Errand Boy by ucarr

I was terrified. Mr. Berger was going to look at my pages. I had a two-hour deadline to get my pages in good enough shape for possible use. A screen test! Mr. Berger would have his ace director Mr. Curtis direct a screen test for Greta Karlsson, flown in from Stockholm yesterday! The production was going to be top flight, with Jordan Adelman manning the camera. Everything, of course, had to be done on the QT.
How did an errand boy from Central Ave. write a scene for a Swedish ingenue?
While Pop was in the kitchen of the commissary having lunch, I was hustling over to Mr. Berger’s office across from the writers’ building. Whatta coincidence! My escapade into writing for the movies was playing across the street from the writing staff that, maybe someday, I would join.
Before that big event, however, we first hadda smash Hitler, free the oppressed and – wowzie! I hadda get my pages ready after driving Mr. Berger’s limo over to the fire station where it would get a wash and detail.
Since pop was grooming me to take his place as Mr. Berger’s chauffeur next year, I decided not to tell him about my screenwriting career. Mom and pop already had a tortured history of screaming matches over my life-in-the-clouds future dreams.
Hey! This colored boy was walking inside the greatest studio not only in Hollywood but on earth, in the solar system and throughout the Milky Way galaxy. The great shield of the four German brothers from Poland was my shield too. They were from Poland; I was from Atlanta and we were all dreaming under the hot sun and blue sky hovering over Forest Lawn.
After delivering the limo and racing back to Mr. Berger’s office, I would have a decision to make; sneak into the writers’ building and again annoy Howie Lawrence, currently awash in U-boat exploits in the north Atlantic, or soldier on by myself. He wanted me at one of those Red meetings, but I was scared. Good people were losing their jobs. Soldier on I decided.
I was leaning against the bannister on the first floor of the writer’s building when she walked right up to me. It was Greta Karlsson! “You’re the boy writer.”
Stunned, I started choking on my own spit as I tried to talk. “How do you know that?”
Completely relaxed, she was smooth as a bowl of cream. “Mr. Berger told me you’ve got a spark of talent he’s trying to ignite.”
“Yes! Your screen test today. Are you nervous?”
She smiled at me, trying not to laugh. “No. But you are. It’s just a screen test.”
Easy for her to say. She already had a career in Stockholm. These pages were my ticket out of the limo into the palace. “I wrote a love scene for you. But don’t worry. It’s just a song you wanna hear. Your guy hates it, but you wanna hear it.”
My description piqued her interest. “That sounds very dramatic. Let me see dat script.”
She had her hand extended toward me before I could formulate a polite refusal. Okay. I had read some of the script pages for the big, romantic war picture gearing up for production while Mr. Berger was out of his office. Figured I could advance myself by echoing work done by the pros. On the other hand, if Mr. Berger thought I was stealing, my dream life was a goner.
I thrust my pages forward. Seconds ticked off like hours as she read them.
Seeing her face looking up from the last page with a smile spreading her red lips was a flashback to gazing under the Evergreen tree on Christmas morning.
“She still loves him, doesn’t she? I can’t wait to play it. What comes next?”
“Huh?”
“I think they should hire you on to the writer’s building.”
I didn’t faint and I didn’t collapse. Instead, I kept right on stealing from the script I wasn’t supposed to read.
“Well, you know, of course, there has to be trouble in drama.”
“What can you tell me?”
“The song is followed by a kiss and then a goodbye.
I arrived at the canary-yellow, wood-framed house in Echo Park off Glendale Blvd. The dim-lit living room held a small company of attendees. Most of them looked like workers in various trades with their denim slacks and flannel shirts.
The leader, Agnes, was a squat, middle-aged woman in paint-splattered slacks and a tight-fitting t-shirt. She had a pack of smokes folded inside one of her short sleeves. A wide-brimmed fedora, beat-up and dusty, sat atop her head at an angle. I liked her look, mannish, but that was okay because she was stylish, although her weight was starting to get out of control.
Howie Lawrence, who sat next to Agnes, shot me a glance. Was that a look of satisfaction? Yeah, I’d finally made it to one of his Red meetings. Driving over in my jalopy, I was so nervous I screeched out from an intersection where a patrol car was adjacent to me. For a hot second, as the officer came up beside me and looked, I thought for sure I was getting pulled over for committing treason.
Now arrived at the meeting, I was still trying and failing to laugh at myself for being more skittish than a cat up a tree.
They were shrewd enough to pass around the basket before starting the meeting, so I had to cough up a buck. I didn’t want folks to think I was one of those profit-managing skunks without a conscience.
After a briefing on a long list of picket lines I was expected to join in support of my brethren workers, I had enough of a guilt trip to hesitate when Agnes, in front of the whole group, invited me to join up. I was stuttering out a weak excuse about being between paychecks when Mr. Lawrence tossed my membership dues into the basket. I was being groomed for what: a new life in Russia?
Well, now I was in. By the close of the meeting, I was buzzing with excitement because I suddenly knew what I was in: danger. However, even a stint on the Green Mile, awaiting my final exit to the electric skillet that would cook me alive, was not enough to make peace with my archenemy, Boredom.
I was beating it outta there when Mr. Lawrence dropped a wisecrack that gave me pause at the open door: “As they say, money is like manure. If you spread it around, it makes things grow. If, on the other hand, you hoard it up, oh, brother how it stinks.”
“Isn’t that right, Jeremiah?”
He had me this time as I knew it was true. When Pop got skinned for two hundred bucks by some poker sharpies, only reason we had food on the table for the next month was ‘cause some coworkers at the studio passed the hat.
It was time to face the executioner. “You’re right, Mr. Lawrence.” “You saved me.”
I was shocked when my confession totally failed to please him. “You have to save yourself. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
His face was so stern I knew neither my appearance nor my confession had won his approval.
“I owe everything to you. It’s a terrible thing for a father to slay his son.”
“Still joking, even now, when your bright future dangles by a thread.”
“I never thought you’d put your job on the line with Mr. Berger to save my screenwriting career.” I suddenly thought to myself, “Career, hah! Pipedream.”

“You can’t steal from other writers, especially not when you’re being appraised as new talent.”
“There’s something I don’t get. How come they shot the scene I wrote for Greta Karlsson? I expected the Wilson brothers to object. Can’t say I blame ‘em. It’s their dialogue I stole. I know you threatened to walk if Mr. Berger tossed me out on my ear, but the Wilson brothers. How’d I get past that juggernaut?”
“You never repeat this, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Mr. Berger is the best mogul in Hollywood when it comes to spotting talent. He likes the comedy tweaks you added to the Wilson brothers’ dialogue. And, apparently, so does Greta Karlsson. Your little scene cemented her casting in the role.”
I suddenly felt stricken with dizziness. Was I awake or hypnotized? Was Mr. Lawrence an evil, conniving Red, or the Savior in disguise?
“Speak of the devil. Know where I’m going? To a little dive over in Silver Lake. Guess who I’m going to see?”
“Miss Karlsson gets around, doesn’t she?”
“How did you know?”
“If only you could’ve seen the look on her face when she talked about you, especially whenever she said your name.”
My briefs suddenly started developing a strong charge of static electricity. “Gotta go.” I was so hot I neglected to thank Mr. Lawrence for saving my creative life.
“One thing, Jeremiah.”
I froze in my tracks and turned back to him.
“Hollywood is a debris field of human wreckage. That’s especially true for ambition in a hurry. You’re still a colored boy.”
Was I ever. I saluted Mr. Lawrence with a quick “Right.”
I got out and slammed the door. Had to walk around the adjacent car, either front or back, because I was forced to sardine my coupe into the absolute minimum curb space that would accept it. Silver Lake was stingy with free parking, especially on Saturday night.
I stepped onto Silver Lake Blvd. and tightened the belt around my trench coat, thinking I was Joel McCrea in Foreign Correspondent, except without his length. The image of Agnes had me wanting a snap brim fedora crowning my locks. I’d have to make time to get one.
Going forward, I made my way towards The Scratch Paw nightclub, a scary dive down a neon-swabbed alley just south of Sunset Blvd. I side-stepped the puddles pooling the red and green colors of excitement.
A wag at the studio Fire Dept. had told me Wallace Beery killed a man in this alley. Hmm. Now was the time as I approached the bouncer at the entrance. Curious thing was this bouncer bore resemblance to boxer Max Schmeling. Like Schmeling, his nose was kinda flat and his lips were kinda thick. Maybe that’s why he was letting me in. If Ty Cobb was right and The Babe had been passing in the American League, and Joe Louis got his ass whooped in the ring by one of his own kind, why shouldn’t I slip right into this bar?
Do or die time as I’m going for this entrée into the caressing arms of a Swedish darling, or the hellfire of humiliation of a colored errand boy rebuffed, in Hollywood no less.
Hobey held his beautiful slant eyes upon me as I got near; losing my nerve, I snatched out of pocket a ten-spot and, giving the stylish pug a smile, held it out. In a continuous, flowing motion, I glanced up at the neon drop of blood oozing from the Scratch Paw marquee as he took the money, opened the door and waved me inside.
The dungeon environs, with pungent smoke of cigars and cigarettes, took my eyes from me for about twenty seconds and then, I saw her. Greta Karlsson was sitting in a booth. She wasn’t alone. I wracked over my peepers to a sleek gentleman in a bespoke wool suit. His combed-back hair was Arabian black and even from twenty feet I could see he possessed the stiletto charm of a mafioso.
So, she likes her men dark, I thought whilst walking over to the booth. I was so taken with the eye candy growing in my field of vision I nearly collided with a buxom waitress sporting hair piled higher than a stack of pancakes.
Uh oh. An embarrassment of riches! Once I had a close-up on lover boy, I started thinking, “If the men in Hollywood continue looking this motherfucking good, I might have to start crossing the line.” For the time being, however, I was focused on Greta. Her creamy white skin had a soft, pink-hued glow that caressed the air in our booth.
That’s right. The air in our booth. I sopped sweat from my brow as I leaned back and smiled, beginning to relax into an exclusive white world that everybody on earth should have at least a fleeting taste of, especially the glorified variety populating America.
“You made it.” She was giggling her bosom and cooing at me. The other man looked on, flashing us up with a shy, expectant smile. I suddenly got the impression he was along for the ride. I wondered if Greta and I were going to be the show. Next moment I started checking my runaway imagination. Greta and I were going to be the show? I reminded myself she was here to become a movie star. Surely her success meant pushing me into the rear-view mirror of her gaudy sports car.
It wasn’t long before the buxom waitress was before us, awaiting orders. Greta asked for champagne, the natty gentleman would have a beer and I was having – the waitress narrowed her eyes at me, hesitating with a stern, scrutinizing look. Say, this joint was outlaw. I’d made my first visit on business, delivering a message to an AWOL writer deep in his cups. Now I was here as a customer a few months short of my twenty-first birthday. It was the first of a night of big decisions: make a bid for alcohol, or play it safe?
“Lemme have a cream soda,” I said to her with all the bravado I could muster. She awarded me with a little knowing smile that, curiously, gave me a lift.
Since I wasn’t being carded en route to being busted, I was free to direct my attention toward my glamorous mentors in crime. First stop, Greta.
“I love your pink lipstick, especially the way it semaphores with your pink and gray frock, so smartly garnished with a glorious, two-toned waist bow.”
Oh, boy. That wowed them alright.
“Oh, Jerry. You have a way with words.”
Greta was much pleased with my close notation of her lovely look. Regaled, I thought to myself, “Sure, honey doll. Nothing I like better than closely scanning a beautiful, stylish woman.” But the gentleman, if anything, was even more pleased. “You noticed the black line I put into the waist bow. I’ve got producers not as sharp.”
Greta, seeing my puzzlement, quickly explained. “Let me introduce you two. Jerry, meet Lorenzo, he’s my wardrobe designer.” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone about this. It’s a crime to wear wardrobe off set.”
She looked at him for reassurance and he blushed a rosy smile, leaning forward towards me. “She’s always getting me into trouble. I don’t know why I’m so intent upon pleasing her.”
“Maybe it’s ‘cause she makes your outfits look like a million bucks. And furthermore, what better place to debut a new dress than the local, outlaw, dive bar?”
As I swept the space with my gesturing arms, together we raised the room tone with our guffaws.
Our drinks arrived and we grew silent during a few sips. Greta’s mind suddenly startled her memory of the second half of the introduction. “Oh, I forget to introduce you, Jerry. Lorenzo, Jerry is the writer who punched up the lines for my screen test. He’s so good, I got cast for the movie, and now he’s in good with Mr. Berger.”
“Well congratulations, Mr. Jerry.” Smiling broadly, Lorenzo held up his highball glass of beer and extended it towards me. I started lifting my cream soda and he pushed my hand down. Oh, I was being offered a sip from his beer. I leaned into the glass and took a taste. The bitter taste of an expensive import, previously unappealing, suddenly became delicious and I had another taste.
I leaned back against the sticky, screechy leather upholstery and started floating away upon a cloud of alcoholic bliss. I grabbed the edge of the table, not wanting to hit the ceiling with the top of my head.
“I’m going over to the jukebox and throwing in some nickels.”
With that, Lorenzo was up and away from our table. I turned my head slowly towards Greta. Her eyes were waiting for mine when they arrived. I smashed down hard on my impulse to look away, instead making bold and holding her gaze. In just that moment, she had all of me. I felt what it was like to possess a soul because I had just lost mine. She nailed the clincher when she put her petite hand on top of my jigsaw-craggy mitt.
Was that Doris Day white-girling the hell out of a silky jazz ballad?
I didn’t know what to do. Our peepers were locked and loaded with lusty desires. I had been too scared to go for the underage beer; was I too scared to go for the Swedish doll? I put my hand on top of hers. I didn’t press down; instead, I let the pressure of gravity telegraph my feelings with the lightness of tenderness.
“Let me buy some cigarettes.” With that, she stood up from the table. She was looking at me, waiting expectantly.
I had crapped out with the beer challenge. I wouldn’t no-show the girl challenge. I stood up and smiled at her. “There’s a vending machine down at the end of the hallway, near the bathrooms.”
I gave her my Charles Boyer smile, hoping I could match the French actor’s debonair smoking technique upon returning to table. I pointed the way forward and together we walked down the rear exit hallway towards the bathroom.
It felt good taking a leadership role with her for a change.
There it was: girl, boy, and whoopee.