One month later, Papa Laemmle sold Universal and along with everyone else, I was fired.
I did not dare tell Natalie or Otto what had happened because they would insist that I return to Chicago. I knew that my future was here. I would have to find another job—any job—until I could get back into a studio.
I looked through the want ads. One item caught my eye:
Hotel switchboard operator wanted.
No experience necessary. $20 a week. Brant Hotel.
The Brant Hotel was a chic hotel off Hollywood Boulevard. When I arrived there, the lobby was deserted except for the hotel manager.
“I’m here about the switchboard operator job,” I said.
He studied me a moment. “Our telephone operator just quit. We need someone right away. Have you ever run a switchboard?”
“No, sir.”
“There’s really not much to it.”
He took me behind a desk, where there was a large, complicated-looking switchboard.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat down. The switchboard consisted of two rows of vertical plugs and about thirty holes to plug them into, each hole connected to a numbered room.
“You see these plugs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re in twos, one above the other. The lower one is called the sister plug. When the board lights up, you put the front plug into that hole. The caller will tell you the room he wants and then you take the sister plug and plug it into that room number, and you move this button to ring the room. That’s all there is to it.”
I nodded. “That’s easy.”
“I’ll give you a week’s trial. You’ll work nights.”
“No problem,” I said.
“How soon can you start?”
“I’ve started.”
The manager had been right. Running a switchboard was easy. It became almost automatic. When a light flashed, I would put in a plug from the first row. “Mr. Klemann, please.”
I would look at the roster of guests. Mr. Klemann was in Room 231. I put the sister plug into the hole for Room 231 and pushed the button that rang the room. It was as simple as that.
I had a feeling that operating a switchboard was just a beginning. I could move up to night manager, and then perhaps general manager, and since the hotel was part of a chain, there was no telling how high I could go, and I would write a screenplay about the hotel business with the knowledge of an insider, sell it to a studio, and be back where I wanted to be.
Two nights after I had started, at three o’clock in the morning, one of the guests rang the switchboard. “I want you to get a number for me in New York.”
He gave me the number.
I pulled out the room plug and dialed the New York number.
After half a dozen rings, a woman answered. “Hello.”
“I have a call for you,” I said. “Just a moment, please.”
I picked up the key that plugged into the guest rooms and stared at the switchboard. I had no idea which guest had placed the call. I looked at the holes in the switchboard, hoping for inspiration. I knew generally what area of the board the caller was in. I began ringing all the rooms in that section, hoping to find the right one. I awakened a dozen guests.
“I have the New York call for you.”
“I don’t know anyone in New York.”
“I have the New York call for you.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“I have the New York call for you.”
“Not me, you idiot!”
When the hotel manager arrived in the morning, I said, “A funny thing happened last night. I—”
“I heard, and I don’t think it’s funny. You’re fired.”
I obviously was not destined to manage a hotel chain. It was time to move on.
There was an ad for a part-time driving instructor and I took the job. Most of the students were scary. Red lights meant nothing to them and they all seemed confused about the difference between the brake and the accelerator. They were nervous, blind, or bent on suicide. Every time I went to work, I felt I was putting my life on the line.