The Only Woman in the Room: Episodes in My Life and Career as a Television Writer
304
The Only Woman in the Room: Episodes in My Life and Career as a Television Writer
304eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781495050466 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2000 |
| Series: | Applause Books |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Sales rank: | 856,227 |
| File size: | 13 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
UNIVERSAL STUDIOS
How I Almost Met Cary Grant, Doris Day, and Alfred Hitchcock, All in One Day
Mid-1961
Universal Studios, Los Angeles
How many words can you type per minute?"
I hesitated. No sense lying. "Maybe ten."
The personnel director's pretty blue eyes looked askance at that. "With two fingers," I added, knowing that would be the next question.
We were seated on plush Italian leather couches in a section of the marble lobby in this newly opened all-black aluminum-and-glass office building. It was huge, awe-inspiring and imposing, and I felt insignificant. Later it would become known as the Black Tower.
I was aware of the other applicants watching and waiting in leather chairs across from us, speculating on how I was doing. They didn't need to worry. I didn't have much chance.
"And your shorthand? Pitman or Gregg?"
I shrugged, embarrassed. "I did take a course in Pitman once. I flunked out. The symbols never made sense to me."
Come on, I urged myself. You've answered a dozen ads by now. And struck out each time. Not that I blamed them. No work experience. No skills of any kind. And I'm sure the sad, pathetic face that greeted those potential interviewers made turning me down easy. You need this job. Say something positive. Say how you'd love to work at a big movie studio.
Her name was Merle Johnson and she was about my age, thirty-one. She had medium brown hair, too, and was also about five foot five, weighing in at 120. And there the resemblance stopped short. Her wavy hair was beauty-salon coiffed and shining. Mine was straight, straggly, and dull, though God knows I'd tried to do something with it that morning. I couldn't remember when I'd had my last hair appointment. Her clothing was perfect. Her makeup, subtle. Jewelry, understated. Perfume, light.
I felt she was able to see right through me. Nothing in my wardrobe worked for me. I'd managed to dig out a black linen skirt and old white cotton blouse from a far corner of my closet, where things I no longer wore lived. And that included the maternity clothes I'd shed not that many months ago.
She was also wearing black and white, but on her it was right. Hers was probably 100 percent wool or even silk. But my skimpy skirt was creased and didn't fit well and had a safety pin holding up a falling hem. Did she see the remnants of a stain on my blouse from nursing my baby? I'd scrubbed it, but that discoloration doesn't come out easily, and I didn't have anything better to wear. I didn't own what might be considered a business wardrobe.
The only jewelry I wore was my wedding ring. And how much longer would I be wearing it?
I cringed as she closed the folder that had my name printed on it. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lakin, but I don't think this will work out."
Normally, I'd have been spending my afternoon at the Farmer's Market at Third and Fairfax, strolling with my friends Doris and Harriet, enjoying Bennett's delicious ice cream and wheeling our baby strollers while we shopped.
I didn't belong here. I was a housewife. A mother. None of my friends had to work. They felt sorry for me, needing to get a job. Believe me, I felt plenty sorry for myself. I wanted to be home, where I felt safe.
Stop it! Those days are gone. Pay attention. You're losing this Merle Johnson's interest. Don't let her see how scared you are.
Soon she would point me to the exit, and I knew I had to stop her. I couldn't bear another rejection. I had no other choice. I didn't want to do it this way, but I had to play the pity card. I was that desperate. My voice trembled.
"Look, Miss Johnson, I need this job. I know I have no secretarial experience. I do have a degree in English lit. It never prepared me for a husband who would die young. I'm left with three children under nine and no way to earn a living. I was meant to live happily ever after."
Merle stared at me; I saw her respond just the tiniest bit.
"He was thirty-four years old. His name was Henry, but we called him Hank. He was a wonderful man. A good husband and father. He was brilliant, too. A physicist. He was working on the first mission to outer space. ... He died six months ago." I stopped myself — this was hopeless. "I'm sorry. I'm taking up your time. ... I guess I should leave."
I saw Merle tear up as she turned her face away. She flicked a bit of lint off the shoulder of her black jacket, hoping I wouldn't notice.
There was no danger of me crying. I hadn't cried yet, not at his funeral, not in my empty bed at night; this was neither the time nor place to pour out my grief. Please don't ask me for details, I silently begged.
There was a pause and I held my breath.
"Well," she said, covering her feelings, "I think I have a position for you."
Was it true? Was she saying what I thought I heard? What possible job was there for someone without skills? I smiled hopefully. Give me anything, anywhere, doing whatever. Just let me be in this magical place and earn a paycheck.
"Allow me to show you where you'll be."
It was happening, really happening. I felt my heart flutter. I told myself I had been unrealistic, going from movie studio to movie studio. I needed a job, but did I go to the telephone company or department stores like JCPenney or Sears? Did I try to get a job selling five-and-dime stuff at Woolworth's? Did I go someplace where I had a reasonable chance of getting hired, of being stuck in a situation of infinite boredom and infinitesimal salary?
I'd had enough of a dose of realism. Even in my pain, I was hoping to be able to work where I might find a little joy. I loved movies. For so many kids like me who grew up during the Depression, those wondrous Saturday matinees were our escape. I was glued to the silver screen. Two features, cartoons, a Western, serials — it was the stories that held me entranced. The noise level in the audience was kept down by an imperious matron in a white nurse's uniform, carrying a flashlight, shushing the rambunctious boys. I never wanted the afternoon to end.
I glanced back at the waiting job applicants, their faces clouding up at the realization the job was now taken. I hurried after Merle.
Since we were on the ground floor, I assumed we'd take the elevator up to one of the tower floors. But, no, she walked me outside and wound me through an adjacent area of small, charming one-story cottages with sweet miniature gardens. If you closed your eyes and pretended that huge black building wasn't there, you might imagine you were in an English countryside.
"These bungalows," Merle informed me, "are the offices of important people." She pointed. "Doris Day, the singer-actress, always brings all her dogs to the studio." Her dogs barked as we passed her door.
"That's Rock Hudson's door; you know he's that romantic leading man. He and Doris are starring in a movie right now, Lover, Come Back.
"And next, Edith Head, the famous costume designer."
She paused at a sprawling nondescript building with people milling around in a variety of costumes of different eras. "This is our restaurant. We call it the commissary."
We continued on and Merle identified the soundstages, massive beige concrete square numbered structures with huge doors.
She walked me along what she identified as the back lot. Here was a period New York street, there, a dusty Old West saloon and blacksmith shop. A French chateau around a corner. A cobblestone mews in a Charles Dickens London.
"Recognize that?"
I nodded. Even I knew the familiar gloomy Bates Motel and the spooky house on the hill. Hitchcock's movie had come out the previous year and shocked audiences with its famous, terrifying shower scene.
I sensed she was doing this tour thing to cheer me up. Kind lady.
We arrived back at the cottages and she pointed at one. "This will be your new home."
Did my eyes deceive me? Was that Cary Grant coming out of the door next to where I'd be working?
Merle informed me that my high-ranking executive boss-to-be never gave dictation to his secretary. "He does all his work on the phone. You'll be dialing his numbers for him and taking messages when he's out. There's a minimum of filing."
Me, she was talking about me! Relief washed over me. I'd never have to type. Or even file. I could take messages. I could dial.
What I'd prayed for was a simple job, with no demands on me, so that I'd have time to grieve. I'd found my home away from home. May you have a happy life, I wished Merle Johnson. You've just saved mine.
CHAPTER 2
VAN NUYS
Home Not-So-Sweet Home, Not Anymore
5 p.m. the same day
My house in Van Nuys
I didn't want to get out of my car. But of course I had to.
I unwillingly climbed out of the compact gray 1960 Chevy Corvair, which had formerly been my husband's pride and joy, and which under my care had suffered greatly. I was exhausted from the day's emotional ups and downs. Even though it had ended well, it had taken a lot out of me. I didn't even have the strength to lift the garage door open. Trying not to look around, I was all too aware of the crabgrass taking over my lawn. Some of the sprinkler heads had broken off. The shutters on the windows were peeling. The gutters were filled with dead leaves. The front doorbell hung from its wiring. My little yellow tract house was getting back at me for my neglect.
How it was before: When he was here, everything was spick-and-span. The house shone inside and out and promised welcome. At this hour, Hank would have been getting home from work. I'd have raced around readying the place for him, dumping toys into the toy box, picking up dropped clothes and tossing them into the hamper. I'd have made sure my nine-year-old, Howard — called Ricky, owing to his middle name, Eric — and four-year-old, Susie, were bathed and in their pj's, and that my nine-month old baby, Gavin, was nursed and sleeping. I'd have changed my clothes and put on makeup. Dinner would be ready, the aroma filling the house with its promised comfort. He'd open the door and his two older children would run to hug him. The house in order, the atmosphere peaceful. And for the final touch, I'd have a martini in hand to greet him.
I'd learned all these rules from Good Housekeeping and Ladies' Home Journal. The 1950s had been happy. I had the soul mate husband. I was content as wife, mother, and housewife. Three wanted babies in a row, a husband in an important career — who would ask for anything more?
After dinner and after the kids were put to bed, while I did dishes, Hank would go into our undersize den, which was his office. The walls held our college degrees: my English lit BA, and his two PhDs, one in math and one in physics. There was a two-seater worn brown corduroy-covered couch, a recliner that didn't recline, an unfinished pine bookshelf containing his texts and reference books, an ordinary desk, and an office chair, though he hardly ever sat in it. One whole wall held a chalkboard where nightly he'd stand and work out mathematical problems. Sometimes I'd curl up on the recliner and watch him. He loved playing with those numbers. And I loved watching him, even though what he was doing looked like hieroglyphics.
How it was now: I walked inside, standing there silently in the front hallway listening, taking the temperature of my home. No sign of the older ones, but I was able to hear them from the playroom, squabbling while the TV blasted The Mickey Mouse Club.
Those same toys and clothes were strewn in the hallway and, I imagined, all over the house. I was sure my sister, Judy, had found no time to do any cleaning.
I heard my little guy crying from his high chair in the kitchen, where Judy was attempting to prepare the children's dinner. Probably leftover canned Chef Boyardee spaghetti, red Jell-O, Hershey's chocolate milk and Toll House chocolate-chip cookies. And I remembered:
*
January 12–24, 1961
My husband died on the twelfth, and then it suddenly was the twenty-fourth, my birthday. Where had I been those twelve days?
I was told later that at Hank's funeral I behaved as if I were hosting a party. Like a Perle Mesta, famous for her lavish soirees, known as the "hostess with the mostest," bouncing up and down the aisle after the services, greeting everyone as a guest, effusively thanking them for coming.
Back at home with a smile pasted on my face, passing a tray of cheese and crackers (Swiss and Ritz) around to friends and family, making preposterous chitchat about the weather and thanking those who had traveled so far. I had no idea where my children were or who was caring for them. Whatever strange spirit moved my body and spoke my words during those bleak days bore no resemblance to the me who had totally shut off and disappeared onto the planet of Nothingness.
I did that? I don't remember. I don't remember any of it.
For days — maybe it was a week — my family and Hank's family, who had come from New York, hovered over us, moving in and out of my house at all hours. My redheaded sister, Judy, had arrived with them, carrying two heavy suitcases, which didn't register at the time. My mother, Gladdy, and her sisters were constantly cooking up a storm. Aunt Rose, the oldest, was in charge; she always took over. Mom and Aunt Ann just obeyed her orders: Go shopping, make beds, do dishes, whatever. They didn't argue — it was easier that way.
My always-shy dad, Dave, said nothing. He touched my shoulder a lot, then moved quickly away. The New York uncles attempted not to be underfoot. They tried for normalcy, watching sports on TV, complaining, pretending as if it mattered; they couldn't get the New York Giants football games on my California TV.
Hank's parents, Lena and Jack, those dear, gentle people who'd adopted him as a child, sat numbly in my kitchen, staring into space, holding hands. She said tearfully to anyone who'd listen, "It shouldn't happen. It's not right for your child to die before you."
Alone, standing in Hank's den, were his two best friends, and fellow physicists, Merrill and John, and their wives. Perhaps they felt most comfortable near the chalkboard, with its recognizable symbols from their own work at the lab.
All the above I was told later. I vaguely recall, like some buzzing in my ears, people giving advice. "This, too, will pass," one after another promised. I knew they'd lied.
Still in my self-protective coma, I saw them vaguely come and go. Many hugs I didn't quite feel, soft words I didn't quite hear. More food in the fridge.
Then — poof! — they were all gone.
Suddenly, awesome silence. No more visitors. The phone no longer rang.
My freezer was full. Each meal labeled and dated, probably by perfectionist Aunt Rose.
And there was my sister, Judy, oddly left behind. I found her sleeping in my tiny den in the small tract house.
This was my greeting to my sister: "Why are you here? Why is there a bed in here? Where did it come from? What happened to the brown couch? This is Hank's workroom. Don't you see Hank's chalkboard? See what he's working on now? Don't you dare erase anything!"
Judy cried. And then I sat down on the bed and held her hand.
And after they all left to go back to their own lives, and for this thirty-first birthday on the twenty-fourth, Judy bought a cupcake and centered a candle in it, and she sang "Happy Birthday" to me as my children watched in confusion. Where was their daddy?
Thank you, my dearest, for not dying on my birthday.
*
I stood in the kitchen doorway watching my sister place my children's food on the table, and I thought about what she'd come from.
Living in New York in our parents' cramped apartment had been stifling for her, as it once had been for me. But that's the way it was. A nice girl lived at home until she got married, so at twenty-four, surprisingly still single, Judy had a series of part-time jobs to pay for clothes, makeup, and incidentals. Dating and husband hunting was the agenda, which stopped abruptly as she was thrust into flying three thousand miles away to Los Angeles to help her newly widowed sister.
But she'd never had to deal with taking care of three young children. She'd never had to cook or clean a house, but she was trying, with not a complaint out of her.
I'd apologized to my sister for uprooting her. But Judy insisted she was thankful that I'd rescued her from the Bronx and all those loser guys. This gorgeous L.A. was paradise. And she knew for certain that her dream husband was waiting for her just around the corner. However, neither of us could ever have imagined she would be here under such heartbreaking circumstances.
*
I watched as she called my kids into the kitchen for dinner. She had to call them three times before they obeyed.
Mourning has weight and smell. It was oppressive. The walls would soon close in and crush us all. I had to think. We were going to sink under this morass if I didn't do something.
Listening again to the sounds from down the hall one last time, I backed out of the room, silently closed the front door behind me, got back into my Chevy, and drove away.
I did a lot of thinking as I drove to our neighborhood shopping area on Ventura Boulevard. I knew this was going to be hard. Someday we'd have to deal with our sorrow, but not now. First, we had to survive.
As my mother, Gladdy (she preferred it to being called Gladys), used to say, "You've got two choices. You can be sad and waste your life using it as an excuse to do nothing, or you can talk yourself into being happy and maybe it will come true."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Only Woman in the Room"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Rita Lakin.
Excerpted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Preface,
Acknowledgments,
TEASER,
Part One THE SIXTIES,
Part Two THE SEVENTIES,
Part Three THE EIGHTIES,
EPILOGUE,
Photographs,