Welcome to Hollywood

1942

“Pretty legs,” a sailor on leave says to his buddy, while they watch Grace Elliot stroll by the racks in front of Nate’s News. “Reminds me of this gal I knew back in Davenport. Julie Lagerson. Looked as cool as a cucumber, but if you pushed the right button she got hotter than a five-alarm fire.”

Overhearing their conversation, Nathan Burk says, “She’s wearing a ring, boys, so I wouldn’t get any ideas.”

“Yeah?” the sailor says innocently. “Ideas about what?”

Then his buddy says, “Her husband’s probably overseas. How do you know she ain’t lookin’ for it like all the rest?”

“That’s right,” the sailor says, and Grace Elliot spins around slowly and fixes the two of them with a hard stare.

“Looking for what?” she asks them.

Before they can respond, a peach-colored Packard convertible pulls around the corner and parks in front of the newsstand. Behind the wheel is a handsome young man with deep dark eyes and long, black, slick hair.

“Be right there, Mr. Fonda,” Nathan Burk shouts, and he races over a copy of the Omaha World-Herald. After the driver pays for the newspaper and the enormous automobile speeds away, Grace Elliot asks, “Was that Henry Fonda?”

“Yes, it was. He comes by every day.”

“I can’t believe it,” she says with a sigh. “I saw him in The Grapes of Wrath right before I left home.”

“Me too,” the sailor says.

“So did I,” says his buddy, excited that they all have something in common. “I saw it with my dad the day before I enlisted. We’re farmers just like the Joads.”

“He should get an Oscar for that one,” says a mournful-looking old woman with bloodshot eyes who is standing nearby. She’s wearing hospital slippers and a ratty gray coat that’s stained with food. “If he don’t, they should investigate the whole deal.”

“I agree,” Grace says, nodding.

“Me too,” says the sailor.

“So do—”

“Nobody asked you two,” the old woman snaps, and she sends a gob of spit next to their feet. “Now get the hell away from this gal before I kick you both in the family jewels.” The old woman feints with her foot and the two sailors jump backward. “A woman alone on this boulevard is like raw meat hanging from a tree in the jungle.”

“They’re just lonely,” Grace Elliot says, and she pulls the latest issue of Modern Screen off the rack in front of her. On the cover is a picture of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart dining at Romanoff’s. “I can handle guys like that.”

“Yeah? Didn’t look like it to me,” the old woman says, while she watches Grace Elliot flip through the magazine. “You thinkin’ of becoming an actress?”

“Maybe. If I’m lucky.”

“You got any talent?”

“I hope so,” she says, exchanging the copy of Modern Screen for a copy of Photoplay. "I won a beauty contest back home.”

“Big deal,” the old woman says, and Grace Elliot hears her fart. “Every two-bit twat in Hollywood is Miss This or Queen of That.”

Moving away, Grace Elliot says, “I’ve got a contract, too.”

“For what?” The old woman hoots. “A hundred and fifty a week to be atmosphere until you can cozy up to some fat-cat producer. Then what? You give him a little action, and he lets you say a line or two in a scene that ends up in the shitter. Listen to me, honey,” the old woman growls, as she follows Grace up the block. “Do yourself a favor and go back home.”

Grace Elliot shakes her head.

“I’ve been there and back, sweetheart! Listen to me! All they want is a couple of squirts between your legs, that’s all! Take my advice and pack your bags and get back on whatever train—”

“No!” Grace Elliot suddenly screams into the old woman’s face. “I’m never going home! Ever!”

A nerve pulsates in the old woman’s forehead as she slowly backs up the street. When she reaches the corner, she lifts one of her feeble hands and points to the sky. “Let us pray to God for this woman,” she says after a long silence, and then, looking around furtively to make sure no one is watching, she turns and disappears into a crowd of tourists crossing Hollywood Boulevard.