Page 19 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe
From across the room, Marilyn notices a woman staring daggers at her and gesturing furiously to guests nearby.
“Blond, pneumatic, and full of peasant health. Just my type,” Sanders is saying. “Think it over, Miss Monroe. I can promise you only one thing if you marry me. You’ll become one of the most glamorous stars in Hollywood. I’ll help you. Word of honor.”
After a moment of silence, Marilyn turns to look at George Sanders—and realizes that he’s fallen fast asleep.
CHAPTER 13
EVERY FRIDAY MARILYN STANDS in front of the bulletin board and runs a red-lacquered fingernail down the list, and every Friday, there’s still “no calls.”
Bob Slatzer returns to Ohio, so Marilyn needs a new companion. She begins driving Sid Skolsky around town, ferrying him to interviews and waiting for her luck to change.
Continuing the Pygmalion game Slatzer had begun, Skolsky opens an account for Marilyn at a local bookstore on Sunset Boulevard. Her enthusiasm is contagious, and the way she reads, with her tongue sticking slightly out of her mouth, is worth the fifty cents he’s paid for the novel.
Marilyn requires no lessons when it comes to courting attention. She’s on the Fox lot daily, whistling up to the second-floor window of the press department and asking if there’s anything she can do. Studio photographers start to use her for publicity. She does shoots in bathing suits, giggling in the cold.
Publicists manage to plant a few simple stories about theaspiring actress in theLos Angeles Times.BABYSITTER LANDS IN FILMSperpetuates the myth they’d created the year before, that she’d been discovered while watching the children of a Fox executive. They take two years off her age, claiming she’s eighteen years old, and illustrate the article with a large photograph of Marilyn in a tiny white bathing suit.
Skolsky also slips snippets about her into his columns, some making it into theNew York Post,and yet … still there are no parts.
Marilyn calls the talent director Ben Lyon. All the time. To the point that sometimes he asks his secretary to pretend he’s out.
She corners him in his office, picking his brain for hours, asking him questions he can’t answer, likeAre there too many blondes on the lot?
“There’s Betty Grable, she’sthe starof the Fox lot. There’s June Haver and Vivian Blaine, and then there’s little old me. Should I change my hair? Dye it black? Do something else?”
“Marilyn, you have to be patient. I’ve been in this business a long time, in front and behind the camera, and you’re putting in the work, going to class, there’s not much more you can do,” replies Lyon.
“There’s alwaysmoreyou can do.”
“I know you’ve set your heart on being queen of the lot.”
“I’ve set my heart on much more than that!”
“And I know the folks on the lot are like family to you. Be patient and study.”
“Mr. Lyon, might I suggest that the lot is full of bit-part players who have all been patient, and who have all studied hard. And where has that got them? They’re curled up on thecutting room floor. Or they’re still sitting on the hard bench in the sun, next to me. There are those who strike gold overnight, and those who don’t.”
Marilyn is worried. Her contract is almost up. “Who knows if they will renew my contract? I haven’t worked a jot, and it’s been nearly six months.”
She walks out of Ben Lyon’s office, striding off in her heels. The white sun is shining, and she can’t see a thing. She shields her eyes, taking a deep breath. Sheisgoing to be the girl who strikes gold overnight. She’s just got to keep being strong.
“Hey!” comes a shout, followed by the long honk of a car horn. “Look out, lady! Watch where you’re going!” The chauffeur leans out the window of a stretch limousine. “I coulda killed you!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replies, leaning over to look into the window of the back seat. Her bright blond hair glints in the sun. “I wasn’t thinking, I was running my lines.” She half smiles and glances toward the elderly gentleman perched on the leather seat at the back. “My apologies, sir.” A blond curl falls forward, and she tucks it back behind her ear.
“Say, what’s your name?” demands the man, removing an unlit cigar from his mouth. He’s dressed in a slick pearl-gray suit; his hair may be thinning, but his eyes are sharp and bright.
“Marilyn.” Her voice is breathy. “Marilyn Monroe.”
The man looks familiar. She squints, certain she’s seen his face in the newspapers. Is he the man who’s been in prison for paying off the Theatrical Stage Employees Union? She’s not quite sure. Wasn’t he pardoned in 1945 by President Truman himself?
“Joe Schenck.” He sticks out his small hand. His accent is American via Rybinsk, Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia.
That’s him. She smiles again. A founder of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and 20th Century-Fox, Schenck is currently serving as production chief. He has a Mediterranean-style mansion in the exclusive Holmby Hills area on the west side of Los Angeles. He regularly fills the lavish estate with “Schenck’s Girls”—young lovelies whom he invites over for cocktails, dinner, screenings, and card games. It is desirable to leave before the cards.
It’s worth listening to Sid Skolsky’s ramblings, she realizes. On their drives around town, her gossip columnist friend is always telling stories about who’s who and what’s what—including all about Schenck and his sleazy parties and his demanding friends.
Thankfully she does listen, most of the time.
