The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

Rather Warm for Christmas A SHORT STORY By CURT SIODMAK w HEN Jack Kelton came out of the house on Rodeo Drive, Clayworth, the colored man, was in the back seat of the Cadillac, attaching a sprig of holly to the rear visor. Just then a railway express truck cut a short curve and came up the driveway. Kelton watched the expressmen. They pulled parcels out of the overloaded wagon, dumped them one after another on the lawn, checked their invoices, hurried around into the cab and backed out of the driveway. The parcels, sprawled out over the lawn, seemed to litter up the place. "Mrs. Kelton wants you to pick up the handbags she ordered on Beverly Drive. She wants you to take the handbags to the studio," Clayworth said, getting out of the car. He had a highpitched voice. "I better put the address of the store in the car or else you forget." He squeezed a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. "Mrs. Kelton says you better be home early, sir. You better on account of all the drunken drivers." Kelton slid into the car. "Want to have the top down?" Clayworth said. "It's warm today, warmest Christmas I remember." "Everybody says that every Christmas out here," Kelton said. "They're all the warmest Christmas." He had the motor running and slowly backed out into the street. A stream of cars speeded along Santa Monica Boulevard. The sun was beating down in a white, unhealthy glare. The thermometer in the car showed eighty-three. The lampposts on Santa Monica were fixed up with cardboard Santa Clauses, each one of them twelve or fifteen feet high. They lined the street on both sides in a petrified procession and looked sheepish in the bright sunshine. Every gas station had stacks of Christmas trees for sale. The trees were sprayed with pastel colors — piebald, canary, and reseda. Kelton found, miraculously, an empty space for his car not very far away from the handbag shop. The place was crowded with the last minute buying rush — most of the girls in slacks, their hair in curlers, their faces without makeup. Kelton was the only man among them. A worn-out saleslady spotted him and brought out a score of parcels, each one individually wrapped and trimmed with gay ribbons. "Where did you leave your car, Mr. Kelton? she asked. "Just load the parcels on my arms," Kelton said. The overstuffed Santa Clauses follow him down to Wilshire Boulevard where the lampposts changed to enormous reindeer pulling cardboard sleighs. Kelton thought of the bourbon he would be obliged to swallow at the studio. He didn't like to drink before midday, but every year they did it. For the last two days now the studio had been gripped by the usual spirit of general disintegration. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Kelton," Eddy said, and saluted. Eddy was the cop at gate "A." "Rather warm for Christmas." He stood in the narrow doorway of his booth. Behind him, all around, were heaps of colored parcels. The long studio street, lined with houses, each built in a different style, was empty. Kelton drove his car to his bungalow. He knew everyone was already on Stage 20. Kelton's secretary, Miss Clark, looked up. She was working behind stacks of Christmas cards and used the waste paper basket to hold all the envelopes. The small outer office was bulging with parcels of all shapes and sizes. "Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas," Kelton said. "We got seven hundred cards more this Christmas than last, on account of your success with 'The Great Marauder.' We'll have to answer all of them. I ran out of your personal cards so I bought a couple of hundred printed cards in Hollywood. Would you mind signing a few of them?" "How about you signing them, Miss Clark?" Kelton said. "They go to people who know your signature," Miss Clark said. "I've ordered a pickup truck to take your presents home." Kelton looked at the parcels which cluttered his desk. "I've got a few more presents in my car," he said to Miss Clark, "In case we run short. What a Goddamned waste." Miss Clark giggled. "Not when you get them," she said. "It's all deductible isn't it?" Kelton figured Miss Clark had already had a few drinks. He picked up the pad which listed all the people she was sending presents to. She had worked out the list according to a sliding scale of her own devising. A good many of the names meant nothing to him, but he knew they represented switchboard girls, unit manager, secretaries to the different heads of departments, people like that. He put the pad down and started signing the Christmas cards. {Continued on Page 26) The Screen Writer, October, 194 23