she does whatever the director says. Baby Peggy’s a phenom; like a little old lady in a child’s body. Everything was fine until the last picture, when she had a run-in with a nasty pelican that went after her.” Meyers paused and put his fork and knife down on his plate. “For the first time she almost came unglued. Her dad calmed her down. He fancies himself a horse and dog trainer; says the same techniques work with kids. Well, I don’t know about that, but what I’ve observed firsthand on the set is that his daughter is either terrified of him or she craves his approval or both. Well, whatever goes on between Baby Peggy and her daddy, Stern is on pins and needles. See, sport, Stern’s not worried about a scared little girl. He’s worried about a little girl who won’t work.”
I sat there in that booth, unsure about how I felt. On the one hand, Julius Stern was offering me a second movie; on the other, my future in pictures didn’t depend one iota on how good I was at my job, but on whether or not some spoiled movie star would get along with me.
“Stern wants a powwow with you and Baby Peggy on Monday at the studio. He wants to watch the chemistry. If the kid gets upset, your goose is cooked. If not, you’re in the money. They’ve got a whole slew of movie ideas for you two; even a couple of fairy tales.”
Despite the challenges I had faced and missing my family during the previous week, and now my worries about Baby Peggy, the idea of doing more pictures was utterly seductive. I picked up my hamburger and devoured what was left.
His words . . . they’ve got a whole slew of movie ideas for you two . . . kept running through my head. I was so excited and starstruck that all I could think about was working in silent pictures and belonging in Hollywood. I just had to keep working in movies. I would do whatever it took to have that kid like me. Having recently come from such a dark and depressed place, I was too hungry to stop and think that there might be some gravel in the oatmeal. That wisdom would only come with time and broken teeth.
About fifteen minutes later as I was washing down my last bite of banana cream pie with a great cup of java, Meyers jumped up and said, “Wait here, Jake. I have something important to show you. It’s a surprise.”
I sat back and stretched my legs alongside the outside of the booth, thinking about the upcoming meeting with Baby Peggy and what I could do to make sure things went smoothly.
A few minutes later, Meyers returned carrying a cordovan leather briefcase. I wondered what it contained. He methodically cleared the remaining dishes, utensils, and whatever else was on that table out of the way. Then he opened the case and removed a large, folded, poster-size piece of thick paper. As if he were opening a present he’d waited all year for, he slowly unfurled the paper and carefully set it down in the middle of the table facing me. It was a large advertisement they used in movie houses, called a lobby card. The poster measured about four feet by three feet and had a red and yellow border. Each margin contained a black art-deco radio tower crowned with a radio-wave-emitting globe. The words International News with a smaller subheading, “The World Before Your Eyes,” were splashed in India ink across the top margin.
The lobby card’s center headline, the largest of the three, grabbed my attention: “World’s Tallest Boy” with the caption: “Hollywood’s latest acquisition is Jack Earle, a walking Woolworth Tower . . . Hollywood, California.” In those days the Woolworth Tower was the tallest skyscraper in the world. For a moment, I just stared at the poster’s printed words.
“Is this Jack Earle fellow competition I have to worry about?” I asked cautiously.
Meyers laughed. “No, no, Jake. Jack Earle is you.
“What do you mean? That’s not my name!” I felt very confused.
“Look, Jack Earle is your new name . . . your stage name.” Meyers went on to explain that in Hollywood, just like on the great white way, actors were given catchy names that were easy for the average Joe to pronounce and remember.
The coining of my stage name, sometimes also spelled Earl, demonstrated that the powers that be at the studio were invested in my future. But my new name was significant for other reasons. Looking at that poster and my newborn handle, Jack Earle, all I could think about were heroes whose names were changed. There was Abram who became Abraham, and Jacob who became Israel. Then there were all those Indian braves in the Zane Grey novels who went on vision quests and were awarded new names by the Medicine Man. For me, there was something more than publicity to this new moniker business. Each of those heroes got a new name after a struggle. They each got a second chance, a clean slate, a reprieve from the warden. But in every story, after each of them got their new name, they weren’t done with their battles—far from it. It wasn’t that easy. From what I could recollect, every one of the owners of a new name had more—many more—dues to pay.
CHAPTER 8
The Durbar Spectacular
I never finished telling you what happened as a result of decking that rube in Madison Square Garden. I think when I left off I was gazing at a tug in the East River after fleeing Ingalls and the need to make a decision about my future in the circus—if I had any future.
Well, that afternoon I arrived back at the circus with only about five minutes to spare. Thank goodness I was already in costume or I would have been late and in even more hot water, if that were possible.
The cop at the performers’ entrance was tasked with checking identification and keeping out the riffraff and runaway kids who dogged us everywhere we played. I wish I needed ID. All that flatfoot had to do was take one look at me and he knew I belonged, so I breezed right past him without even stopping.
Walking through the entrance to that building never failed to amaze me. Today was no different. Even though I was seriously thinking of leaving the circus, performing in Madison Square Garden always made me feel a sense of awe and wonder. For a performer, playing for a New York audience in those hallowed halls absolutely meant you were in the big time. That was a thrill I would miss if I left the show.
As quickly as I could, I made my way to the backyard. That’s what we called the area just outside, where the acts entered and exited the Big Top or, in this case, the arena. I walked by Fred Bradna, Ringling’s Ringmaster and Equestrian Director.
Bradna was an institution. He’d been with the circus as long as anyone could remember. He was unmistakable with his pencil-line moustache, red-frocked velvet coat, white pants, calf’s skin gloves, black top hat, and the silver drum-major’s whistle he wore around his neck. Although Bradna was a small-framed, short man, he was born with natural gifts you would assume were the birthright of a bigger person; great charisma and a booming voice that could silence a Big Top full of thousands or get a circus crew jam-packed with egotists to march in time and perform on cue.
When I walked by him, Bradna looked me up and down with the same critical eye he employed with Ringling’s prized Percherons. The Ringmaster carried a clipboard to ensure that all the acts assembled in the backyard lined up in the right order.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna make it or not today, Erlich. Please don’t tell me you’re turning prima donna on me,” he said, looking for my name on his list.
I just nodded and kept walking, searching for my assigned position in the multitude of performers and animals that, if placed in a straight line, would have stretched for several city blocks. Looking back on it, one of the things that kept me in the circus was how well-ordered things were and that I knew just where I belonged.
