Jill Castle stood on a corner, alone, watching the long parade of floats go by, the stars on top waving to their loving fans below. The Grand Marshal of the parade this year was Toby Temple. The adoring crowds cheered wildly as his float passed by. Jill caught a quick glimpse of Toby’s beaming, ingenuous face and then he was gone.
There was music from the Hollywood High School Band, followed by a Masonic Temple float, and a marine corps band. There were equestrians in cowboy outfits and a Salvation Army band, followed by Shriners. There were singing groups carrying flags and streamers, a Knott’s Berry Farm float with animals and birds made of flowers; fire engines, clowns and jazz bands. It might not have been the spirit of Christmas, but it was pure Hollywood spectacle.
Jill had worked with some of the character actors on the floats. One of them waved to her and called down, “Hiya, Jill! How ya doin’?”
Several people in the crowd turned to look enviously at her, and it gave her a delightful feeling of self-importance that people knew she was in the Business. A deep, rich voice beside her said, “Excuse me—are you an actress?”
Jill turned. The speaker was a tall, blond, good-looking boy in his middle twenties. His face was tanned and his teeth were white and even. He wore a pair of old jeans and a blue tweed jacket with leather-patch elbows.
“Yes.”
“Me, too. An actor, I mean.” He grinned and added, “Struggling.”
Jill pointed to herself and said, “Struggling.”
He laughed. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
His name was Alan Preston and he came from Salt Lake City where his father was an elder in the Mormon Church. “I grew up with too much religion and not enough fun,” he confided to Jill.
It’s almost prophetic, Jill thought. We have exactly the same kind of background.
“I’m a good actor,” Alan said ruefully, “but this is sure a rough town. Back home, everybody wants to help you. Here, it seems like everybody’s out to get you.”
They talked until the coffee shop closed, and by that time they were old friends. When Alan asked, “Do you want to come back to my place?” Jill hesitated only a moment. “All right.”
Alan Preston lived in a boardinghouse off Highland Avenue, two blocks from the Hollywood Bowl. He had a small room at the back of the house.
“They ought to call this place The Dregs,” he told Jill. “You should see the weirdos who live here. They all think they’re going to make it big in show business.”
Like us, Jill thought.
The furniture in Alan’s room consisted of a bed, a bureau, a chair and a small rickety table. “I’m just waiting until I move into my palace,” Alan explained.
Jill laughed. “Same with me.”
Alan started to take her in his arms, and she stiffened. “Please don’t.”
He looked at her a moment and said gently, “Okay,” and Jill was suddenly embarrassed. What was she doing here in this man’s room, anyway? She knew the answer to that. She was desperately lonely. She was hungry for someone to talk to, hungry for the feel of a man’s arms around her, holding her and reassuring her and telling her that everything was going to be wonderful. It had been so long. She thought of David Kenyon, but that was another life, another world. She wanted him so much that it was an ache. A little later, when Alan Preston put his arms around Jill again, she closed her eyes and it became David kissing her and undressing her and making love to her.
Jill spent the night with Alan, and a few days later he moved into her small apartment.
Alan Preston was the most uncomplicated man Jill had ever met. He was easygoing and relaxed, taking each day as it came, totally unconcerned with tomorrow. When Jill would discuss his way of life with him, he would say, “Hey, remember Appointment in Samarra? If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen. Fate will find you. You don’t have to go looking for it.”
Alan would stay in bed long after Jill had gone out looking for work. When she returned home, she would find him in an easy chair, reading or drinking beer with his friends. He brought no money into the house.