“What’s that?”
“Almost everyone here at Fox is related to an executive at the studio. I don’t think they’d be willing to get involved, but we’ll see.”
To my amazement, every reader at the studio agreed to join the readers guild when we formed one.
When I told Alan Jackson the news, he said, “That’s great. We have all the other studio readers signed up. We’re forming a negotiating committee. By the way, you’re on it.”
Our negotiation took place in a conference room at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. Our committee consisted of six readers from various studios. Sitting opposite us, at the large table, were four studio executives. Six lambs and four lions.
Eddie Mannix, a tough Irishman who was one of the top executives at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, started the meeting by growling, “What’s your problem?”
One of our group spoke up. “Mr. Mannix, we’re not getting a living wage. I make sixteen dollars a week and I can’t afford to—”
Eddie Mannix leaped to his feet and screamed, “I’m not going to listen to this shit!” and he stormed out of the room.
The six of us sat there, petrified. The meeting was over.
One of the other executives shook his head and said, “I’ll see if I can get him to come back.”
A few minutes later, he returned with a furious Mannix. We sat there, watching him, cowed.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
We began our negotiations.
Two hours later, there was an official Readers Guild, to be recognized by all the studios. Their committee had agreed to a base pay of twenty-one dollars and fifty cents a week for staff readers and a twenty percent increase for outside readers. I was elected vice president of the guild.
It was not until years later, when I met him again, that I realized what a brilliant act Eddie Mannix had put on.
I called Otto and Natalie to tell them what had happened. They were thrilled. I later learned that after my phone call, Otto had gone around telling his friends that I had single-handedly saved all the studios in Hollywood from a ruinous strike.
One of the new boarders at Gracie’s was a shy young man named Ben Roberts. He was my age, short, with a dark complexion, thin hair, and a smiling face. He had a dry, laconic sense of humor. We soon became friends.
Ben was a writer, but his only credit was on a Leon Errol short. We started talking about collaborating. Every evening, Ben and I would go to the corner drugstore and have a sandwich for dinner, or drop in at a cheap Chinese restaurant. Collaborating with Ben was easy. He was very talented, and in a few weeks, we had completed an original story. We mailed it out to all the studios and eagerly waited for the offers to pour in.
They never came.
Ben and I went to work on another story with the same result. We decided the studios obviously did not recognize talent when they came across it.
A third story went un-bought and we were becoming discouraged.
One day, I said, “I have an idea for a mystery story. We’ll call it Dangerous Holiday.” I told Ben the idea and he liked it. We wrote a treatment and mailed copies to the studios. Again, there was no response.
A week after we had sent out the story, I arrived at the boardinghouse, and Ben was waiting for me, filled with excitement.
“I gave our story to a producer I know, Ted Richmond. He’s at PRC.”
That was one of the smallest studios, Producers Releasing Corporation.
“He loved Dangerous Holiday,” Ben said. “He’s offered us five hundred dollars for it. That includes us writing the screenplay. I told him I would talk to you and let him know.”
I was thrilled. Of course we were going to take it. The most important credit in Hollywood was always the first one. It reminded me of my experience in New York.
Have you had any songs published?
No.
Come back when you’ve had something published.
Now it was, “Do you have any screen credits?”
“No.”
“Come back when you have a screen credit.”