Dragonflies Chapter Nine
Dawn was breaking as Callie gave in to her rumbling stomach and crept carefully down the rickety stairs
Dawn was breaking as Callie gave in to her rumbling stomach and crept carefully down the rickety stairs.
Nuts were served at the bars of some of the smarter hotels and restaurants in Hollywood, but Callie had a sneaking suspicion that this saloon would not go in for such fripperies.
‘I brought you some breakfast.‘
Callie whirled around to find Everett in the doorway holding out a package wrapped in greased canvas and a tin of coffee.
'This time I admit you have saved my life,' Callie said with a smile. Everett chuckled softly and Callie felt a little flutter in her stomach that she fiercely told herself was hunger.
‘Better eat on the porch outside. No point in Willie catching us.'
As she followed Everett outside, Callie wolfed down couple of mouthfuls of a surprisingly tasty sandwich of roast beef and mustard. They sat on the front steps just as the first shards of sunlight appeared over the horizon. The town was bathed a dusky pink, its shabbiness softened in the glow. Callie finished the sandwich, conscious of Everett's eyes on her. After a few gulps of coffee, she began to feel quite human again.
‘You said you might be able to help me,’ Callie began, licking the last of the mustard from her fingers. ‘You know where the rock is, don’t you?’
Everett nodded. He toyed with a stick, hunched over to draw loops and swirls in the sand in front of them.
‘Guess folks in a small town like this know everybody?’
‘Guess so,’ muttered Everett.
‘Everett, do you know who wrote this story? Because if you do, I need to meet with him just as soon as possible. In fact, if I don’t establish contact with him today, I will be forced to go back to California and he will have missed this opportunity.’
‘Well, I don’t know if —’
‘Everett, I don’t have time to waste. Either pep up and help me as you promised, or I shall go it alone. I am not here to vacation in the dust, I am —’
‘It’s me.’
Callie stared. ‘I beg your pardon?‘
‘I wrote the story. That’s how I had the money to give to Willie last night. They paid me twenty-five dollars. I — never thought anybody would find me.’
‘But why? Why the secrecy, I mean? It’s a wonderful story.’
Everett shrugged, refused to meet Callie's eye. ‘It’s not the kind of thing I ever thought I’d do. I don’t know why I sent it away.’
Callie nodded slowly. 'That's how you found me yesterday, wasn't it? You were looking for me.'
'News travels fast when a fancy stranger appears in town. I suspected —' He broke off, shrugged again. 'I never thought anybody would read it.'
‘Well I can tell you plenty people have read it, in fact all of Hollywood is talking about it. It will make a great picture, I can promise you that. I just need you to —'
‘I want to come to California.’ He got to his feet, stood tall, almost silhouetted against the morning sun. A slouching cowboy rode by on the sleepy piebald, a couple of ladies made their way across the street to the convenience store. 'I want to leave this town. There's nothing here for me.'
Callie’s heart fell. ‘Everett, remember what I said yesterday? There are many film writers already in Hollywood —‘
‘And I want to be one of them.’
‘So do — many other people. It’s quite a different skill coming up with a story designed to be read in a magazine, and writing a continuity script with cuts and camera angles and —’
‘I wrote one story they want to make into a picture, I could write more.’
Callie folded the canvas neatly and placed it neatly inside the empty coffee tin. ‘I only wish it were so easy.’
‘Why ain’t it?’
‘I sold my very first picture story to Famous-Players-Lasky in 1915, for five hundred dollars.’
Everett stared. ‘Five hundred dollars? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Callie dryly. ‘I spent the whole lot on a fur coat I’ve worn twice in California, and a beauty box from Helena Rubenstein which gave me a rash. Three weeks later, I had to accept an assignment as a typist to the manager of a studio you’ve never heard of, and I can’t type.
'Every single day, hundreds of people pour off the train at Union Station, hoping to make it in pictures. Actors, writers, directors, you name it. I’ve known actors to faint with hunger having not worked in several weeks. Directors turn to making the most unpleasantly unsuitable films just to pay rent for another month.’ Callie gave a rueful grin. ‘Some writers sneak into studios in the guise of film extras just to try to get somebody to listen to their pitch.’
‘Well it’s gonna be different for me. Why should I give my story to somebody else when I can write it just fine myself?’
‘Do you know anything about pictures?’
‘I seen plenty. They’ll take a chance on me when they hear who wrote Montana Dreams.’
Callie sighed impatiently, looked away. The worst bit was that he was right, she thought despondently. It happened all the time. For every hopeful slipping into destitution on the streets of Hollywood, there was a confident young man who hopped off the train and strolled into the nearest studio with nought but a charming smile, some contacts from his father and an idea or two. While Callie spent her every spare penny on movie theatres, making it her business to see every single film that was released several times to study and analyse it, these upstarts got to learn on the job whilst receiving a salary.
‘I just need a train ticket.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I gave the last of my money to Willie yesterday, for you.’
Callie got to her feet, shook her head in wonder. ‘I told you not to. I’d have slept outside rather than pay that amount.’
‘Well I did. So you owe me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Callie. ‘I appreciated your help yesterday, but if you think I’m going to buy you a train ticket so you can write my picture —‘
‘I think you’ll find it’s my picture —‘
‘So get yourself to Hollywood and you can write it,’ Callie snapped, and she stormed away.