“That’s Roscoe Arbuckle, better known as Fatty Arbuckle. In the old days before the scandal he acted in some of Fred Fishbach’s pictures at Century. Two years ago the guy even signed a million-dollar deal. That was before this fickle town tried to crucify him. But people don’t know the real scuttlebutt.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Well, I’m sure you read about the drunken party in San Francisco and the starlet who supposedly died after Arbuckle raped her.”
I nodded. Even though I was just fourteen when all that happened, and my parents tried their best to shield me from such things, that story got a lot of play in the papers, even in a small town like El Paso.
“Well, that’s not what happened,” Meyers continued. “That girl died as a result of a female medical procedure.”
“A female medical procedure?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Do you know what an abortion is, Jake?”
“That girl had an abortion?” I asked. My big brother had told me about abortions but that was the first time I ever heard of anyone actually having one.
“She had a botched abortion that led to an awful infection that killed her. And rather than bring that to light, they sold Roscoe down the river. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of him being seated at a table. Despite believing I knew the score, I was still pretty naive in those days, so I was stunned to hear about the dark side of Hollywood. I kept glancing at the fallen star but doing my best to not stare.
“People forget Arbuckle was acquitted. To the public and many people in this business, he’s still guilty as sin. One more thing: at the trial, your director, Fred Fishbach, was the only one in this town with balls enough to testify for Arbuckle as a character witness,” Meyers continued.
I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that about Fishbach’s character. You could just feel how solid he was by working with him. I wanted to work with him again soon. I’m sad to tell you that within a few years, Fishbach, who was only thirty-six, died from cancer.
Meyers and I sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I feel like a tourist,” I admitted, unabashedly excited to spot a famous movie actor, albeit one with a tarnished reputation.
“Jake, if you look down this row to the booth at the very back of the restaurant, there’s Charlie Chaplin and Paola Negri sitting together,” Meyers said, picking up on my comment.
Nonchalantly, I turned around and, in the far corner of the room, saw a non-descript man with curly brown hair sitting with a woman whose features were obscured by a cloche.
“Chaplain; wow! Ever since I saw him in The Little Tramp, I’ve been a big fan.” I was tempted to get up, walk over, and ask the funny man for his autograph. I can’t wait until I tell Ben and Myer about this. They’ll never believe it. In all my years in Hollywood I don’t think I ever totally got over being starstruck.
“I just love this place,” Meyers said as he took another drink of gin. “Bottoms up,” he added, knocking back what was left in the flask. I took a swig of my root beer. “The studio is having a party at the end of the month at the Ambassador. Once you’ve got two more pictures under your belt, you’re sure to be invited.”
“I’m . . . I’m not so sure . . .”
I wasn’t at all certain I’d be in Hollywood long enough for that to happen. First off, I wasn’t convinced there would be a second movie. And if I was to really have a career in pictures, the very thought of going to an adult Hollywood party caused me skyrockets of forbidden fantasy and guilty crash landings. Visions of too much whiskey, wild flappers dancing on top of pianos, and a late-night phone call to Mama and Papa from the Hollywood Police filled my head.
“We have your son in solitary confinement,” the imaginary officer said in an Irish brogue. “It took a division of our best to bring him in. He’s looking at thirty to life.”
A waiter in a white waist-length coat put a delicious-looking hamburger and hash browns in front of me and a plate with parsley-covered Dover sole and scalloped potatoes in front of Meyers. I was thankful to be awakened from my daydream by a luscious-looking lunch.
You may have noticed that I talk about food a lot. That may have come from having parents who grew up so impoverished they never had enough to eat. Then again, it may be because I was raised in west Texas at the turn of the century in a family that could barely make ends meet. For us, eating in fancy restaurants was something we just didn’t do. That’s not to mention that my appetite was fueled by the fact that I was growing like crazy.
You can see why I picked up that scrumptious hamburger like it was a fragile thing of beauty, but after I savored the taste of just one bite, I put the burger back on my plate. I was surprised, but at that moment something was more important than eating. I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to talk about Stern’s comment.
“Mr. Meyers . . . ”
“Come on, Jake . . . call me Zion.”
“Okay, Zion, I think . . . I think,” I stuttered nervously, “I think we’re putting the cart before the horse.”
“What do you mean?” asked Meyers as he put down his fork.
“Well, before the accident I told you that I was worried about Stern. Is he . . . is he . . . is he going to fire me?”
Meyers listened intently, nodding his head. I wasn’t sure if he nodded to let me know I was, in fact, getting canned, or to communicate he understood what I was saying.
Without asking for clarification, I continued: “You said that he did have some concerns. What concerns?”
Meyers laughed. This time he shook his head. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin, cut up some fish, and chewed it slowly, appearing to savor the taste. He wiped his mouth yet again. “Yum, yum, yum. Delicious . . . the best in town.” Waiting for him to respond was absolute torture. Meyers paused for a few seconds. “Here’s the straight talk, kid,” he finally began. “Take it from me—I’ve been around this town a long time. For a rookie, you did great on A Corn-Fed Sleuth. The problem is not about your acting. It’s whether or not you can work with a little kid.”
I had absolutely no idea what Meyers was talking about. He sat back in the booth and continued.
“The star of your next picture is a four-year-old girl. Her name is Baby Peggy and she’s big box office. Have you heard of her?”
I had heard the name but I had absolutely no idea who she was. Back then, I was too embarrassed to demonstrate my ignorance so I just nodded.
“Stern has a lot of time and money invested in that tyke. She’s a golden goose for him and he wants to keep it that way,” he explained. “So he needs to be damned sure you two hit it off. She’s been making pictures at Century since she was a year and half old.”
I shook my head in amazement. Only a year and half old! That’s unbelievable! I thought, reflecting on how difficult the first week on the job had been for me—and I was seventeen. I wondered how a child could ever take direction.
“In
