Papa emerged from the boarding house a few minutes later, he looked surprised to see me waiting for him on the sidewalk.
Soon Papa and I were walking down Sunset Boulevard, making our way toward Poverty Row, where Century and a swarm of other small movie studios were located. We both looked dapper in the black suits and neckties we had bought especially for that trip at Bellman’s Dry Goods back home.
“You can’t go wrong with black,” Sam Bellman had said. “It’s an investment, good for weddings, funerals, and Bar Mitzvahs.”
Now he could add that a black suit is just right for a young man’s first day making silent pictures. Papa’s suit came off the rack. Mine had to be custom-made. My father insisted we get dressed up, at least for my first day on the job. “First impressions, Jakey . . . we don’t want them to think were greenas, right off the boat.”
XXXX
A few minutes after we stepped out of the boarding house, I spied them trailing us like a pack of coyotes. Half of them were in the street and half on the sidewalk. Some were pointing at me. The old feelings rushed me. I frantically looked back then down at my dad. He didn’t seem to notice. Scanning the street, searching for a place to run to and hide until dark, I spotted an alley between a druggist and a five-and-dime. Just as I started to break away, Papa grabbed me. He yanked my arm, and with it my attention.
“Come on, Jakey! You’ve got to get used to this. Just ignore them. Somehow you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. You might as well start right now.”
He just stood there, holding on to my arm, with people staring at us.
“Just give me a minute, Papa.” I looked back at my pursuers once again, turned away, and tried to forget about them. This was an inauspicious beginning to my movie career. “I’m ready now,” I said after I’d composed myself as best I could.
Papa and I continued walking toward the studio. “Think about it, boychik. If you were normal size and you saw a man walking in the street that was twice as big as you, wouldn’t you stare too?” Papa asked.
I grumbled some inaudible answer and diverted my attention to the young palm trees that lined the broad boulevard. In those days, they barely came up to my knees. As we walked, we passed California stuccos in pale green. I particularly admired the Spanish style architecture of the bride’s-breast pink and salmon colored residences. But as we approached Poverty Row, things changed. In jarring contrast, every structure, whether it was a bungalow, fence, or wall, was painted dark industrial-gray.
Century Comedies, where even in my wildest dreams I could never have envisioned myself working, was situated on the southeast corner of Sunset and Gower, about a mile from where we were staying. The exact address was 6100 Sunset. On the west side of the street stood Christie Studios and there was an Italian restaurant called The Napoli on the north side of the intersection. The food was very good, but I would come to wish I had never eaten one meal there.
In the old days, the Century Studios property was a rambling farm complete with a huge barn and outbuildings. When Julius Stern and his brother Abe bought and turned it into a movie studio, they tore down just about everything but the barn and rebuilt a bunch of structures. When we finally reached the entrance to the main office, housed in a small bungalow, adrenaline began coursing through me.
Papa ambled through the door first. As I had to do in most doorways, I bent over to make my way inside. But in my excitement, I miscalculated and smacked my head hard. When I was no longer seeing stars, the first thing I remember was a sweet, smoky odor. Soon I would learn that that was the sharp smell of raw film.
The bungalow’s unpainted interior contained two desks piled high with papers, long black pieces of film, photos, and newspaper and magazine clippings. Unlike our home in El Paso, which was always impeccably neat, that place was unbelievably cluttered. It was such a mess that I thought if Mama were there she would have grabbed me by the arm and taken me home on the next train.
“What do you want?” asked the woman seated behind one of the desks.
Papa and I froze in our tracks. I would learn that that crotchety woman was Kitty, the secretary to the Stern Brothers. She was about Mama’s age and spoke with dramatic flair in a nasal New York accent. Kitty was a block of a woman, as tall as she was wide. She had a pointy nose and chin to match, which made me think of her as a witch who guarded a bridge in some German fairy tale. She wore a plain black dress that was so large I imagined that under it she stored her broom, her cauldron, and a squad of evil gnomes who did her nasty bidding.
“What do you want?” she asked again in a now impatient tone.
I wanted to leave and come back another time.
Papa shook his head as if tasting a shot of strong schnapps and tried to remember the purpose of our visit. The woman in the black dress put me off; I thought she was rude and I didn’t like her. First impressions can be deceiving. Mine certainly were about Kitty.
“Ahem,” he made a noise to clear his throat. “I’m Mr. Erlich and this is my son, Jacob. We have an appointment with Julius Stern. We were referred by Mr. Meyers and Mr. Ash.”
“Of course.” Kitty knew exactly who we were and why we were there. Her belligerence was just for show, a weird initiation rite for newcomers to Century Comedies. “Please have a seat. Mr. Stern will be here soon.”
As commanded, Papa sat down in one of two wooden, canvas-backed picnic chairs placed in front of one of the desks. Because of my dimensions and all the furniture I had broken in the past, I had gotten quite adept at assessing whether or not a chair could hold me. That time, because of my nervousness, the novelty of the surroundings, and Kitty’s intensity, I forgot to look before I sat. The chair collapsed. I tumbled backwards. I felt more embarrassed than hurt by that fall.
Kitty ran to my side and bent down. “You poor thing, are you okay?”
Papa stared at me in amazement. I felt mortified and unsure whether or not I could trust her. I knew that I was blushing in the shade of Purim carnival: candy-apple red.
“You shouldn’t worry. People fall out of chairs all the time here,” Kitty said with a disarming sarcasm and a coquette’s wink, extending a hand to help me to my feet. I refused it.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” I protested to the woman who would become my ally, confidant, and friend.
Kitty would teach me the ins and outs of Century Comedies. You see, she had been working at the studio since it opened, and had become the Stern’s right-hand man. As such, she truly knew the ropes.
I rolled to my right and looked up at Papa and Kitty and was startled to see a strange little bit of a man who seemed to have materialized out of thin air. I felt awkward as a newborn giraffe when I clambered to my feet.
“Stern is my name; Julius Stern,” he said, introducing himself. He had a German accent and a voice that was so commanding I felt my heels click together of their own accord as he spoke. I would meet a lot of memorable, tough people during my time in Hollywood, but Julius Stern was among the most memorable and the toughest.
Stern was in his midforties, barrel-chested, and bald. He wore thick spectacles that magnified the small brown eyes set deep in his orange-shaped head. He and his brother were sticklers for the rules of fashion. No matter the time of year, Julius was always formally dressed with starched collar and necktie. Since it was summer, he wore a straw boater and white
