instructed her. Bob won't let anyone, even her, autograph a picture for him. Every single photograph Continued from page 23 for which a dime or a quarter is enclosed to help cover costs carries his very own personal greeting. He was relating how he values the letters that reach him when the secretary came. For an hour and a half I watched him read and write. By 11:15 he was through. Paulette Goddard very chic in a swagger fur coat. When do you start that new film, Paulette? "How about that ride?" I inquired, fancying a spin in Bob's tan Packard Twelve phaeton. "Okay," he chuckled. "Let's go!" He led me to the garage. (There is a ping-pongtable on his back lawn). "Better stand outside until I back her out." There was a noise akin to the China Clipper taking off, a violent crescendo of sputters, and out backed Bob Taylor in the goshdarndest strip-down racer you've ever seen ! There were no fenders and remarkably little of the body was left. The wheels were specially braced and when I clambered in I was practically pals with a red-hot exhaust pipe — the enterprising Mr. Taylor had eagerly ripped out the floorboard ! "I wangled this from a race-track demon. He paid a lot for it. Look-it how the motor's hopped up. You can whoop up to 70 in a few blocks," Bob gloated. But, having due respect for Beverly's traffic cops, he chugged us toward a handy canyon at a modest speed. Once on a clear, little-traveled road, he monkeyed with the muffler and opened the cut-out. He's crazy about the noise-making traits of this car — his Packard's annoyingly quiet. With a roar we shot ahead, and I was on the ride of a life-time. Bob tingled with a furious pleasure at the 80-mile speed — and_ I held on for dear life. The wind ruffled his thickhair, but, fortunately, not into his eyes. He brought me back alive ! When he slowed down and turned around, we drove into the city through the canyon where Bob starts building next month. He's going to own his first home, and it'll be a rambling Early American farmhouse. "Filling it with antiques?" I probed. "Don't like 'em !" he responded. "I'm having all the furniture built, so it'll be appropriate and yet modern." As we lurched into his drive-way again I wondered why he had no suntan set-up in the rear patio. "I never take sun-baths," he asserted. "A tan's keen if I can get it while I'm swimming or playing tennis ; but I haven't the patience to just lie still and let the sun pour on me." He proposed lunch at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, so we could get out on the courts there afterwards. Bob hasn't joined a super-social club. "To me a club's for the sport; I don't want to sit about having cocktails. I want to be able to get mussed up and not have to give a hoot." When he'd changed into tennis ducks and shoes we rated the Packard. He's never had the top up, reveling in invigorating breezes. When it rains, and usually to and from the studio, he uses the new Ford coupe he's invested in. In the quiet tennis club restaurant the radio was turned on at his entrance. He ordered hot cakes with tiny sausages, a fried egg, and coffee. (Well, he's never had a stomachache yet ! ) . Then we went to my defeat. Lately Bob's been squeezing in considerable tennis practice and the best way of estimating the wallop in his serve and the finesse with which he places the ball teasingly on the line»is to attempt to trim him. When I was trimmed 8-6, and 6-2, a friend with whom Bob plays frequently stepped in and Bob showed him up magnificently. Instead of showering in the locker room. Bob headed straight for home. "I don't object to changing clothes if I can do it at the house. I'm funny — I accustom myself to things and then prefer familiar surroundings. I like a particular shower and don't want any part of any other; I adjust the lights on my bathroom mirror and park my pipe holder on the mantle; I've a hankering, then, for things to be where they belong." Well-brought-up young man ! While he was having a quick shower I had a chance to play with Bob's dog, the most beautiful brown Irish setter in Hollywood. I noticed the ribbons the dog has captured in local kennel shows were on the desk. Joe confided that his master never entertains at home. "He's not given a single party. Mr. Taylor doesn't care for dinner parties. He isn't here much. He's on the go as much as he can be." "You bet I am," announced Bob, emerging in a gray suit. "Pardon me while I make an urgent call !" I couldn't help listening — over the radio's interference, even. Would Barbara be free to go to the movies tonight ? Oh, great ! He'd be by at eight. (He isn't slushy, you see). If Bob weren't so polite I'm sure he'd have added that the intervening hour-anda-half would be awfully long. Joe tactfully reminded him of the two suits that had been at the tailor's for six months. Bob, it seems, detests fittings, and postpones them. We got into the good car again — chauffeuring is as unnecessary an art for Joe as cooking — and zoomed up to Sunset Boulevard and the swank tailor shop there. Bob was received with extra consideration, but there was no silly fawning upon him. He joked and never let on that he didn't relish the fitting. He's not a growler, ever. He shops as little as possible — because he doesn't enjoy the parking problem ! I hadn't learned quite all. Bob invited me to dine with him. He always patronizes one of three favorite cafes on Wilshire Boule