Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

Past the Hollywood Hotel, which presumably dated from the Spanish Conquista, and near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, built like an oriental shrine with hand-and-foot-prints of the famous set into cement out front for the faithful pilgrims to worship, was the business place of Angelo, the dwarf newsvendor. Sometimes they would see Angelo darting across Hollywood Boulevard to pick up a bundle of papers while he meanwhile waved a large white sheet of cardboard as a signal to drivers that he was not merely a driven leaf. Angelo had been in the movies, too.

Side by side, waving and squealing, Dorothy, Angela, and Luanne had seen Robert Cummings ride past in an open car with his family, and Robert Cummings had waved back and smiled widely — but did not squeal.

More than once they had clutched each other to see, walking on the sidewalk, just like anybody else, the movie-villainous Porter Hall , not looking the least villainous, looking dapper and rosy-cheeked — and Porter Hall had tipped his dapper hat and said: “Hello, lovely ladies!”

Lovely ladies!

As for names even more (well…much more) glamorous than Robert Cummings, or Porter Hall — well, Dorothy, Angela, and Luanne seldom saw them … in the flesh. Very seldom, though, at great and rare intervals, some of the Very Biggest Stars could be seen cruising majestically along at less than top speed. Showing the flag, as it were. Tryone. Lana. Lauren and Bogie. Bette. Ava. Joan. Clark.

In a Company Town, people naturally hope to get jobs with The Company. In Hollywood there is no one company — there is The Industry. So, although none of their parents had ever become even minor stars, it remained the natural hope of Dorothy, Luanne, and Angela that she…and she…and she…would nevertheless become Major Ones.

Outsiders, had they ever penetrated the neighborhood of squat, scaly palm trees and pseudo-Spanish stucco houses in the Hollywood Foothills, where the smog meets the ocean breezes, might have seen merely three perfectly ordinary teen-age girls — wearing fluffy bouffant felt skirts and fluffy bouffant hairdos, or pedal pushers and pageboys. One with large dark eyes and a slight, skimpy figure (Dorothy), one a tall and narrow blonde with a face marked chiefly by freckles and zits (Angela), one with a lovely complexion and a lavish bosom, but stocky hips and legs (Luanne).

To themselves, however, they were far from ordinary. They were Daughters of Hollywood . Moviedom was their birthright; obstacles in the form of imperfectly good looks were merely temporary. Things to be overcome. They were still at Hollywood High School, yes, but they merely endured the boring academic routine (really! classes in English! Like they were some kind of foreigners! ). They saved all enthusiasm for their drama courses.

If there were diets, Luanne dieted them. If there were complexion creams, Angela creamed her complexion with them. If there were exercises, all three exercised them — Luanne for hips and legs, Angela and Dorothy for bosoms.

And — did it help ?

Well .

Luanne at least obtained a one-shot modeling job, with her picture cut off above the hips.

Angela did get, once, an extra part in a scene at a youth rally. (Politics? Circa 1953? Bless your Adam’s apple, no ! The youths rallied for — in the film — a newer and larger football stadium.)

These opportunities never knocked again; even so—

But Dorothy got…nothing at all.

* Sigh *

The last straw was the sign in the storefront window: Now Signing Up! For Open-Air Spectacular! WANTED. One Hundred Teen-Aged GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! In she went. Surely, if a hundred were wanted, she—

“No.”

“But why not? ”

The woman at the table heaped with application forms said, “Because, honey, who goes to see these things? Men.” She pronounced this last word as though she were pronouncing “pubic lice.” And went on to explain, “My dear, the average American man has never been weaned . If a girl is not prominent in the mammary section, if she doesn’t have what is called ‘a full figure,’ though one might ask, ‘full of what? ’—well, Mr. Average American John hasn’t gotten his money’s worth, the fool !”

Perhaps she should have stayed? Only perhaps not.

What she did do, after getting the hell out, was to walk fast. Next to walk rapidly, and next to run. Then to stumble, then to halt. And then to start weeping. She didn’t burst into tears, she just wept.

And cried.

At that moment, Dorothy caught sight of her slender, tiny self reflected in a store window. Even amidst her grief and woe she realized that, if her life had been a movie, someone would have come up behind her and asked, “Why are you crying?”

At that moment someone came up behind her and asked, “Why are you crying?”

The moment was one of genuine thrill. Mingled with its pleasure, however, was an element of alarm. The voice wasn’t that of a wholesome, handsome American Boy with a mouthful of large white teeth set in a cornflakes smile; no : it definitely had a Foreign Accent.

Dorothy looked up. Was the man who had spoken— was he tall, dark, and handsome? Truth to say — not altogether. He was rather short. He was kind of dark; sallow, one might say. He had large and shining eyes. Now there was nothing wrong with all of this, or with any of this. Dorothy had long ago learned that even the most wholesome-looking of American Boys was not above urging her into some rotten old Nash or Chevy or Studebaker, stinking of grease, and then trying to Get Fresh with her. She gave a cautious sniff: no auto grease. However: something else. What? Something odd. But something not unpleasant.

“Why are you crying?” the man repeated. Impossible to guess his age.

“It’s my figure,” she said mournfully. “It’s too thin and skimpy.”

This was the strange man’s signal to say, “Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with your figure; it’s all in your mind, you have a lovely figure.” Which would be her signal to slip away and get going. Men and boys had lied to her before, and with what result? (Never mind.)

What the strange man did say was, “Hmm, yes, that is certainly true. It is too thin and skimpy. About that you should something do.”

So right. “I need to see a doctor,” she whimpered.

“ I am a doctor,” said the stranger. In his hand he held a small, wet-glistening bottle of a brown liquid, which he shifted to draw a wallet out, and out of the wallet a card. He handed the card to her. It read:

Songhabhongbhong Van Leeuwenhoek

Dr. Philosof Batavia.

The word Batavia had been crossed out with a thin-point fountain pen and the word Djakarta written above. The word Djakarta had been scratched out with a thick-point fountain pen and the word Hollywood written beneath. In pencil.

“I have only come down to buy this bottle of celery tonic at the deli store. Of course you are familiar with it, an American drink. I wish to have it with my Reistafel . How. ‘Rice Table,’ you would say. It is a mixed dish, such as me, self. Part Nederlandse, part Indonesian. Are you fond of?”

Dorothy had no idea if she was fond, or not fond of. She had a certain feeling that this doctor with the funny name was weird. Weird . But still there was the chance that he might be able to help her. If anything, it increased the chance, for everything normal had certainly failed.

“Is your office near here?” she asked.

It wasn’t like other doctors’ offices, for sure. It had funny things in it: skulls, stuffed things, carved things, things in bottles. Other doctors didn’t give her a spicy meal. Was she fond of? Or not? Well, it was different.