I was out in front of the theater, yelling, “You won’t want to miss Conquest, with Greta Garbo and Charles Boyer. And there’s another treat for you—Nothing Sacred, with Carole Lombard and Fredric March. These are the world’s greatest lovers, who will teach you how to be great lovers. And admission is only thirty-five cents. Two lessons in love for thirty-five cents. It’s the bargain of the century. Hurry, hurry, hurry, get your tickets now!”
And the customers came.
With the next films, I had even more fun. “Come and see the most fantastic double bill in the history of show business—Night Must Fall, with Robert Montgomery and Rosalind Russell. Keep your overcoats on because you’re going to get cold chills. And with it, as an extra treat, is the new Tarzan picture,” at which point I gave a loud Tarzan yell, and I watched people from a block away turning around to see what was happening, and coming back toward the theater and buying tickets. The manager was standing outside, watching me.
At the end of the following week, a stranger walked up to me.
“Where is the son of a bitch from Chicago?”
I did not like his tone. “Why?”
“The manager of the RKO theater chain told all the barkers we all have to come and watch the bastard and do what he does.”
“I’ll tell him when he comes back.” I turned away and said, in a conversational voice, “Immediate seating inside. No waiting for seats. Immediate seating inside. No waiting for seats.”
The advantage of working days was that while I still had time to see the music publishers, my evenings were free, and at least three times a week I went to the theater to see plays, sitting in the cheapest balcony seats. I saw Room Service . . . Abie’s Irish Rose . . . Tobacco Road . . . You Can’t Take It with You . . . The variety was endless.
Sidney Rosenthal, my new friend, had found a job and one day he suggested, “Why don’t we pool our money and get out of this place?”
“Great idea.”
One week later, we left the YMCA and moved into the Grand Union Hotel on Thirty-second Street. We had two bedrooms and a living room, and after the little room at the YMCA, it seemed like the height of luxury.
In a letter from Natalie, she reminded me that we had a distant cousin living in New York who had a checkroom concession at the Glen Cove Casino, on Long Island. She suggested that I give him a call. His name was Clifford Wolfe. I called him and he could not have been more cordial.
“I heard you were in New York somewhere. What are you doing?”
I told him.
“How would you like to work in the checkroom for me, three nights a week?”
“I’d love it,” I said. “And I have a buddy who—”
“I can use him, too.”
And so three nights a week, Sidney Rosenthal and I went out to Long Island to the Glen Cove Casino and earned three dollars apiece checking hats and coats. We also scrounged as much food as we could from the buffet table.
A car carrying other employees of the casino picked us up and took us to Long Island, an hour and a half away. At the end of the evening, when we were through working, we were taken back to our hotel. The extra money I made I sent to Natalie. She invariably sent it back.
One evening, as I walked into the checkroom, Clifford Wolfe stared at me, frowning. “That suit you’re wearing . . .” It was torn and shabby.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you have anything nicer?”
I shook my head, embarrassed. My wardrobe would have fit into a briefcase. “I’m afraid not.”
“We’ll take care of that,” he said.
The next night, when I arrived at Glen Cove, Clifford Wolfe handed me a blue serge suit and said, “I want you to go to my tailor and have this fitted for you.”
From that time on, whenever I went to Glen Cove, I wore Clifford Wolfe’s suit.
The inexplicable changes in my moods continued. I was either unreasonably elated or suicidal. In an excerpt from a letter to Natalie and Otto, dated December 26, 1936, I wrote: