Screenland (Feb-Oct 1949)

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Send $1.00 (silver finish) or $2.00 (gold finish; to: HOUSE OF IRWIN 1958 GlENCOE WAY, HOLLYWOOD 28, CALIF. of John's hotel room and found a sign fluttering from the doorknob. "Do Not Disturb," it read. Marie ignored this suggestion with a right cross to the door. From within, a sleepy voice inquired, "What's the big idea . . . Holy Moses! What time . . . WHO'S that? Gosh, it's my wedding day!" Fortunately, his tone was jubilant, or it might not have been his wedding day. John was still a groom when he earned another absent-minded professor demerit. He was to read a script for a celebrated producer this particular morning, so he was understandably nervous. As he dressed, he outlined the producer's past successes for an attentive Marie. "But I'll have to be careful," John said, and recited a long list of the man's idiosyncrasies. He paused at the door. "Wish me luck, darling," he said. "Are you going like that?" queried his wife. "My best shirt. My best shoes. My best suit. My best hat. What more can I do?" "Well, I don't know this particular producer," admitted Marie carefully, "but I think almost anyone might be dubious about a man who arrived for an interview, unshaven." John, in his preoccupation, had forgotten all about his regular every morning shaving ritual. In this instance, disgrace was averted However, John — dashing to his meeting with the producer — could remember times when his dignity had received a compound fracture, and his reputation had suffered total collapse. How well he remembered being sixteen, a vulnerable age. How well he remembered waiting in the doorway of an unlighted, time-blackened building for the home-bound bus. Because the night had been dark, the weather chill, and his boredom intense, John had started to recite poetry — aloud. As a matter of fact, he declaimed. With gestures. When he heard the bus coming, he emerged from his cranny and discovered that he had not been alone. He had amassed an audience of one, a man who was a casual local acquaintance, living in John's general neighborhood. The man followed John onto the bus. John made a decision. In preference to allowing this man to think him the sort of adult character of sixteen who would stand in doorways reciting poetry, John decided to play drunk. All the way home, he mumbled and made faces, glowered and talked to himself. His actions certainly gave alcohol a bad name. They didn't help the name of Lund either. John's ego had barely recovered from this mauling when he became further involved in the mad antics of humankind. He was walking home from a school function with a very pretty girl one night when she said suddenly, "It's so cold and we still have such a long way to walk that I think a cup of hot chocolate would be delicious. We could stop right here." "I'm awfully sorry," John confessed, "but I'm stony." He turned his pockets shady side out. "That's nothing," laughed the little lady. "I have plenty of money. Come on." Before John could demur, she had entered the restaurant and was on her way to a table. When the check arrived for one cup of chocolate for John, two cups of chocolate, a chicken sandwich and a slice of chocolate cake for the party's financial backer, she dived into her purse, told John to hold out his hand, and began to unload a purseful of PENNIES. John had to count out one dollar and twenty-five cents in pennies to the cashier, a superior woman whose expression read from left to right, "Mice in the attic." Maturity brought John no noticeable protection against the suggestion that he might be a trifle — er — eccentric. On the occasion of his first important radio show, long before he had learned the meaning of various radio terms, he was told that the radio company would rehearse, do a show, rehearse and repeat. He had no idea what "repeat" in this instance meant. When the director said there would be a break at noon, and the company would do the "repeat" at two o'clock, Mr. Lund blithely assumed that the actual broadcast was called a "repeat." Judith Anderson was the star of the show. John admired her immensely, but he was mildly puzzled when — during what John presumed was the eleven o'clock rehearsal — she was far more nervous than one would expect so great and accomplished an actress to be. John gave his best to the "rehearsal," but it was a relaxed, self-assured performance. He did a little pantomime clowning with the program director, although he read his script with all the forensic zeal in his system. Then he learned that the "rehearsal" had been the BIG broadcast for eastern stations. The two o'clock "repeat" was the broadcast for the western audience. And at that performance, Miss Anderson was the soul of poise, whereas Mr. Lund shook so hard that he couldn't even see the script. Pitfalls, pitfalls — always there were pitfalls for a man who only wanted to be considered an average, sensible citizen. When John first came to Hollywood, he was writing radio scripts for one of the country's leading advertising agencies, B. B. D. & O. One evening he was wandering down Hollywood Boulevard when he caught sight of a familiar face. Both men stopped. The nice chap from New York was accompanied by an exceptionally pretty girl who was introduced merely as "my wife." Try as he would, John couldn't recall the boy's name; he merely knew that he and the boy had worked together in a play perhaps, or maybe in radio, in New York. Nice chap though, John remembered. Talented. The conversation revolved around mutual friends in New York, the radio business, new plays. The young man was noticeably silent on what he, himself, was doing at that particular time. John thought sympathetically, "Trying for a picture break, probably." 64 ScREENLAND