Max got me a job at the Brown Derby, just like he promised. The owner of the joint, Norb, had me come in and show him my legs before he’d take me on. When he gave me the uniform, I figured why: it was a starched pink dress with white collar and cuffs and a bell-shaped skirt that showed plenty above the knee.
My first shift I brought gallons of coffee to a booth in the corner where studio execs pitched ideas in smoke as thick as Long Beach fog. I tried to get noticed, but all I got was a pinch on the behind and two bits for a tip.
As the morning went on, the red leather booths along the windows filled with more stars than the South Dakota sky. Ramon Novarro and Myrna Loy ordered coffee and eggs just like regular people. Gloria Swanson argued with Cecil B. DeMille over pancakes and pineapple. My head was spinning, and my feet were throbbing by the time I was halfway through my shift.
With less than an hour to go, Louella Parsons herself waltzed through the door with William Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies. A sleepy-looking fellow who had to be Louella’s new husband tripped behind them to the corner booth. Florence, an older waitress with bottle-blonde curls and lips painted an improbable tangerine, elbowed me and smirked, “Watch Docky, carrot-top. He’s a pill.” I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with plenty of handsy men back in Odessa.
I managed to take their orders without a hitch and was hustling a stack of menus to my next table when the front door opened. The menus dropped from my hands as my fingers turned to pudding. The man who walked in might have been the most recognized face in the world if he’d worn his trademark black toothbrush mustache and the comical eyebrows. Without them, he was positively the most handsome: Mr. Charlie Chaplin—genius comedian, director, and notorious ladies’ man.
Mr. Chaplin, dressed in a smartly fitted three-piece suit, doffed his fedora. His black mop was streaked with gray, and we were probably the same height in stocking feet, but I went weak as a kitten just the same. The clatter of silver quieted and a momentary hush swept over the room. Even in this restaurant where fame was commonplace, he was something special.
The chatter around me started up again, but I stood there like a bug-eyed Betty. Then Mr. Chaplin bent down, swept up themenus, and set them in my limp hands with a slightly crooked smile and a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. I closed my mouth, my cheeks burning, as he walked to a booth in my section.
I took a deep breath. I could do this. I could speak to Charlie Chaplin, my favorite actor in the world, and serve breakfast to Louella Parsons, the most powerful columnist in Hollywood. I could pour coffee for William Randolph Hearst, millionaire newspaper mogul, politician, and film producer, and his mistress, actress Marion Davies. Just pretend it’s nothing.
I took Mr. Chaplin’s order without a hitch—a rare steak and eggs. Then Cook barked that my table-three plates were ready. I hustled out of the dining room and around the corner to the service counter. I loaded up both hands with Mr. Hearst’s bacon and eggs, a grapefruit and toast for Marion, and a bowl of oatmeal with cream for Louella.
I turned to find the narrow hallway back to the dining room blocked by Louella’s husband. He stepped up close. “Aren’t you a sweet thing?” His hands went around my waist. I juggled the plates and looked for a polite escape.
“Excuse me, Mr....” I pasted on a polite smile and looked for help, but the hallway was empty. Where was Florence when I needed her?
His hands slid from my waist to my ribs, and he leaned close, his teeth tobacco-yellow and his breath hinting of gin. His hands moved up to places they shouldn’t be. I could have called out, but I’d probably lose my job. I could have dropped the plates and defended myself, but I’d certainly lose my job. Panic crept up my throat.
Just then, Docky jerked back, his jacket hiked up to his ears.
Mr. Charlie Chaplin held Docky’s collar in his fist.
Without a word, he turned Docky around and marched him into the dining room. I followed Mr. Chaplin and Docky through the now-silent room, every eye on the Tramp and his captive. Docky was six inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier, but he stumbled ahead of the smaller man like a child caught with his hand in the candy jar.
Charlie reached Louella’s table. “Miss Parsons—” he raised his brows—“I believe I’ve caught your... doggy.”
Hearst guffawed and Marion giggled. Docky sputtered. Louella’s face went red. She said something polite to Charlie while she glared at me. My face burned and I couldn’t say a word. I got the feeling this wasn’t the first time her doggy had strayed after a pretty girl.
Mr. Chaplin turned to me and gave a polite bow and the smallest of winks before sauntering to his own booth and sitting down. With scattered laughter, the noise of the room rose again, and I went back to my duties with weak knees and stars in my eyes. I forgot all about Louella’s icy stare, but what I didn’t know was that Louella Parsons didn’t forget. And she didn’t forgive.
——————
After I signed on with Max, things really started looking up.
Max had a plan and I liked nothing more than a plan.
First, I needed an education. At least twice a week we went to a film. He always paid for the good seats, but I never got to watch in peace. The only thing Max liked more than watching a film was talking about the film. He whispered his way through the opening credits, over the dialogue, and straight through to the happy ending. Honestly, he should have been a professor at one of those high-class universities.
Outside the theater, Max couldn’t care less that Joan Crawford was having an affair with Clark Gable or that my hero Charlie Chaplin had been seen at the Polo Lounge with a mysterious new girlfriend. He’d talk about sets and costumes, acting styles and makeup. But what he loved most was the new technology. Sound, lights, cameras. What was coming next.
“Radio killed vaudeville, and films killed radio. Now talkies are killing the silent films. What’s next, Mina?” He quizzed me as we walked along Sunset after the film. He had started calling me Mina right away. Minerva wasn’t my style, he said.
“Color?” I took a shot in the dark.
He smiled. “I knew you were smart. Color, better sound, they’ve got stuff coming that we need to be ready for. And not just frame by frame, no sir. It won’t be long—maybe by next year—and there’ll be color like you can’t imagine. Your hair will be terrific, Mina. The camera will love you. Mark my words.”
He opened the roadster door for me and helped me in, then came around and slid into the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. “Before the crash, people wanted stories that were real, but not anymore.” He nodded to the men standing on the corner in threadbare overcoats, warming themselves beside barrels of burning garbage. “They see enough reality on every street corner. They want to be taken out of this ordinary world, to escape for an hour into a bigger, brighter life.” His voice was a little sad. He turned the ignition switch and the roadster roared. “Bringing them that world takes a toll on a person, believe me.”
Sometimes I understood what Max was talking about. Sometimes he was tough to follow.
He went on about a friend of his who was buying up all the closed-up cinemas he could get. “People want sound but puttingit in is expensive. Lots of places going under. My pal Alfie’s buying them for a song, putting in sound, and filling the seats.”
“How is that, when nobody’s got any money to spend?” Even the cinema in Odessa had been struggling to fill the seats, and that was before things got bad.
