Marilyn Monroe: My Story

My feelings for this silent smiling man began to disturb me. What was the use of buzzing all over for a man who was like somebody sitting alone in the Observation Car?

Then I began to understand something. His silence wasn’t an act. It was his way of being himself. And I thought, “You learn to be silent and smiling like that from having millions of people look at you with love and excitement while you stand alone getting ready to do something.”

Only I wished I knew what it was Mr. DiMaggio did. I tried to remember what the football players did the time Jim Dougherty took me to a football game. I couldn’t recall anything interesting.

I had never seen a baseball game; so there was no use trying to figure out what a baseball player did that was important. But I was sure now it was something. After one hour all the men at the table were still talking for Mr. DiMaggio’s benefit.

Men are a lot different than women in this respect. They are always full of hero worship for a champion of their sex. It’s hard to imagine a table full of women sitting for a whole hour flattering and wooing another woman if she were three champions.

Since my remark about the blue polka dot there had been no further conversation between my dinner partner and me. Even though I was attracted I couldn’t help thinking, “I wonder if he knows I’m an actress? Probably not. And I’ll probably never find out. He’s the kind of egomaniac who would rather cut off an arm than express some curiosity about somebody else. The whole thing is a waste of time. The thing to do is to go home—and forget him—and without delay.”

I told the host I was tired and had a hard day ahead at the studio. It was the truth. I was playing in a movie called Don’t Bother to Knock .

Mr. DiMaggio stood up when I did.

“May I see you to the door?” he asked.

I didn’t discourage him.

At the door he broke his silence again.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

When we got to my car he made an even longer speech.

“I don’t live very far from here, and I haven’t any transportation,” he said. “Would you mind dropping me at my hotel?”

I said I would be happy to.

I drove for five minutes and began to feel depressed. I didn’t want Mr. DiMaggio to step out of the car and out of my life in another two minutes, which was going to happen as soon as we reached his hotel. I slowed down to a crawl as we approached the place.

In the nick of time Mr. DiMaggio spoke up again.

“I don’t feel like turning in,” he said. “Would you mind driving around a little while?”

Would I mind! My heart jumped, and I felt full of happiness. But all I did was nod mysteriously and answer, “It’s a lovely night for a drive.”

We rode around for three hours. After the first hour I began to find out things about Joe DiMaggio. He was a baseball player and had belonged to the Yankee Ball Club of the American League in New York. And he always worried when he went out with a girl. He didn’t mind going out once with her. It was the second time he didn’t like. As for the third time, that very seldom happened. He had a loyal friend named George Solotaire who ran interference for him and pried the girl loose.

“Is Mr. Solotaire in Hollywood with you?” I asked.

He said he was.

“I’ll try not to make him too much trouble when he starts prying me loose,” I said.

“I don’t think I will have use for Mr. Solotaire’s services this trip,” he replied.

After that we didn’t talk for another half hour, but I didn’t mind. I had an instinct that compliments from Mr. DiMaggio were going to be few and far between, so I was content to sit in silence and enjoy the one he had just paid me.

Then he spoke up again.

“I saw your picture the other day,” he said.

“Which movie was it?” I asked.

“It wasn’t a movie,” he answered. “It was a photograph of you on the sports page.”

I remembered the one. The Studio had sent me out on a publicity stunt to Pasadena where some team from Chicago called The Sox was clowning around getting ready for the eastern baseball season. I wore rather abbreviated shorts and a bra, and the ball players took turns lifting me up on their shoulders and playing piggyback with me while the publicity men took photographs.

“I imagine you must have had your picture taken doing publicity stunts like that a thousand times,” I said.

“Not quite,” Mr. DiMaggio answered. “The best I ever got was Ethel Barrymore or General MacArthur. You’re prettier.”

The admission had an odd effect on me. I had read reams on reams of writing about my good looks, and scores of men had told me I was beautiful. But this was the first time my heart had jumped to hear it. I knew what that meant, and I began to mope. Something was starting between Mr. DiMaggio and me. It was always nice when it started, always exciting. But it always ended up in dullness.

I began to feel silly driving around Beverly Hills like a prowl car.

But it wasn’t silly.

The Studio was always thinking up ways for me to get more publicity. One of the ways they thought up was for me to lead the parade in Atlantic City of the Miss America contest bathing beauties. I wasn’t to compete but to function as some sort of an official.

Everything went well until the U.S. Armed Forces stepped in. The Armed Forces also run a publicity department. A publicity officer wanted to know if I would like to help the Armed Forces in their campaign to recruit Wacs, Waves, and Spars to serve Uncle Sam.

I said I would love to do that.

The next day a Publicity Photograph was arranged. I stood surrounded by a Wac, Wave, and Spar. They were good-looking girls, and they were dressed in uniforms. I, on the other hand, not being in any military service, couldn’t very well wear a uniform. I wore one of my regular afternoon dresses. Joe hadn’t yet won his argument about the neckline.

It was an entirely decent dress. You could ride in a street car in it without disturbing the passengers.

But there was one bright-minded photographer who figured he would get a more striking picture if he photographed me shooting down. I didn’t notice him pointing his camera from the balcony a few feet above me. I posed for the camera in front of us.

The next day brought the scandal. The “shooting down” photograph had been condemned by some army general. He said it would be bad for the Armed Services for parents to think their daughters might be subjected to the influences of somebody like me—who showed her bosom in public.

I thought this a little mean. I hadn’t meant to show my bosom, and I hadn’t been aware of the camera that was peeping down under my bodice.

Of course nobody would believe me.

Earl Wilson, who writes about bosoms in the New York Post interviewed me over the telephone.

“Come now, Marilyn,” he said, “didn’t you lean forward for that shot?”

I said I hadn’t. It was the photographer who had leaned downward.

I felt silly about the whole thing. It was surprising that a woman’s bosom, slightly revealed, could become a matter of national concern. You would think that all the other women kept their bosoms in a vault.

I didn’t mind the publicity too much although I felt I had outgrown the cheesecake phase of my movie career. I was hoping now that some of my other talents might be recognized.

The bad thing about cheesecake publicity is the letters you get from cranks. They are often frightening.