Dragonflies Chapter Two
Callie lived in a studio apartment above the garage of a family home out in Beverly Hills.
Callie lived in a studio apartment above the garage of a family home out in Beverly Hills.
She loved the wilds of the hills where coyotes howled at night and the air crackled with the acrid scent of burning orange groves. Of course, the location had been ideal when she could walk the couple of miles to Universal City back in her reader days; the slog of a bus and two trams down to Culver City made her increasingly desperate attempts to break into any of the other studios all the more frustrating.
Still, her little apartment was just perfect for her. It was tiny and cosy, and provided everything she needed, including a corner kitchenette comprised of a stove, sink and icebox and a shelf which Callie had painted a cheerful periwinkle blue in a fit of domesticity when she first moved in. A bed that folded into the wall during the occasions she entertained friends at home sat opposite a small fireplace tiled in a cheerful, Spanish style pattern. The fire was bordered on either side by two comfortable wing armchairs in a soft brocade fabric, and her friend Hildy had embroidered Callie two cushions for her last birthday which added a homely touch.
She had been in her little home for almost five years, the longest she had lived any one place since she was a small child. Hildy had warned her that since Mary Pickford and Doug Fairbanks had established their Pickfair residence in the area, Beverly Hills was suddenly being spoken of as a sought-after address, and rents were sure to rise accordingly. Looking out at the rough, scrubby hills with no sign of civilisation as far as the eye could see, Callie had found it hard to believe, but if Hildy said it, it was probably true.
Callie’s landlady was incredibly kind to her, even sharing the family's leftovers with her when she discovered just how much of a disappointment Callie was in the kitchen, and Callie couldn't expect her not to charge what the apartment was worth just to be charitable. Besides, if she didn't sell a story soon, she wouldn't even be able to afford the $35 a month she already paid.
There was one such package of leftovers waiting for her on the doorstep now, Callie noted with joy, picking it up and sniffing the welcome pot roast. That evening, Callie's friend Lillian was trying out yet another recipe for a bathtub gin, and Callie knew she would need a stomach that was fortified. Two or three boyfriends had been invited to join the usual foursome, and Lillian had rented a gramophone for the evening, so it promised to be quite a party. The gentleman, Lillian had promised with glee at their regular Bridge night earlier in the week, were all stunt men.
'So the conversation will be nil.' Hildy had rolled her eyes.
Callie didn't respond. Fred was a stunt man, but he was Hildy's kid brother, and Callie hadn't quite found the right way to let Hildy know about their friendship. Once I've decided whether he is a serious prospect, Callie had promised herself, several times, though he had been squiring her around for almost four months now and she had neither decided on their prospects nor informed Hildy.
While she waited for the pot roast to heat up, Callie stared at the collection of picture postcards she had tacked on the wall above the kitchen sink. Hildy’s mother Thelma, who had taken Callie under her wing and was the closest thing to a mother Callie had ever known, had given her the first. It was few weeks after the fire, and Callie she had woken screaming from a nightmare. The postcard was of a mountain scene in Breckenridge, Colorado. Thelma advised her to stare at the tranquil image, then imagine herself there whenever she felt afraid. If she closed her eyes after staring at it long enough, she could feel the icy air on her cheeks, smell the sweetness of pine, and a calm would wash over her.
Since then, any time she came across a picture of a wide, open space, no matter how poor the quality, she would add it to her collection. She now had three cards portraying various views of the prairies of Oklahoma, one of the Blue Mountains in Alabama, and one of a curious rock formation in Montana. Callie liked to stare at that one and imagine different ideas as to what the natural sculpture resembled. Sometimes she could see an obsequious waiter holding out a tray; other times the distinctive flat ridge became a ballerina's leg as she stretched into a flawless arabesque.
She had to write, Callie reminded herself. There was nothing else for it. If she could just come up with a story so brilliant, so dazzling, that no story editor in town could turn it down, then everything would be fine.
She sat down at her desk, pulled out the little notebook she always had on her and flicked to a fresh page. She closed her eyes and willed a spark, a snatch of anything, to come forth. The page, however, remained stubbornly blank.
She thought about the pictures she had seen in the past few weeks. Her very first boss, when she was first starting out as a reader at Universal, a stern lady of Scottish extraction, had explained that anybody who wished to work in pictures simply had watch every picture they possibly good.
'That's the only way to learn,' she would say, marching up and down the office in her long skirt and ruffled blouse. 'Do not ever let me hear of any of you wasting your money on those ridiculous schemes that promise to teach you screenwriting. Spend every minute you can in theaters making notes, analysing sequences and pacing. When the audience laughs, when it shuffles in boredom or gasps in fright, take note and figure out why. That is how you learn the technique of filmwriting.'
Callie had learned her lesson about the schemesters of Hollywood when, only weeks after her arrival, she had almost been scammed into investing $500 in a picture in the hopes of then being hired to write it. It was only thanks to Hildy and Hildy’s godmother Mabel Normand that Callie’s “investment” was saved. Callie learned years later that Mabel had paid the fraud producer Maynard Knight to leave Callie alone.
Callie stripped to her slip and applied the newest Pond's anti-perspirant and powdered her nose. She had laid out the dress she planned to wear to Lillian's party that morning. It was of teal silk, cut low in the front and back with dropped waist in the flapper style. Tiny rosebuds in dusky pink were embroidered along the collar and waist, and the skirt was full and pleated, so that it swished when she walked and meant she could pretend to be a great deal more sparkly and fun than she felt at that moment.
Callie had almost a hundred dollars left, she reminded herself. That was two months' rent plus a few weeks of food. Perhaps she could sell her evening gown, she thought with a sudden flash of inspiration. That could well buy her another month. She sat up straight suddenly, realising that she was frowning. A recent article in Cosmopolitan magazine had warned of the dangers of allowing negative emotions to fester. A great deal of undesirable symptoms could be avoided if one simply employed the newest techniques of Eastern breathing to cleanse one's mind.
Callie did this now, closing her eyes and taking a deep inhalation through her nose. All it, achieved, however, was to signal that the meatloaf was ready and that she was very hungry. As she tucked in, she belatedly noticed that her landlady had also provided mashed potatoes and green beans and gravy, but she was too hungry to heat those now, so she would put them on the ice box and have them for breakfast.
Realising that Lillian was expecting her any minute, Callie raced to step into her party dress. A dash of kohl and red lipstick, and she was ready to dash out the door.