Pat was forty-nine. He was a writer but he had never written much, nor even read all the ‘originals’ he worked from, because it made his head bang to read much. But the good old silent days you got somebody’s plot and a smart secretary and gulped1 benzedrine ‘structure’ at her six or eight hours every week. The director took care of the gags. After talkies came he always teamed up with some man who wrote dialogue. Some young man who liked to work.
‘I’ve got a list of credits second to none,’ he told Jack2 Berners. ‘All I need is an idea and to work with somebody who isn’t all wet.’
He had buttonholed Jack outside the production office as Jack was going to lunch and they walked together in the direction of the commissary.
‘You bring me an idea,’ said Jack Berners. ‘Things are tight. We can’t put a man on salary unless he’s got an idea.’
‘How can you get ideas off salary?’ Pat demanded — then he added hastily: ‘Anyhow I got the germ of an idea that I could be telling you all about at lunch.’
Something might come to him at lunch. There was Baer’s notion about the boy scout3. But Jack said cheerfully:
‘I’ve got a date for lunch, Pat. Write it out and send it around, eh?’
He felt cruel because he knew Pat couldn’t write anything out but he was having story trouble himself. The war had just broken out and every producer on the lot wanted to end their current stories with the hero going to war. And Jack Berners felt he had thought of that first for his production.
‘So write it out, eh?’
When Pat didn’t answer Jack looked at him — he saw a sort of whipped misery4 in Pat’s eye that reminded him of his own father. Pat had been in the money before Jack was out of college — with three cars and a chicken over every garage. Now his clothes looked as if he’d been standing5 at Hollywood and Vine for three years.
‘Scout around and talk to some of the writers on the lot,’ he said. ‘If you can get one of them interested in your idea, bring him up to see me.’
‘I hate to give an idea without money on the line,’ Pat brooded pessimistically, ‘These young squirts’ll lift the shirt off your back.’
They had reached the commissary door.
‘Good luck, Pat. Anyhow we’re not in Poland.’
— Good you’re not, said Pat under his breath. They’d slit6 your gizzard.
Now what to do? He went up and wandered along the cell block of writers. Almost everyone had gone to lunch and those who were in he didn’t know. Always there were more and more unfamiliar7 faces. And he had thirty credits; he had been in the business, publicity8 and script-writing, for twenty years.
The last door in the line belonged to a man he didn’t like. But he wanted a place to sit a minute so with a knock he pushed it open. The man wasn’t there — only a very pretty, frail-looking girl sat reading a book.
‘I think he’s left Hollywood,’ she said in answer to his question. ‘They gave me his office but they forgot to put up my name.’
‘You a writer?’ Pat asked in surprise.
‘I work at it.’
‘You ought to get ’em to give you a test.’
‘No — I like writing.’
‘What’s that you’re reading.’
She showed him.
‘Let me give you a tip,’ he said. ‘That’s not the way to get the guts9 out of a book.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve been here for years — I’m Pat Hobby — and I know. Give the book to four of your friends to read it. Get them to tell you what stuck in their minds. Write it down and you’ve got a picture — see?’
The girl smiled.
‘Well, that’s very — very original advice, Mr Hobby.’
‘Pat Hobby,’ he said. ‘Can I wait here a minute? Man I came to see is at lunch.’
He sat down across from her and picked up a copy of a photo magazine.
‘Oh, just let me mark that,’ she said quickly.
He looked at the page which she checked. It showed paintings being boxed and carted away to safety from an art gallery in Europe.
‘How’ll you use it?’ he said.
‘Well, I thought it would be dramatic if there was an old man around while they were packing the pictures. A poor old man, trying to get a job helping10 them. But they can’t use him — he’s in the way — not even good cannon11 fodder12. They want strong young people in the world. And it turns out he’s the man who painted the pictures many years ago.’
Pat considered.
‘It’s good but I don’t get it,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, a short short maybe.’
‘Got any good picture ideas? I’m in with all the markets here.’
‘I’m under contract.’
‘Use another name.’
Her phone rang.
‘Yes, this is Pricilla Smith,’ the girl said.
After a minute she turned to Pat.
‘Will you excuse me? This is a private call.’
He got it and walked out, and along the corridor. Finding an office with no name on it he went in and fell asleep on the couch.
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1
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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2
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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3
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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4
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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5
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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7
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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8
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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9
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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10
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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11
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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12
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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