JUMP Chapt 13
Desmond sat at the kitchen table. The rain fell in sheets creating everchanging rivulets on the window's glass surface. The tree outside looked like a watery apparition. It was early morning and still dark. He took a puff on his cigarette and drew the smoke into his lungs. He sipped his coffee. The day had a Saturday feel to it, which in fact it was. He had only minutes earlier awoken from a restless sleep to find that the first rains in many months were watering the grateful garden. Mr Takahashi was visting his family up the coast. Desmond had the house to himself. He would soon shower and go the hospital as he had for the last week. Norma's condition had not improved. Most of the time she seemed disoriented and would often shut her eyes as though suddenly asleep. He really had no idea how to manage the situation. He had become her mainstay and he relished the role. It gave his life shape and purpose. He padded to the front door and opened it. The rain bucketed down onto the sheen of the driveway. On the other side of the hedge he could hear the sound of cars splashing up water. He was glad he had some hours before he would visit the hospital. He picked up the LA Times and went inside. He placed the newspaper on the kitech table and walked across the livingroom to the cinema. He turned on the projector and sat down on the coach. He had watched the same film countless times over the past few days. After the projector had finished the film, after the final heartbreaking moment when Norma looked directly at the camera, and after the titles had rolled, and the film had clackety clacked and the screen had gone white Desmond sat there and let the feeling of sadness surround him. Then he stood and walked to the projection booth and switched everything off. It had always been his job to look after the projector on the nights when they watched her old films or new releases. They would sit there in the evenings, just the two of them, holding hands like two kids. He would make popcorn just the way she liked it, with just the right amount of salt and butter, and they would smile at each other in the darkness and she would cover her eyes when she saw her young self, glowing, translucent, a screen goddess. Her eyes were so expressive and her acting still powerful. He loved her so much in those moments. He would tease her and she would hit his shoulder and they would laugh. God! They had fun, didn't they? They were such good chums. Great mates and she understood him - his reckless sexuality, his hunger for life, his carelessness. They were soul mates, of that he was certain. She had seen so much that he would stagger sometimes when she said something that revealed that she had known everybody, that she had been a huge star, had danced in Paris with Chabukiani, had holidayed in the South of France with the Fitzgeralds. Her life had been full and to think that it may be ebbing away broke his heart. He switched off the cinema lights, closed the door and walked across the livingroom to the staircase leading up to the first floor. He grabbed the bannister and walked up. At the top he switched on a table lamp and the details of the space emerged from the shadows. A French impressionist painting glowed on the wall. He walked down the hallway, going from room to room, turning on the lights. In each room he walked to the window and checked the view. He looked around each room, taking in its smell and its atmosphere, as though hoping to find out something else about her. In Stanley's study he sat at the desk. He put his hands behind his head and streched his legs. He looked at the photo of Stanley and Norma on their wedding day. Go Tiger! thought Desmond as he leaned forward and took the frame in both his hands and examined it closely. The fashions were from a distant epoch. They both looked very happy. Stanley had an expression of unbridled pride. He made no effort to hide his power and ambition. Norma seduced the camera. So long ago. He put the frame back on the desk, stood and left the room. He continued his journey along the hallway. He wanted to remember all of this. He knew that soon all of this would be swept away. This place which Stanley and Norma had so lovingly built and decorated, into which they had poured all their love of beauty and their intelligence, would be sold. All gone. Nothing lasts forever, Desmond, old boy, nothing. Not even the Roman Empire. He had already moved his clothes into the guest room downstairs. He wanted to be in the house, to say goodbye to the place, if a goodbye was necessary. The rain continued to bucket down. Soon he was showered and on his way to the hospital.
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Chapter 12
The months have past and Desmond and Norma have become closer. Desmond still sleeps some nights in the pool house and the rest of the time with Norma in the main house. Desmond There was a tap on his door. He reached over and grabbed his alarm clock. 5.35am. The sun was just coming up. He lifted himself from the bed and lifted the curtain on the window. Mr Takahashi was standing looking straight ahead. Desmond reached for his dressing gown, put it on then opened the door. Mr Takahashi looked directly at him. His eyes had a panicked expression that Desmond had not seen before. 'Come quickly Desmond. Mrs Norma has fallen. She desn't recognise me.' 'Jeez. Give me sec.' Desmond closed the door. He pulled on his trousers and shirt. He slipped his feet into his old brown loafers. He grabbed his keys. Stepping out of the pool house into the cool morning he pulled the door behind him. Mr Takahashi led the way around the pool, now a shadowy mass, up the garden steps, across the patio and into the house through the french doors. Desmond followed Mr Takahashi up the main staircase and along the corridor to Norma's bedroom. Desmond saw her lying on the floor, her nighty willy nilly but thankfully covering her. 'I came up here when she didn't answer me when I called. Normally she comes down and we discuss the work to be done on the garden. I didn't want to move her.' 'You did fine, Mr Takahashi.' Desmond was kneeling in front of her now. Her eyes were closed. He felt her pulse. Irregular. 'Norma. Norma.' He gently shook her and patted her face. 'Norma.' She opened her eyes. 'Desmond. Oh Desmond. Where am I?' 'You're at home. I'm going to call an ambulance. Mr Takahashi is here.' Norma looked across at Mr Takahashi. Desmond grabbed a cushion from the armchair and put it under her head. He rearranged her nightie. Then he stood and walked to the telephone table at the top of the stairs. He lifted the receiver and spoke to the operator. Soon they were in the ambulance zooming through the morning streets. Norma opened her eyes again. 'I feel funny.' 'Where, darling?' 'In my head.' 'Don't worry. We#ll at the hospital soon.' The sirens wailed. Desmond looked out of the ambulance window and saw a car pulled over to the side of the road to allow the ambulance to pass. And then in the next moment the trolley is being pushed at great speed down the quiet hospital corridor and Desmond needs to stride to keep up. It is rolled into an examining room and seemingly without missing a beat a nurse pulls the curtain closed. A few seconds later a doctor walks past Desmnod and into the enclosed space. After a time a doctor stepped out from behind the curtain. 'She's had a stroke. She'll have to stay in here for a few days so we can keep an eye on her.' 'Is it serious?' 'Hard to say. She is disoriented and is not responding very well to anything.' II Norma was in her own private room. The sun streamed in through the venetian blinds but for Desmond it could be the light from a sun of another galaxy. He felt as though he had entered another world, one with its own rules. Norma was asleep or unconscious in front of him. He looked down at his shoes. He had watched the light change outside. Soon visiting hours would be over and he would have to leave. He had been coming and going for three days and Norma had lapsed in and out of consciousness during this time. He drove Norma's Duesenberg through the early evening streets of Beverly Hills. Through house windows he could see families preparing for dinner. He parked the car in the driveway and walked up the footpath to the front entrance of the house. Once inside he went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a scotch. He sat on the couch. He sat in the darkening livingroom. After a time he stood and turned on the side lamps then went into the small cinema off the main livingroom. In the projection room he found one of Norma's greatest films and really the one that made her a super star: 'Street Angel'. He put the spool on the projector, dimmed the house lights, stepped out into the cinema and collapsed onto the couch. There film shone on the screen. There she was, radiantly beautiful, graceful, funny, lovely. He watched her shadow image of her flickering there and tried to imagine what it must have been like at the moment she made this piece of art. When she was young and the future was a time waiting in the wings. 'Australia.' by Clinton De Vere
(2012. Edding 3000 permanent marker pen on 180g paper. 30 x 21cm.) Australia- I think of you by day and dream of you by night. JUMP
CHAPTER 11 Norma 1912 The day after arriving in Hollywood (yes, we are going back to Norma and Stanley's second day in Hollywood) Norma just lay in bed and tried to see how many sounds she could hear. The first, and loveliest sound was the soft breathing of her beloved Stanley next to her, his callipygian form stretched out before her. She wondered if she should cuddle up to him but thought better of it. Leave the poor man alone. He had more than adequately performed his nuptial duties the night before. Their lovemaking had been so vigourous that the bed had threatened to collapse so they'd migrated to the carpeted floor with the bed quilt beneath them. She closed her eyes and returned to her game. She could hear the in and out of her own breathing as well as the sounds of birdsong through the hotel window. Stanley had leapt up in the middle of their lovemaking the night before to open the window, his cock bobbing like some mechanical toy, exclaiming : 'I can't breathe in here!', before returning to her and her needs. Just when she thought he couldn't think of another way to pleasure her he would come up with something surprising, as though his intelligence and imagination, combined with his natural athleticism, created the possibility of infinite variations on a theme. Of course, it was his playfulness that made it all possible. That, in a way, made her love for him possible. Trying to imagine Stanley without his playfulness was like trying to imagine an aeroplane without propellers. His intimidating personality, his size, his dangerous intelligence would have been unbearable without his charm and pixie playfulness. She was sure she would never have fallen in love him as deeply and completely if he hadn't made her laugh so much on their first date. Which was another lifetime ago. The birds continued their cheeping and squeaking. A motor car engine popped and roared and she could imagine the owner cranking it then wiping his hands. Down the hallway a door closed. The sound of footsteps on carpet. She opened her eyes very slowly but when she saw the ceiling and the lamp hanging so hopelessly she closed them again and rolled over. When she awoke the tired and overstretched feeling had left her. She was surprised at how well rested she felt, as though she had slept for a week; as though she had been on a holiday. The day sounded more fully formed and the light on the ceiling several shades lighter. She was now alone in the bed and could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. Untethered from her normal morning, from her life and routine in New York, she felt like she was floating, as though carried by the wind or a river. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, no, just new and unexpected. She thought of the way snow fell, white and powdered, all the way down to the street. So lovely to look at from the warmth of the apartment, with the smell of her mother's cooking filling every space and the fire blazing and...oh, no, not homesickness! No, it's just the way it is. You are inside and the snow looks like a picture but imagine tramping through it with a heavy school satchel. Six city blocks is a long way for a little kid and all the slipping and sliding and all those piles of snow. Here she was in the new world, in her new life with her freshly minted marriage an untested thing, no? And this new town on the edge of a continent, this hotel and in the bathroom her husband is washing and shaving. The shower stopped. Oh! I hope he opens the door. If he opens the door he really loves me. 'Oh, don't be silly, Norma, dear,' she heard her Mother say, chuckling and rearranging her knitting on her lap. Muffled sounds. Voices. Car engines. Birdsong. A truck turning. And then the click of the doorknob and the door opening and there was her husband standing in the doorway, hair slicked back, still wet from the shower, his chest seal wet. He was lathering soap and applying it with his shaving brush to his chiselled features. 'What a catch,' she thought. What a gorgeous looking man. 'Good morning, beautiful,' he said, smiling. 'Oh, aren't you coming back to bed?' ''Fraid not, my love. The day calls. You should sleep some more and we'll all meet for lunch.' 'Oh no. Lovely thought but I want to get started with my new life. The day calls me too , you know.' 'Would you like to come with me?' 'Oh, can I? I would love that.' 'We'll be looking at some land that Mack says would be perfect. Then we'll be checking our current set up and discussing finances. That should take the whole morning. Then lunch. I need to spend time in the office.' 'Lovely. Breakfast?' 'Shower?' 'Oh yes.' He turned and walked back into the bathroom. She pushed back the sheets, stood and looked out the window. They were two floors up. To her right she could see the Hollywood Hills. The sky was the same blue as the day before and the breeze carried the scent of desert scrub and wildflowers, as it had last night when he kissed her and told her he loved more and more everyday. After making love, they had held each other and drifted off to sleep. She let her nightie drop to the floor and surveyed herself in the wardrobe mirror, turning so she could see her profile. She let herself be carried away by her own gorgeousness and her physical perfection then thought, 'Enough of this silliness! Time to wash and dress, do your make up and hair, girl!' She knew exactly what she was going to wear on her first day in Hollywood, which she congratulated herself on. Smart girl. Book smart and street smart. Stanley was a lucky man, wasn't he? 'Yes, yes, Norma, dear, I think we all agree with you on that.' 'Oh, Mother! Don't tease! Do I tease you?' 'When don't you tease me, Norma, dear?' Then she was under the shower and her husband was shaving, near enough to touch, and if she had wanted to she could have pulled off his towel and taken his cock in her mouth. Oh! For the second time in twenty four hours she felt absolutely, thoroughly and deliquently modern! JUMP
Chapt 10 Norma 1913 Her father and mother came to visit. On their first night Norma cooked dinner and after eating her cherry pie they sat in the front room and talked about her father's early days touring the country in vaudeville. He then stood up and performed one of the skits and everyone laughed and clapped their hands. The lamps glowed and any disappointments or regrets were forgotten. From the canyon, really not all that far away, came the sound of a coyote howling. Soon they were all too tired to keep their eyes open anymore, especially her mother, so after using the bathroom and saying goodnight they all retired for the night and the house was silent again. Norma awoke just as light was giving shape to the objects in the room. She carefully pushed back the cover, took her dressing gown from the end of the bed, found her slippers and stood up. The hands of the clock showed just past 5am. She looked across at Stanley who lay there fast asleep. She was sure he could sleep through an earthquake. She turned the doorhandle, opening the door slowly to avoid the creak. The house was quiet and Norma was glad to have it all to herself. She expected her mother to be up after 6am so until then the house and all its silence were hers. In the kitchen she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Once she had her cup of coffee she opened the back door and stepped out onto the back porch and into the morning. There was a chill in the air and light touched the edges of the landscape. If you walked straight ahead from here you would be in the San Fernando Valley, in the vast orange groves, and the San Bernardino Mountains would be ahead of you. But the thought of that held little interest to her. What she was preoccupied with was her own little patch and her thoughts. If she was asked to describe this time, to remember it and describe it (as though anyone would be interested!), what would she say? What could she say? Oh dear. What should she say. The modals, as always, said it all. Let's start with the word that popped into her head: 'Myself'. Where had she read that sentence, 'Myself, my favourite subject.' ? Then her brain moved onto the books that had changed her. When the penny had dropped and a section of her brain had expanded. Let's stay on the first project: to describe this time. No one had ever lived this moment. In all the history of humankind no one had stood where she was standing now, on the edge of something. Like a glass filling, drop by drop. She had always thought words should be allowed to spill out and combine at random. Perhaps it was the Irish in her but she loved it when words and sentences tumbled out like a great waterfall tumbling off a cliff, hitting the surface, sending spray flying. Sometimes she would find herself thinking so fast that the mechanics of her brain couldn't keep up. So here she was starting again. All over again. The backyard, with its unkempt lawn and scraggly trees and bushes, sat there looking heartbreakingly lovely. She tried to imagine its different incarnations, when it was, say, the garden of a rural homestead rather than hemmed in, as it was now, by development. The lives that had walked up and down that rough garden path. She felt happy, of that she was certain. She loved Stanley and felt lifted when he stepped into a room. Her love for him seemed to have no limit and if it did she would take time and see if she could talk to him. If she felt frightened or worried she knew she could talk to him and he would reassure her. As long as she could find out what was going on inside of herself and then find the words, then find the courage to tell him, a weight would be lifted from her shoulders and she would hug him and her gratitude for his solid goodness would be bigger and faster flowing than the mighty Mississippi. It was a perilous thing, this life. I mean, we all know the stories. A pot of boiling water. A curious hand. A baby carried full term, a bonny wee baby. Pink cheeks, smiling, giggling, laughing, touching, sweet smelling baby, snatched away. She knew one thing, if she knew anything she knew this: she could not survive the death of a child. The sun burnished the sky. The pale blue of morning was coming. Soon the day would be here and this moment would be over, past perfect, and still she hadn't managed to begin to capture even one word for posterity. But still she had a chance, so she dived in. She lifted her arms, not literally but in her mind and dived in and let the words tumble. And although she didn't write them they were there. Her eyes saw the porch rail and the way the paint was peeling and the way the ligh was changing. She held her cup and looked at the mark her lipstick left on the rim of the cup and at the liquid in the bottom of the cup. A small bird flew across the scene and in the corner of the property an old chicken coop sat empty. The path to the clothesline was an arrangement of stones and cement and tufts of grass grew in and around it. Bird song came from every direction and the house sat behind her, quiet. The lawn was wet with dew. The sun would soon be up. Stanley would soon be up. Her father and mother would soon be up. This was her life and this was a perfect moment. DESMOND 1932 Now. Where were we? Desmond was sitting on the side of his bed in the pool house. Outside he could hear the sprinkler splut-slutting. It had been over three months since his audition and not a whisper from the studio. He had settled comfortably into his new life as Norma's live-in pool boy and lover. She was fine woman and very lively in bed. They laughed a lot and she would take none of his shit but was also tolerant and understanding of his proclivities. All in all a perfect set up. She had seen a thing or two. Had been around the block a few times. She was also gorgeous and extremely erotic. And he was learning about old Hollywood. Her late husband Stanley had been Mack Sennett's right hand man for years. She knew the place when it was a village. The night before they had sat in her huge baronial living room surrounded by the finest works of art you could imagine and she spoke about her life. 'My dear late husband was a very bright man and for a careful man he was very willing to take a calculated risk. We met in New York. Two kids, we were two kids. He was a stage manager in vaudeville. My family was in vaudeville, as you know already, Desmond. My father had a very successful act with his brother but it was a difficult life. I think I was looking for something a little more settled.' She took a sip of her wine and leant back. 'We met at the Old Amsterdam and I loved him from the moment I set eyes on him. Aren't I lucky?' Desmond smiled and nodded. 'You have to be careful in our business,' she said as she pushed her hair off her face. Desmond felt flattered by her use of the 'our'. 'Relationships are very important. I suppose that's true of any business. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, we met in New York and Stanley already had his eyes set on the new nickolodean craze. He wanted in. Stanley was extremely competent. Oh goodness am I repeating myself? Anyway my late husband was a man who could get thing done. His single greatest talent was that he never, ever gave up. He was surely no saint but in his own unique way he was a great man. Perhaps I always saw him through rose tinted glasses. He could be the most infuriating man and he could say thoughtless, horrible things without thinking but I always forgave him because he also had the sweetest heart of any person I ever knew. He was full of Irish blarney. One of the first things he ever said to me (I would make special trips backstage to see him), was ' Miss if you were any prettier I couldn't be held responsible for my actions.' There he was standing there among the ropes and the mysterious backstage of this brave old theatre and me in my best dress with the velvet curtains touching my back and feeling the blush moving up my face but still keeping my eyes on him. I was very proud of that. Holding his bold, all seeing stare. Him standing there all tall and strong and really time stopped, everything stopped. If only I knew what I was getting myself in for! It is really impossible to tell anyone else about what a shared life means. We grew together. As I said, we were just kids and we grew together like two vines, intertwining. I'm sorry Desmond. I promised myself I wouldn't cry and yet here I am doing it.' She took out her small handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. 'So he met some of the early nickolodean operators and became very knowledgeable about the business. He knew more about the business than anyone, really, and this was when Thalberg was still a kid. Then he met Mack Sennett and his course was set. He became Mack's most loyal and competent lieutenants. We lived and worked together in those days. Show people were their own little world. Oh, Hollywood was so beautiful back then. A dusty, quiet village and in the spring the hills would be covered in blooming wildflowers and there were dusty tracks everywhere. This was right at the beginning. We felt like pioneers. Well, we were pioneers. ' She looked very young at that moment. 'We were young, healthy, good looking and living in lotus land. We worked hard but on the weekend we had wonderful parties. It was all so fun and carefree. I wonder why that ended? It all became bigger and bigger and very serious. And Stanley had a lot of responsibility. And my career went through the roof. I wouldn't wish fame on my worst enemy. We built this beautiful place and filled it with beautiful things. Somehow we managed to keep our connection. You remind me a lot of him Desmond. The same self possession. Physically imposing. Handsome. We were happy. He never neglected his nuptual duties, let me assure you. He died much too young. 40 years old. Died at his desk. And he had organised everything perfectly. Oh listen to me. What a chatterbox I have become.' She leant forward, touched his face and then they kissed. After that they took their wine glasses and walked together, hand in hand, upstairs. They made love on crisp white sheets, as a breeze blew in through the French doors, carrying with it a scent of the ocean. They held each other and the moon lit the room and their naked bodies. Jump
Chapter 9 Norma 1932 The days, weeks, months passed. Where does time go? Skips away. Slips away. Mother and Father came to visit. Mack and Stanley built a studio and somewhere in all of that, somehow - like cutting a piece of fabric and looking through the hole - I became a star. Now you have to understand, I have to tell you this and look you in the eyes as I say it so you get it, I never ever dreamt of being a star. Stanley made more than enough money to keep us very well. Sure, I wanted to work, appear in two reelers, but I never expected to be a star of the silver screen. Surprising to imagine it really because it was all different after that. Let's go back to the beginning. After appeared in quite a few two reelers it became clear the camera loved me and so did the audience. You have to remember in those days Hollywood was a very different town. It was a village. Everybody knew everybody and many actors would walk around town wearing greasepaint whether they were actually in a movie or not. They would congregate at the Hollywood Hotel. There were no agents. They would wait there to see if they were needed. I had no ambition at all so it was strange to be catapulted into the spotlight. The fan letters began arriving. Mack wrote scripts just for me. My vehicles. Tailormade. We would certainly churn them out. A new movie every other week or fortnight filmed in and around the studio in the up and down streets of Edendale. It was nervewracking to think that a film, a story, revolved around me. Now other memories push in, jump the queue, demand to be heard. NORMA 1913 I. The studio shone all bright and new. The glass panes, washed only once, and the freshly finished cement pavements, all just waiting. Norma had watched the workmen setting up the wooden moulds, fixing the pieces of string, pouring the cement, grey and stoney and then smoothing it out with flat pieces of timber. Then seeing them, all taut bodies and tanned, resting under that old eucalyptus down near the main entrance. The wind blowing up, catching the dust. They were creating something completely new here, she knew that. The pride she felt in the enterprise, her part in it and in Stanley and Mack, could be measured in oceans. Some mornings she felt dizzy with pride. Bursting with. Perhaps this was how it felt, at moments, to be a mother. Watching your baby's first step. The place was still unfinished but it was open for production. She pushed open the door to the glass ceiled stage and stepped into the space. She could still smell the paint, and cement and glue. The place felt peaceful, empty of memories, free from the burden of history. In the far corner Mack was talking with Ted, the set designer. Ted was seated and Mack leant over the table, his hand on the corner of the paper. 'Good morning Norma. Won't be a minute.' 'Good morning Mack. Ted. No hurry.' She looked around her and above her at the great sheets of glass that framed the sky. Suddenly the space was filled with a great sound. She turned and saw that one of the plates of glass had fallen from the ceiling and landed not far from where Mack and Ted worked. They had turned to the spot, eyes as big as saucers. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God. That was close. Lucky no one got killed, ' Mack said loudly before returning to the plans on the table. Well, after that someone came and cleared up the glass. And I'm standing there thinking, 'What would have happened if I had decided to stroll around the space or if Mack and Ted and the table had been a few feet across?' I mean it was simple dumb luck that no one was killed. Norma loved that about Mack: his ability to let things go. She was sure he brooded on things, what Irishman didn't?, but he saved that for the dead of night. The boy from Canada who still had that politeness and friendliness. Steeped in showbiz. She often thought they were two of a kind, Mack and her. Showbiz in their bones. Sometimes when the three of them were together, and Stanley would make one of his statements, Mack and her would look at each other, just a quick glance. They were young and silly and perhaps they should have been more careful. They never did anything, of course, but she sometimes felt Stanley's hurt. II 'So, let's do it again. Norma could you move a bit back when the door opens?' Mack pointed at the floor. Norma stepped back. 'That's fine.' Then there was the important moment when Norma's character realises the baby is gone. Norma asked that one of Verdi's arias be played on the phonograph. Mack sat very close and spoke to her and used his hands to indicate where he wanted her to look. Norma felt the music touch her and imagined the horror and the sadness, that mix. The fear building to unimagineable terror. The set was quiet and all that Norma heard was Verdi's aria rolling around and over her. Everything faded and all she had was the music and the moment. Norma thinks about her new tenant, fame and old Hollywood.
JUMP Chapt 8 I. Norma 1932 'Yes,' replied Desmond, turning his head to face her. 'You were miles away.' She looked at him, sitting there, in her kitchen and wondered whether she had already given away too much of herself. After all, her life had been pleasant enough before he arrived. She tried to regain a sense of equilibrium. His jacket looked as though one step from becoming a rag and she suddenly felt a pang of sympathy and pity for this fellow creature. Oh Desmond. I hope you don't step on too many toes on your climb to the top. She had seen it before, this arrogance, this burning need to be a star. She had seen the anger turn on its host and tear it limb from limb. Blinded, maddened, lost, busted, broken; a corpse devoured by the maggots of memories. Silly girls, silly boys. And there was no saving them, actually. It could have easily been her. She saw them everyday, sometimes with dazed mothers who had no idea what was at stake. Or alone with a suitcase. Pretty girls but so what? A pretty face is a dime a dozen. She thought she had seen it all before she met Desmond. She had fully expected to continue her life as she had since Stanley's death. Taking care of the house, minding her investments, meeting her solid little group for lunch every Thursday. And then Desmond knocked on her door and she fell for him like a silly school girl. Her heart still jumped when he was near her. How silly. Oh her mind was jumping all over the place. All the running off at the mouth she had been doing of late. As though trying to cajole him, charm him into loving her. Well one thing was clear: Desmond Furey loved only one person and everybody knew who that was. She sipped her tea. He was still grinning at her. He crossed his arms on his chest, then uncrossed them and began taking off his jacket. He hung it on the back of the chair. Making himself comfortable. She suddenly got a flash of old Hollywood when you could drive out of downtown and suddenly hit a dirt track and it was all farmland and shrub. With each new change in the landscape, each new house and new road she felt an involuntary contraction inside herself. She remembered driving through Hollywood soon after she and Stanley had arrived. She remembered the dust flying up and the landscape, somehow, and she didn't know why she thought this, how strange, but the landscape somehow felt as though it had been crying and was relieved and rested. There was no tension there, was how she felt it. It was terribly dry, of course. She had suddenly felt overdressed but she was glad for her hat since the sun was a mighty glowing orb and she felt beautiful in spite of her outfit. II. Norma 1920 They had travelled for days across the width of the country. As they neared Los Angeles, the sun sat high in a perfectly blue sky and orange orchards stretched out on both sides of the track. Oranges, oranges, oranges. Oranges as far as the eye could see and all she could think about was her new apartment and how it would feel laying with Stanley on fresh white sheets and him holding her and feeling his strength and imagining him inside of her and his taste and the way he turned his head And still the green and orange landscape rolled past and she looked around the carriage at the other passengers, her fellow voyagers who had left the old world and, like adventurers and pioneers through the ages, were suprised, perhaps shocked into silence by their own foolhardiness. Who would choose to leave the familiar, the cosy, the happy, easy routine that formed a happy contented existence except mad people? Who would forfeit all they had built and learnt with no promise that the replacement would...? Oh dear. She felt a sudden momentary panic and moved closer to Stanley, who turned and looked at her. 'Lovely, isn't it?' he said, as he turned back to look out the window at the sun-drenched orchards. 'Yes. Oh yes, Stanley.' 'How are you, my love?' 'Oh, I'm happy. A little scared. But Stanley, I am happy.' 'I'm happy to be here with you. God you're beautful.' He held her chin in his hand and they kissed and she felt so thoroughly modern and she felt so sorry - terrible, isn't it? - she felt so sorry for all her poor friends still stuck in their crowded routined New York lives. 'Oh don't you get too proud, Norma dear,' she heard her Mother say to her. Oh Mother, Mother! Can't I allow myself a few moments of rolling in it? To feel the absolutely blissful, incomparable feeling of having cracked the code? 'Pride goeth...' I know, I know but just this one moment, this perfect moment. And then the gloating feeling left as fast as it had come and she was back with her Stanley feeling the soft leather seat under her pretty bottom and she felt the intimacy of Stanley's elbow against her, and yes she knew it, lovely breast. She thought of Stanley's stomach and the tight band of muscle above his cock. She felt herself wetting and flushing. Her mouth moistened and her pupils dilated. She imagined again being in bed with Stanley but this time they are in a hotel room, the Waldorf Astoria perhaps, and have just had some champagne. She is on her back and the sheets, crisp, white, cool white sheets feel heavenly on her back. Stanley has her legs pushed open, and back, so her inner thighs are stretched and she is completely open to him. She squirms on the seat and the next thing she knows they are pulling into the station and there is Mack waving at them in his way. Oh Mack! She knew, she just knew, that later that night they would all gather around a piano and demand, as they always did, that Mack sing some opera. And he would, as he always did, look faux-bashful, like a vaudeville school boy or school girl, more like it. And the room would hush and he would sing like the opera singer he trained as. Extraordinary if you turned it over in your head for longer than a minute. She was certain the man was a gifted artist and this gave her the confidence to put her future in his hands. The three of them had a lovely feeling when they were together. Stanley and Mack adored each other, they adored her, and she adored them. 'Stanley!,' she heard Mack shout. Stanley was leaning out the window waving. The train station was dusty and sun lit. So here she was! Here they both were. Their new life about to begin. Moving pictures. Her family had been in vaudeville so moving pictures was logical next move. She knew this world. She was sure that was one of things Stanley loved about her. He had said as much. Anyway they were all learning as they went. This place was an invention, an idea, a dream. Oh look at him standing there in his suit and hair parted and his reliable face, waving his arm. Mack Sennett! Desmond has a screen test on the Warner lot. He thinks about old Hollywood and stars like Norma who were swept away with the advent of the Talkies.
JUMP Chapt 7 I. The day opened like a movie premier and, yes, Desmond knew that today was his day. After days, weeks, months of waiting, after countless false starts and meetings and promises he had landed exactly what he knew he needed. This very day he would scale the fortress wall. He had a screen test for a swashbuckling costume drama on the Warner lot. He liked a challenge and this one may have intimidated a lesser man but he understood that all he had to do was be there and not give a shit. It was a trick he played with his mind. He knew that the more he didn't give a shit, the more he didn't need something, the more it shifted towards him. Stay loose. Exercise, beat the shit out of your sparring partner, fuck as many broads as you can, drink, smoke reefers, swim in the big Pacific ocean and not give a rats arse about what anyone thinks and above all don't fucking worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will take care of itself. Cross that bridge when you come to it. Today was here to be slurped up, sucked in, masticated, mangled, devoured, stroked, touched, felt, eaten, tasted, and yes, fucked. The day, today, was a neat block of time and you can either give it your best shot or dog-in-the -manger, mope and whinge. That sun was unrelenting and the blinds on the pool house window provided no resistance. Up, up, lad, grab the pool net, give it a quick sweep, say hello to his lovely, (and I mean lovely, lovely, strawberries and cream lovely, would-do-her-with-no-encouragement, a fine, fine looking woman) new landlady, and to the noble Mr Takahashi, grab a bite to eat on Sunset and enter the fortress. My, that sun was unrelenting. He was grateful that his profession, movies star, (for which he had served the best known apprenticeship, carousing and rollicking in the bars and whorehouses from Sydney to New Guinea,in a gold rush, for god's sake!, to Hong Kong, Bangkok, Shanghai, oh what a journey it had been) would be spent inside a sound stage. He loved these dark, cavernous spaces. He loved the blast of light as he stepped out of the darkness into the bright, even L.A. light. Desmond felt his cock, which had the same recuperative powers a the rest of his body, wake from its slumber beneath the sheets. It wanted his attention. Not now, old man, you have to wait until tonight. He needed the edginess, the tension of unmet needs. The shower felt good. He let the hot water run down his back. His muscles still ached from his work in the garden yesterday. After he had towelled himself, he began shaving in front of the bathroom mirror. He was pleased with what he saw. He looked good and his brain was clear. As the steam began to fog the mirror he was reminded of the fleeting nature of beauty and how his looks were his fortune. He knew he was part of a freakshow and was glad of his freakish good looks. He had seen tough broads giggle and blush when he spoke to them. He had seen women's knees buckle, seen them swoon, moisten, surrender. And why? Because he was simply one of those that the Gods had decided to curse by giving them everything mere mortals could only dream of. What if his eyes had been set differently in his skull or if his nose or mouth had ruined the perfection of his features? What if he had been a fool or a choir boy or his cock had been smaller? The fact was everything had come together and screamed 'movie star'! The camera loved him and most importantly his personality kept ticking over even as the cmera whirred. If you don't freeze when they point a camera at you you are already half way towards being a movie actor. The blade moved across his face and he thought about the breakfast he had planned for himself at th diner near the lot and the cute waitress who did the early shift. The test was at 10am which gave him plenty of time to wake up (done), shower and shave (almost done), greet his current employer and colleague, then stroll down the hill to the diner, have a coffee, eggs and sausages washed down with a freshly squeezed orange juice. Not a huge breakfast. Just something to kick start the day. He could feel the adrenalin pumping and his hand shook. His stomach churned and he knew now more than ever he needed to not give a shit. This game was not for the weak hearted! II. Ah! By God he felt good striding the cement sidewalk letting the cool morning and sun activate his senses. He felt like a million bucks! And he looked it too in his best jacket, shirt, trousers and shoes, which was confirmed by the way girls looked at him and giggled. As though he was already a movie star. Or his fly was down! Ha! What a game! He thought of the blokes who talked themselves down - can't do this, can't do that. It will never work. That's why they were still desk clerks at Brown and Sons on Phillip Street and here he was on his way to the Warner lot to show all those bastards at Warners that he will be the goose that laid the gold. If they have his name on the marquee the movie would be a hit. The women would come to see him being himself, behaving like he wanted to fuck them by teasing the shit out of them, like a kid sister. Like he couldn't give a shit, and they would bring their boyfriends and husbands who would envy and hate him because they wished they were movie stars and could fuck anyone they wanted and sit around in their dressing room waiting for the next set up. Poor bastards! Ah! What a day for life to begin! What a perfectly formed morning. It felt like the footpath wanted nothing more than to be there for his shoes to walk on. That the sprinklers were splish-splishing a rotating watery greeting. The girls looked prettier, the cars shinier, the old ladies kinder. The shine, shine, laugh, laugh. Oh! Desmond today is your day. You can feel it, can't you? You can, can't you? III. The guard at the entrance of the lot checked his clip board and then pointed down a canyon-like lane between two sound stages. Desmond surveyed the scene in front of him savouring every part of it: the well manicured lawns of the main administration building, the lines of smaller buildings for production, writing, stars bungalows. The whole place had a feeling of permanency which its owners intended, although they knew, and he knew, that a few flops and the place could disappear. The flickering image in a darkening theatre had been joined now by sound. With the arrival of talkies actors and actresses like his employer, Norma, had been swept away. Who would have thought? Who would have guessed. As Desmond was thinking about his place in all of this a battalion of dragoons marched past, coats open, cigarettes in hands and on lips, sweat on brows. God they must be warm in those outfits, thought Desmond. The tall walls of the sound stage framed and shaded the activity through which he now walked. The sky and light had been marginalised as though this place knew its prime function -the corralling and husbandry of light (and sound). Light was the thing being manufactured here and when once the sun was a factor in production now it had been marginalised, as it was on this morning. All the architecture surrounding him filtered the light,like half shut eyes. Over in the distance he could see parts of the back lot with New York brownstones and Bohemian townscapes, but even there the sun was no longer enough. Huge banks of lights would bathe even the simplest of scenes. Well. Whatever. They may be manufacturing light but this was merely a front for the real product: dreams and fantasies and that is where he, Desmond Furey, came in. Desmond thought about the old days and the stories Norma told about old Hollywood, about a friend of hers who had bought up whole stretches of orange orchards on which now sat houses. The stories about Mack Sennett and the Keystone Cops and how they filmed scenes on the streets of L.A. Desmond tried not to worry about whether he was too old or whether he had left his run too late, or whether he had arrived in Hollywood too late, at the end of the party. That the best days were over. The Golden Past of missed opportunities. Deal with now, Desmond, old man, he thought. He breathed in and wondered what activity was going on inside those sound stages. . Desmond Furey is dreaming of Hollywood stardom. It is 1932 and he is living in a boarding house in downtown Los Angeles. He decides he needs to get a job.
JUMP Chapter 6 Desmond couldn't believe it. Rain had finally come to Los Angeles. He awoke to the pattering of water droplets on the window of the boarding house in downtown Los Angeles where he had moved after being tossed out by Mrs F. The light was different today. Filtered, quiet, soft light. If he had been in his own house, with food in the cupboard, no errands to run, nor friends to meet he would have been content to lay in the bed. The luck of rain, the reassurance and the promise it brought, would have been given its full due. As it was he knew he had to get up and go out otherwise he would be driven mad. In a town where he knew no one he felt obliged to at least go through the motions of trying to make friends. Plus he was hungry. The raindrops ran down the glass of the window. It was too early for Miss Office Girl. The blinds were closed. The side of the building was there but today seen through lines of rain. His stomach rumbled. 'Wait a little while longer, Sport,' he said to himself. He lay back on the bed so he could see the office window. He knew there would be no movement for at least another hour. It was still early morning and Desmond knew he must try to get a job today. To hang around for another day, killing time, dreaming of being a movie star, was putting him in a fug. He needed something to get up for each morning, but what? What did he want to do? He knew very well what he didn't want to do. Under no circumstances did he want an office job. The thought gave him the creeps. Although it may be sensible to get a night job to tide him over and leave the day free for looking for acting work, he also liked having his nights free. He had already begun exploring the delights of the city, which he felt came into its own at night. With the sun banished and night installed, the city took on a smokey silkiness marred only by the stretches between different night spots. He dreamt of owning a motor car. Imagine chewing up the road from the Hollywood Hills to Beverly Hills to Malibu! Driving through the night, dashboard shining, moon sitting bright and full above the shimmering Pacific Ocean, one hand on the steering wheel of his Cadillac, the other around his girl. He felt paralysed and this paralysis must end. The rain felt like the circuit breaker he needed. The sameness of the days, the lazy breeze blowing off the Pacific, the intoxicating scent of jasmine and frangipani, and the cloudless blue sky, had hypnotised him and today he felt as though he were coming out of a trance. The realisation that he needed to act energised him sending his heart racing. The adrenalin pumped through his veins. He got on the floor and begun doing pushups. After doing fifty, he sat and did fifty sit ups. Then he lay down on the bed and drifted into sleep. When he awoke the rain was still falling and the blinds of the office were lifted. He would wait until the rain eased no matter how long it took. With no umbrella he worried about the effect of rain on his only suit. Perhaps it would disintegrate or dissolve. The panic from earlier had been replaced by a calmness. Yes, when the rain stopped he, Desmond Furey, would go out in the world with the sole purpose of finding a job. Seeing what opportunities availed themselves to him. He thought about Sydney and the back alleys of his youth. There was something odd about Australia that he could never quite put his finger on. Was it because it had started as a prison? He remembered his father standing in their garden, with its view of the harbor, squinting into the distance. Gardening. Pool cleaning. It came to him on the corner of Sunset and Doheny. All those gardens and pools. Outdoors. He wouldn’t have to do it for long. Just so he could get some cash. And he had to get serious about making contacts. And one again, after all the walking and planning and thinking he found himself outside Warner Bros studio. And, as always, the studio sat there waiting for him. He thought about all the people toiling behind those walls. The films being created. The comedies, the gangster films, the costume dramas. He had made it this far, after almost getting killed in New Guinea, after that little kerfuffle in Penang. What an adventure it has been. They should make a movie of his life. The footpath and lawns were still damp from the rain. The city had been washed clean by the rain and the haziness replaced by crystal clear brightness. As he rounded the corner, back onto Sunset, he spotted Ronald Flannery. After greeting each other and having a short conversation Desmond had the address of a former silent film star who was looking for someone to clean the pool and do odd jobs around the house. Soon he was standing at the front door of a large house set back on a vast green lawn. After introducing himself to the housekeeper he was led through to the back patio where she sat, as though waiting just for him. She turned and smiled. After a short talk it was decided that Desmond would start the next day and could take up residence in the pool house. |
Clinton De Vere
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