The Pat Hobby Stories Page 3

boil some water. He says, 'Boil some water--lots of it.' And we

  were wondering what the people would do then."

  "Why--they'd probably boil it," Helen said, and then, somewhat

  confused by the question, "What people?"

  "Well, somebody's daughter and the man that lived there and an

  attorney and the man that was hurt."

  Helen tried to digest this before answering.

  "--and some other guy I'm going to cut out," he finished.

  There was a pause. The waitress set down tuna fish sandwiches.

  "Well, when a doctor gives orders they're orders," Helen decided.

  "Hm." Pat's interest had wandered to an odd little scene at the

  Big Table while he inquired absently, "You married?"

  "No."

  "Neither am I."

  Beside the Big Table stood an extra. A Russian Cossack with a

  fierce moustache. He stood resting his hand on the back of an

  empty chair between Director Paterson and Producer Leam.

  "Is this taken?" he asked, with a thick Central European accent.

  All along the Big Table faces stared suddenly at him. Until after

  the first look the supposition was that he must be some well-known

  actor. But he was not--he was dressed in one of the many-colored

  uniforms that dotted the room.

  Someone at the table said: "That's taken." But the man drew out

  the chair and sat down.

  "Got to eat somewhere," he remarked with a grin.

  A shiver went over the near-by tables. Pat Hobby stared with his

  mouth ajar. It was as if someone had crayoned Donald Duck into the

  Last Supper.

  "Look at that," he advised Helen. "What they'll do to him! Boy!"

  The flabbergasted silence at the Big Table was broken by Ned

  Harman, the Production Manager.

  "This table is reserved," he said.

  The extra looked up from a menu.

  "They told me sit anywhere."

  He beckoned a waitress--who hesitated, looking for an answer in the

  faces of her superiors.

  "Extras don't eat here," said Max Leam, still politely. "This is

  a--"

  "I got to eat," said the Cossack doggedly. "I been standing around

  six hours while they shoot this stinking mess and now I got to

  eat."

  The silence had extended--from Pat's angle all within range seemed

  to be poised in mid-air.

  The extra shook his head wearily.

  "I dunno who cooked it up--" he said--and Max Leam sat forward in

  his chair--"but it's the lousiest tripe I ever seen shot in

  Hollywood."

  --At his table Pat was thinking why didn't they do something?

  Knock him down, drag him away. If they were yellow themselves they

  could call the studio police.

  "Who is that?" Helen Earle was following his eyes innocently,

  "Somebody I ought to know?"

  He was listening attentively to Max Leam's voice, raised in anger.

  "Get up and get out of here, buddy, and get out quick!"

  The extra frowned.

  "Who's telling me?" he demanded.

  "You'll see." Max appealed to the table at large, "Where's Cushman--

  where's the Personnel man?"

  "You try to move me," said the extra, lifting the hilt of his

  scabbard above the level of the table, "and I'll hang this on your

  ear. I know my rights."

  The dozen men at the table, representing a thousand dollars an hour

  in salaries, sat stunned. Far down by the door one of the studio

  police caught wind of what was happening and started to elbow

  through the crowded room. And Big Jack Wilson, another director,

  was on his feet in an instant coming around the table.

  But they were too late--Pat Hobby could stand no more. He had

  jumped up, seizing a big heavy tray from the serving stand nearby.

  In two springs he reached the scene of action--lifting the tray he

  brought it down upon the extra's head with all the strength of his

  forty-nine years. The extra, who had been in the act of rising to

  meet Wilson's threatened assault, got the blow full on his face and

  temple and as he collapsed a dozen red streaks sprang into sight

  through the heavy grease paint. He crashed sideways between the

  chairs.

  Pat stood over him panting--the tray in his hand.

  "The dirty rat!" he cried. "Where does he think--"

  The studio policeman pushed past; Wilson pushed past--two aghast

  men from another table rushed up to survey the situation.

  "It was a gag!" one of them shouted. "That's Walter Herrick, the

  writer. It's his picture."

  "My God!"

  "He was kidding Max Leam. It was a gag I tell you!"

  "Pull him out . . . Get a doctor . . . Look out, there!"

  Now Helen Earle hurried over; Walter Herrick was dragged out into a

  cleared space on the floor and there were yells of "Who did it?--

  Who beaned him?"

  Pat let the tray lapse to a chair, its sound unnoticed in the

  confusion.

  He saw Helen Earle working swiftly at the man's head with a pile of

  clean napkins.

  "Why did they have to do this to him?" someone shouted.

  Pat caught Max Leam's eye but Max happened to look away at the

  moment and a sense of injustice came over Pat. He alone in this

  crisis, real or imaginary, had ACTED. He alone had played the man,

  while those stuffed shirts let themselves be insulted and abused.

  And now he would have to take the rap--because Walter Herrick was

  powerful and popular, a three thousand a week man who wrote hit

  shows in New York. How could anyone have guessed that it was a

  gag?

  There was a doctor now. Pat saw him say something to the

  manageress and her shrill voice sent the waitresses scattering like

  leaves toward the kitchen.

  "Boil some water! Lots of it!"

  The words fell wild and unreal on Pat's burdened soul. But even

  though he now knew at first hand what came next, he did not think

  that he could go on from there.

  TEAMED WITH GENIUS

  Esquire (April 1940)

  "I took a chance in sending for you," said Jack Berners. "But

  there's a job that you just MAY be able to help out with."

  Though Pat Hobby was not offended, either as man or writer, a

  formal protest was called for.

  "I been in the industry fifteen years, Jack. I've got more screen

  credits than a dog has got fleas."

  "Maybe I chose the wrong word," said Jack. "What I mean is, that

  was a long time ago. About money we'll pay you just what Republic

  paid you last month--three-fifty a week. Now--did you ever hear of

  a writer named Ren� Wilcox?"

  The name was unfamiliar. Pat had scarcely opened a book in a

  decade.

  "She's pretty good," he ventured.

  "It's a man, an English playwright. He's only here in L. A. for

  his health. Well--we've had a Russian Ballet picture kicking

  around for a year--three bad scripts on it. So last week we signed

  up Ren� Wilcox--he seemed just the person."

  Pat considered.

  "You mean he's--"

  "I don't know and I don't care," interrupted Berners sharply. "We

  think we can borrow Zorina, so we want to hurry things up--do a

  shooting scrip
t instead of just a treatment. Wilcox is

  inexperienced and that's where you come in. You used to be a good

  man for structure."

  "USED to be!"

  "All right, maybe you still are." Jack beamed with momentary

  encouragement. "Find yourself an office and get together with Ren�

  Wilcox." As Pat started out he called him back and put a bill in

  his hand. "First of all, get a new hat. You used to be quite a

  boy around the secretaries in the old days. Don't give up at forty-

  nine!"

  Over in the Writers' Building Pat glanced at the directory in the

  hall and knocked at the door of 216. No answer, but he went in to

  discover a blond, willowy youth of twenty-five staring moodily out

  the window.

  "Hello, Ren�!" Pat said. "I'm your partner."

  Wilcox's regard questioned even his existence, but Pat continued

  heartily, "I hear we're going to lick some stuff into shape. Ever

  collaborate before?"

  "I have never written for the cinema before."

  While this increased Pat's chance for a screen credit he badly

  needed, it meant that he might have to do some work. The very

  thought made him thirsty.

  "This is different from playwriting," he suggested, with suitable

  gravity.

  "Yes--I read a book about it."

  Pat wanted to laugh. In 1928 he and another man had concocted such

  a sucker-trap, Secrets of Film Writing. It would have made money

  if pictures hadn't started to talk.

  "It all seems simple enough," said Wilcox. Suddenly he took his

  hat from the rack. "I'll be running along now."

  "Don't you want to talk about the script?" demanded Pat. "What

  have you done so far?"

  "I've not done anything," said Wilcox deliberately. "That idiot,

  Berners, gave me some trash and told me to go on from there. But

  it's too dismal." His blue eyes narrowed. "I say, what's a boom

  shot?"

  "A boom shot? Why, that's when the camera's on a crane."

  Pat leaned over the desk and picked up a blue-jacketed "Treatment."

  On the cover he read:

  BALLET SHOES

  A Treatment

  by

  Consuela Martin

  An Original from an idea by Consuela Martin

  Pat glanced at the beginning and then at the end.

  "I'd like it better if we could get the war in somewhere," he said

  frowning. "Have the dancer go as a Red Cross nurse and then she

  could get regenerated. See what I mean?"

  There was no answer. Pat turned and saw the door softly closing.

  What is this? he exclaimed. What kind of collaborating can a man

  do if he walks out? Wilcox had not even given the legitimate

  excuse--the races at Santa Anita!

  The door opened again, a pretty girl's face, rather frightened,

  showed itself momentarily, said "Oh," and disappeared. Then it

  returned.

  "Why it's Mr. Hobby!" she exclaimed. "I was looking for Mr.

  Wilcox."

  He fumbled for her name but she supplied it.

  "Katherine Hodge. I was your secretary when I worked here three

  years ago."

  Pat knew she had once worked with him, but for the moment could not

  remember whether there had been a deeper relation. It did not seem

  to him that it had been love--but looking at her now, that appeared

  rather too bad.

  "Sit down," said Pat. "You assigned to Wilcox?"

  "I thought so--but he hasn't given me any work yet."

  "I think he's nuts," Pat said gloomily. "He asked me what a boom

  shot was. Maybe he's sick--that's why he's out here. He'll

  probably start throwing up all over the office."

  "He's well now," Katherine ventured.

  "He doesn't look like it to me. Come on in my office. You can

  work for ME this afternoon."

  Pat lay on his couch while Miss Katherine Hodge read the script of

  Ballet Shoes aloud to him. About midway in the second sequence he

  fell asleep with his new hat on his chest.

  Except for the hat, that was the identical position in which he

  found Ren� next day at eleven. And it was that way for three

  straight days--one was asleep or else the other--and sometimes

  both. On the fourth day they had several conferences in which Pat

  again put forward his idea about the war as a regenerating force

  for ballet dancers.

  "Couldn't we NOT talk about the war?" suggested Ren�. "I have two

  brothers in the Guards."

  "You're lucky to be here in Hollywood."

  "That's as it may be."

  "Well, what's your idea of the start of the picture?"

  "I do not like the present beginning. It gives me an almost

  physical nausea."

  "So then, we got to have something in its place. That's why I want

  to plant the war--"

  "I'm late to luncheon," said Ren� Wilcox. "Good-bye, Mike."

  Pat grumbled to Katherine Hodge:

  "He can call me anything he likes, but somebody's got to write this

  picture. I'd go to Jack Berners and tell him--but I think we'd

  both be out on our ears."

  For two days more he camped in Ren�'s office, trying to rouse him

  to action, but with no avail. Desperate on the following day--when

  the playwright did not even come to the studio--Pat took a

  benzedrine tablet and attacked the story alone. Pacing his office

  with the treatment in his hand he dictated to Katherine--

  interspersing the dictation with a short, biased history of his

  life in Hollywood. At the day's end he had two pages of script.

  The ensuing week was the toughest in his life--not even a moment to

  make a pass at Katherine Hodge. Gradually with many creaks, his

  battered hulk got in motion. Benzedrine and great drafts of coffee

  woke him in the morning, whiskey anesthetized him at night. Into

  his feet crept an old neuritis and as his nerves began to crackle

  he developed a hatred against Ren� Wilcox, which served him as a

  sort of ersatz fuel. He was going to finish the script by himself

  and hand it to Berners with the statement that Wilcox had not

  contributed a single line.

  But it was too much--Pat was too far gone. He blew up when he was

  half through and went on a twenty-four-hour bat--and next morning

  arrived back at the studio to find a message that Mr. Berners

  wanted to see the script at four. Pat was in a sick and confused

  state when his door opened and Ren� Wilcox came in with a

  typescript in one hand, and a copy of Berners' note in the other.

  "It's all right," said Wilcox. "I've finished it."

  "WHAT? Have you been WORKING?"

  "I always work at night."

  "What've you done? A treatment?"

  "No, a shooting script. At first I was held back by personal

  worries, but once I got started it was very simple. You just get

  behind the camera and dream."

  Pat stood up aghast.

  "But we were supposed to collaborate. Jack'll be wild."

  "I've always worked alone," said Wilcox gently. "I'll explain to

  Berners this afternoon."

  Pat sat in a daze. If Wilcox's script
was good--but how could a

  first script be good? Wilcox should have fed it to him as he

  wrote; then they might have HAD something.

  Fear started his mind working--he was struck by his first original

  idea since he had been on the job. He phoned to the script

  department for Katherine Hodge and when she came over told her what

  he wanted. Katherine hesitated.

  "I just want to READ it," Pat said hastily. "If Wilcox is there

  you can't take it, of course. But he just might be out."

  He waited nervously. In five minutes she was back with the script.

  "It isn't mimeographed or even bound," she said.

  He was at the typewriter, trembling as he picked out a letter with

  two fingers.

  "Can I help?" she asked.

  "Find me a plain envelope and a used stamp and some paste."

  Pat sealed the letter himself and then gave directions:

  "Listen outside Wilcox's office. If he's in, push it under his

  door. If he's out get a call boy to deliver it to him, wherever he

  is. Say it's from the mail room. Then you better go off the lot

  for the afternoon. So he won't catch on, see?"

  As she went out Pat wished he had kept a copy of the note. He was

  proud of it--there was a ring of factual sincerity in it too often

  missing from his work.

  "Dear Mr. Wilcox:

  I am sorry to tell you your two brothers were killed in action

  today by a long range Tommy-gun. You are wanted at home in England

  right away.

  John Smythe

  The British Consulate, New York"

  But Pat realized that this was no time for self-applause. He

  opened Wilcox's script.

  To his vast surprise it was technically proficient--the dissolves,

  fades, cuts, pans and trucking shots were correctly detailed. This

  simplified everything. Turning back to the first page he wrote at

  the top:

  BALLET SHOES

  First Revise

  From Pat Hobby and Ren� Wilcox--presently changing this to read:

  From Ren� Wilcox and Pat Hobby.

  Then, working frantically, he made several dozen small changes. He

  substituted the word "Scram!" for "Get out of my sight!", he put

  "Behind the eight-ball" instead of "in trouble," and replaced

  "you'll be sorry" with the apt coinage "Or else!" Then he phoned

  the script department.

  "This is Pat Hobby. I've been working on a script with Ren�

  Wilcox, and Mr. Berners would like to have it mimeographed by half-

  past three."

  This would give him an hour's start on his unconscious

  collaborator.

  "Is it an emergency?"

  "I'll say."

  "We'll have to split it up between several girls."

  Pat continued to improve the script till the call boy arrived. He

  wanted to put in his war idea but time was short--still, he finally

  told the call boy to sit down, while he wrote laboriously in pencil

  on the last page.

  CLOSE SHOT: Boris and Rita

  Rita: What does anything matter now! I have enlisted as a trained

  nurse in the war.

  Boris: (moved) War purifies and regenerates!

  (He puts his arms around her in a wild embrace as the music soars

  way up and we FADE OUT)

  Limp and exhausted by his effort he needed a drink, so he left the

  lot and slipped cautiously into the bar across from the studio

  where he ordered gin and water.

  With the glow, he thought warm thoughts. He had done ALMOST what

  he had been hired to do--though his hand had accidentally fallen

  upon the dialogue rather than the structure. But how could Berners