Faulkner & Hollywood

(continued)

By D.E. Fredd

She sighed. "You don't know my past, kid. I'm like a July Fourth sparkler. For a few minutes I'm the center of attention, then I burn out my welcome and men move on to others. Plus he's married back in Mississippi, and out here gossip has him linked with a script girl in Hawks' office. Meta something. What parents would hate their daughter enough to name her Meta?"

I laughed. "Jesus, that's the first time I've gotten a positive reaction from you. And if you want another funny one, my real name isn't Margot."

She paused and looked at me as if I had to guess it.

"It's Irma Jean, and I have an older sister Imogene. Crazy, huh? Now you know why I left home and haven't been back. No, the closest I'll ever get to William Faulkner is cuddling up with his booze and one of his books. I don't suppose you know who Absalom is?"

"One of King David's sons. Absalom's brother raped their sister so Absalom had the brother killed and then tried to take the throne from David." I looked at her by way of explanation. "My Irish Catholic upbringing."

"Boy, a story like that has Hollywood written all over it. Solly would go nuts for it."

"But you saw what they did to his first script."

"Yeah, a silk purse story became a pig's ear movie."

"I might use the metaphor of a butterfly turned back into larva, sort of a reverse metamorphosis."

"By god, kid, there's a literary side to you." She passed the bottle my way but I shook my head.

"I'll drop you off and invent a decent scenario to buy Faulkner more time to write."

"You'll have to, because with the mood and shape I'm in, I'd tell Solly what I think of him and the whole film business."

We got to her apartment complex. The lack of rain had spackled the lawn with brown spots. A flagstone walk curved its way up to the building's Spanish façade. I went around to her side of the car and helped her out. She apologized again for her remark about my sister and for not inviting me up. She slurred out that I was a nice kid and, if she had to pick anyone to meet William Faulkner with, it would be me. There was a stubborn instance that she could make her way up the walk alone. She was good for half way, then stumbled. I helped her up. She clung to me for support and then began crying. I thought it was a general drunkard's type of weeping like my old man's after a payday night out, but she stepped back and opened up her bag for me to see that Faulkner's Jim Beam had not survived the recent sidewalk impact. I took it from her, poured what little liquid was left onto the grass and handed it back to her. She patted me on the arm by way of gratitude, then lodged an awkward kiss on my cheek before recommencing the next leg, some forty feet, of her journey home. When she made the front stoop and had the railing for support, she turned and flagged her triumph at me.

"We're all either flotsam or jetsam," she yelled."I don't exactly know the difference; just another metaphor to think about."

The front door swung open. A heavy-set woman with flaming orange hair carrying a cat came out and blinked in the bright, Southern California light before donning her sunglasses. She politely held the door for Margot, who took advantage and pin-balled her way into the building. I gave a final wave. The cat lady smiled, returned my gesture and raised the ante by holding up her pet's forepaws to further bid me adieu.

It was close to four. If I went back to the studio now, there was a chance Solly would still be there. I had missed lunch. I was ten minutes away from Wyman's Deli. Did I want my tongue lashing on a full or empty stomach? Corned beef and pastrami on dark pumpernickel, a side of slaw and a crock overflowing with half sour pickles was calling to me. Hollywood had its good points.

Author's note: To the best of my knowledge and research, the non fictional aspects of this piece are reasonably accurate.