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“But you don’t—”
“—know you? Do you think I run around giving lifts to just any dumb-ass bike rider? You think I haven’t seen you ducking around corners at the studio, pretending to be the White Rabbit at the commissary. You’re that”—he snapped his fingers—“bastard son of Edgar Rice Burroughs and The Warlord of Mars—the illegitimate offspring of H. G. Wells, out of Jules Verne. Stow your bike. We’re late!”
I tossed my bike in the back and was in the car only in time as it revved up to fifty.
“Who can say?” shouted Fritz Wong, above the exhaust. “We are both insane, working where we work. But you are lucky, you still love it.”
“Don’t you?” I asked.
“Christ help me,” he muttered. “Yes!”
I could not take my eyes off Fritz Wong as he leaned over the steering wheel to let the wind plow his face.
“You are the stupidest goddamn thing I ever saw!” he cried. “You want to get yourself killed? What’s wrong, you never learned to drive a car? What kind of bike is that? Is this your first screen job? How come you write that crap? Why not read Thomas Mann, Goethe!”
“Thomas Mann and Goethe,” I said, quietly, “couldn’t write a screenplay worth a damn. Death in Venice, sure. Faust? you betcha. But a good screenplay? or a short story like one of mine, landing on the Moon and making you believe it? Hell, no. How come you drive with that monocle?”
“None of your damn business! It’s better to be blind. If you look too closely at the driver ahead, you want to ram his ass! Let me see your face. You approve of me?”
“I think you’re funny!”
“Jesus! You are supposed to take everything that Wong the magnificent says as gospel. How come you don’t drive?”
We were both yelling against the wind that battered our eyes and mouths.
“Writers can’t afford cars! And I saw five people killed, torn apart, when I was fifteen. A car hit a telephone pole.”
Fritz glanced over at my pale look of remembrance.
“It was like a war, yes? You’re not so dumb. I hear you’ve been given a new project with Roy Holdstrom? Special effects? Brilliant. I hate to admit.”
“We’ve been friends since high school. I used to watch him build his miniature dinosaurs in his garage. We promised to grow old and make monsters together.”
“No,” shouted Fritz Wong against the wind, “you are working for monsters. Manny Leiber? The Gila monster’s dream of a spider. Watch out! There’s the menagerie!”
He nodded at the autograph collectors on the sidewalk across the street from the studio gates.
I glanced over. Instantly, my soul flashed out of my body and ran back. It was 1934 and I was mulched in among the ravening crowd, waving pads and pens, rushing about at première nights under the klieg lights or pursuing Marlene Dietrich into her hairdresser’s or running after Cary Grant at the Friday-night Legion Stadium boxing matches, waiting outside restaurants for Jean Harlow to have one more three-hour lunch or Claudette Colbert to come laughing out at midnight.
My eyes touched over the crazy mob there and I saw once again the bulldog, Pekingese, pale, myopic faces of nameless friends lost in the past, waiting outside the great Spanish Prado Museum facade of Maximus where the thirty-foot-high intricately scrolled iron gates opened and clanged shut on the impossibly famous. I saw myself lost in that nest of gape-mouthed hungry birds waiting to be fed on brief encounters, flash photographs, ink-signed pads. And as the sun vanished and the moon rose in memory, I saw myself roller-skating nine miles home on the empty sidewalks, dreaming I would someday be the world’s greatest author or a hack writer at Fly by Night Pictures.
“The menagerie?” I murmured. “Is that what you call them?”
“And here,” said Fritz Wong, “is their zoo!”
And we jounced in the studio entrance down alleys full of arriving people, extras and executives. Fritz Wong rammed his car
into a NO PARKING zone.
I got out and said, “What’s the difference between a menagerie and a zoo?”
“In here, the zoo, we are kept behind bars by money. Out there, those menagerie goofs are locked in silly dreams.”
“I was one of them once, and dreamed of coming over the studio wall.”
“Stupid. Now you’ll never escape.”
“Yes, I will. I’ve finished another book of stories, and a play. My name will be remembered!”
