Charles Ray was a popular juvenile star in the 1910s and ’20s, but by the ’30s, his career was on the rocks, and he turned to writing. Here’s another in a series of offerings from his book, Hollywood Shorts, a collection of short stories set in Tinseltown.

 

 

 

“Don’t fight! Please, for my sake, don’t fight!”

The lovely Millie was screaming at two suitors scrambling about her expensively decorated apartment.

Harry Lane yelled, “I’ll rub you out, you rat!” and meant it.

Around and around the room they fought, slipping upon the loose rugs and well-polished parquetry. Hankard had insulted Millie, and Harry Lane demanded satisfaction.

A left, a right, an uppercut, and several fast jabs caused a hurried retreat; and in a few moments, Hankard found himself staggering on the blue tile of the bathroom.

 

 

Crashing glass on the floor told the story of an overturned dressing table with all its feminine accessories.

“Oh, my perfume!” Millie screamed in protest. “My imported perfume. Oh, my Night in Paris! My Night! My Night!”

If, in the fifteenth century, a maiden had shouted the word night, however spelled, it might have been an urge to manhood. But there was no mistaking Millie’s meaning. She ran to the bathroom door to watch the precious liquid slushing across the tile under belligerent feet.

The word night may not have impressed Hankard’s mind, but Millie’s presence did, goading him on to victory. His powerful body punches sent his opponent backward into the living room. Through the tail of his eye, he sensed that Millie sympathized with him. That inspiration caused him to foul Harry, sending the man reeling into the fireplace.

Harry hurled a fire-iron. Dodging, Hankard retaliated with a vase. The vase was successfully ducked, but the water drenched Harry, and the roses made a ludicrous wreath about his neck.

Harry rushed in, as infuriated as a bull, intent on a quick finish. The impact of their bodies sent both inelegantly to the floor. On finding himself sitting on Hankard’s neck, Harry burst forth with a vocal noise unbecoming to any leading man, and rolled over on the floor to give vent to vociferous laughter.

“Cut!” the director cried. “Cut the scene! We’ll have to remake it. There’s no hope of keeping any part of that in the picture. Besides, I want a better scene—all through.”

The chief electrician yelled: “Kill ’em!”

Photographing lamps were extinguished; work lights burned pale in contrast. The assistant looked questioningly, which prompted the script girl to announce:

“Scene 183. Take 2 coming up.”

“Gimme a reload,” the cameraman grunted, and opened the box, awaiting film. Then he pressed a button.

The exterior red light was extinguished. Two shorts whistle blasts rang out, and the huge sliding doors were thrown open for the entrance of cool air.

Charles Ray was a popular juvenile star in the 1910s and ’20s, but by the ’30s, his career was on the rocks, and he turned to writing. Here’s another in a series of offerings from his book, Hollywood Shorts, a collection of short stories set in Tinseltown.

 

 

“Yuh esk I should lissen. Den vy I shouldn’t express de sentiments vot I hear a audience remark? I give hup.”

“Hey! Don’ give hup de ship ven de picher is sinkink. Maybe it can be fixt. Lissen, a foist preview don’ mean nuttink. I gottit ideas how it can be fixt hup.”

“Fixt, sure. But ve made de picher on buttons. Vot ve goink tuh use fer money? Enswerink me dot? Evertink costs money, even a button on a sut costs money.”

Don’ talk in clucks an’ suts. I’m alrady dizzy from de cost hof dis picher. Also I’m seek vit vorry, an’ yuh give me riddles tuh enswer. Vot yuh chatter gives me pennisitis!”

“Vel, remember von tink. I vas against de story from de start. I said in de foist place dot de boy shouldn’ta had a sister, an’ in de second place he shouldn’ta got married so soon in de foist reel.”

“Marriage is a law vit censorship!”

“But a vife is no romance.”

“Vot is it den?”

“It’s silly!”

“More riddles!”

“Is it a riddle ven a picher is a failure?”

“Who said our picher is a failure?”

“Vel, jus’ look at de pipple comink outa de theater vit upturned noses.”

“I don’ see any upturned noses. Anyvay, it’s a cold night. Pipple are sniffin’ at de air, not de picher.”

“Uh-huh? Maybe I’m wrong, as dey say in de comic strips!”

“You are wrong half de time. An’ yuh are certainly wrong about sniffink.”

“But not about scoffink!”

“Sniffink, scoffink, no vonder I’m seek!”

“Just de same, de time has come ven ve should take de bull by de troat. I tink ve should blame somebody, an’ dot somebody is de cutter.”

“Nobody’s tuh blame but money. If yuh got lots hof money, den yuh don’t need tuh produce a picher in poverty row. If yuh haven’t, yuh stay with de small fry ducklinks.”

“I’m glad dot yuh have de feelink vot I got.”

“I didn’t say I had de feelink yuh got. I said yuh make me dizzy, not de picher. De picher’s hokay vit a bit of cuttink. Vot ve need is elimination.”

“I vus tinkink dot. Let’s move on somevere.”

“Sure, vot I need is to sit down. Maybe vot ve need is tuh forgit de picher. S’pose elimination is de tink, vot den?”

“Let’s have a sandwich. Maybe some herrink an’ a beer, den tuh bed an’ hope fer inspiration.”

Charles Ray was a popular juvenile star in the 1910s and ’20s, but by the ’30s, his career was on the rocks, and he turned to writing. Here’s another in a series of offerings from his book, Hollywood Shorts, a collection of short stories set in Tinseltown.

 

 

 

An hour before dawn the east-bound Limited stopped briefly at Cherokee Junction, left two passengers, then wound on snake-like into the night.

Joseph Dillon guided emotional wife across a snow-covered platform, mumbling vile oaths of dissatisfaction against the snow, the cold, and everything in general.

“Oh, please don’t, Joe!” his wife moaned through chattering teeth. She placed a handkerchief over her mouth and talked through it. “You only make me feel worse when you rant on at every little thing.”

“Rant? God, why shouldn’t I? What is there left to live for? You tell me. Everything is black. It’s the end.”

Irritably he swung his wife toward a dismal-looking sign which, with yellow winks, proclaimed sardonically: Quick Lunch.

“Get a load of that greasy beanery!” Joe derided.

Failure in Hollywood was horrible enough, but the loss visited upon him the day before cankered his soul. Now the slip-slide progress across the icy bricks only goaded him on to further blasphemy.

“Joe, were both our trunks put off that baggage car?”

“Say, have you gone nutty? You stood right there with me, watchin’. What in hell are you askin’ such a question for?”

“Don’t know. Wanted something to say, I guess. Every now and then my thoughts get beyond my control, and I just have to talk.”

She stood shivering while he held the lunch-room door open against a north wind which challenged all his strength.

The warm air of the small room quickly changed the chemistry of Joe Dillon’s body, but not his distorted mind. Banging heavily upon the counter, he threw a hateful flock of words toward the kitchen, demanding service.

“Joe, don’t act that way. We’ve got to go on living just the same. I guess we do,” she corrected with mystery in her tone. Then her eyes went instantly moist.

“Aw, nuts!” Joe scoffed, then bellowed, “Coffee!” like a sideshow barker.

“Stop it, Joe! I’m trying to take the blow bravely. He was my baby as well as yours!”

“Sorry I can’t take it so well!” Joe barked back, hissing distaste through set molars. “What a God-forsaken world this is! No money to give it a decent burial. How do you suppose I feel, havin’ a kid o’ mine buried out here in the wilds? And what a life for us to live! Us who should be somethin’, bobbin’ about the country, playin’ dinky vaudeville dates to numbskulls who don’t know a swell act when they see one. What a life! God, what a life! What a—“

“Now listen, Joe., I can’t stand any temper today! I just can’t!”