Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

22 Mir-** SCREEtfLAKD Cdifi™»» for his desk telephone. "Don't you want I should give you a little kiss?" "Why, Mr. Bloom !" protested the telephone operator who, at her switchboard down the hall, received this proposal. "I don't want to kiss you, Ruth," he explained hurriedly ; "my wife is here. What I want you to do is to locate Mr. Kendall and tell him his little boy is waiting for him over in the cafeteria." He sat down the telephone and turned inquiringly to his wife. "You can give me a little kiss if you want to," she said graciously; "then we'll talk about the favor. It's about Mr. Kendall." Mr. Bloom, who had stooped that he might take advantage of his wife's generous offer, straightened suddenly. "Oh, well," said his wife, philosophically, "one kiss more or less don't make so much difference " "It does to me," he assured her hastily and kissed her. "Abie," she said, "I ain't exactly comfortable." "Get up and take this one," he suggested, drawing toward her a chair more substantial than the swivel chair in which she sat. "The first thing you know you'll fall out of that merry-goaround." Not until she had transferred herself to the other chair did she speak. "I mean I ain't exactly comfortable in my mind," she told him then ; "I don't think you pay Mr. Kendall enough wages -" "You don't think!" he burst out hotly; then had the good fortune to remember to whom he was addressing himself: "Go on and have your say. Then I'll talk," he added in much milder accents. His wife stroked his arm. "You fly up for nothing," she smiled indulgently. "If you knew all about Mr. Kendall, you'd give him a raise or overtime or something." "I am going to give him something," said Mr. Bloom to himself ; "I'm going to give him the gate." "Stop thinking and listen to me," commanded his wife : "I didn't know till this morning that Mrs. Kendall is the lady who is so sick in that bungalow court near the gas station." "Which gas station?" inquired Mr. Bloom. "In Hollywood there is more than one gas station." "There is only one Mrs. Kendall," was the unperturbed reply. "Some of us members of the Wednesday Afternoon Ladies' Club got to talking and as soon as I heard it was Mrs. Kendall who is sick I went right over." "What did you bring her?" asked Mr. Bloom, who knew his wife. "Nothing," said Mrs. Bloom; "nothing except some of my home made apricot preserves with a little pineapple in it, the kind that you're always eating too much of, and some of my home-made strawberries, the kind that stays red in the jar, and " "All right," he said hastily. "And what did you find?" "I found a very sick lady. She should be out on the desert or up in the mountains. And she should have a better doctor. Of course she thinks she's going to get well right away, but you know them cases, Abie. They don't get well unless they get the best of care. Now, what I want you to do is to raise Mr. Kendall's wages so he can give it to her." "Mamma," said Mr. Bloom, getting slowly to his feet and biting his lip to nerve himself for the task that confronted him; "Mamma, do you know what it is rushes?" "It's got something to do with the fillums," she guessed. "It's got lots to do with the fillums," he told her. "The rushes is the stuff we shoot yesterday and look at today. It shows us how the picture is coming along " "I should think you could tell that by looking at the picture," she said. "Now about Mr. Kendall " "Rushes is part of the picture," said Mr. Bloom. "Now if you'll come with me and look at the rushes you'll know why I ain't going to give Mr. Kendall any more money, any more money at all." "I'll go with you and look at anything you want to show me," she said, rising; "but that don't mean that you ain't going to give Mr. Kendall some more money and give it to him right away." "When you see what I've got to show you, you'll agree with me," he said confidently as he hurried to the door. "I'll agree with you," said his wife, amiably, as she followed at a more leisurely pace ; "I'll agree with you if you'll agree with me." Their destination was the projection room, a long, narrow, windowless shed that sprawled beside Stage No. 2, which was a towering structure of glass and canvas. It was the only stage Mr. Bloom owned and why he should have named it Stage No. 2 was as much a mystery as why he should have numbered his two studio cars Nos. 26 and 27. Nearing the stage, he was several lengths in the lead, but his wife, puffing along in his wake, brought him to a halt by hailing him in a voice which he knew better than to disregard. "You say you can't afford to raise Mr. Kendall's pay," she said, reproachfully, as she came up to him; "but I see you got two cameras on that stage , number two, and the amount of electric light you burn here in the day time is positively disgraceful." "I can't make pictures without electric light," he said patiently, "and them cameras is one for the American negative and one for the foreign negative, and " "Never mind," she interrupted; "why don't you make your pictures like you used to when you first begun to make pictures — all outdoors?" "It ain't art," he said, as condescendingly as he dared. "Five years ago I couldn't afford to have lots of classy interiors " "Five years ago you were getting more interest on your investment," she told him. "Aw, come on, Mamma," he pleaded, taking her hand. ( "You know many times you've told me it ain't polite to argue ih public. Come with me and I'll hand you the convincer." She permitted herself to be led into the long, bare projection room and handed to one of a dozen or more theatre seats which were banked on a low platform at one end. There she sat and looked down the length of the room to the white sheet which covered the wall at the farther end. "More light being wasted," she sniffed, as her eyes traveled from a cluster of lights that were set in the low ceiling to more light which drifted in through a slit in the wall behind her and above her. "Make yourself at home, Mamma," said Mr. Bloom; "I'll be back in a minute. I got to tell Bill something." He was back in less than a minute. Indeed, he had not really gone away, but standing upon one of the seats in the top row had engaged in a whispering conversation with some unseen functionary whose voice, at intervals in Mr. Bloom's earnest conversation, was audible in the lighted booth that overlooked the projection room. "I can't hear you," said Mr. Bloom, with a trace of annoyance ; "talk louder." "Who's the chicken?" asked in a hoarse whisper the man in the booth. "It ain't a chicken," was Mr. Bloom's horrified response; "it's my wife." "Oh!" said a deeply disappointed voice from above. "Abie," inquired Mrs. Bloom, "did you come in here to show me something or did you come in here to gibble gabble?" "We are ready to go ahead," he answered in his best dignified manner. "Bill, you can let 'er flicker." The lights in the ceiling went out and a red light glowed in the darkness at the farther end of the room. "What's the danger?" asked Mrs. Bloom.