I Should Have Stayed Home: A Novel by Horace McCoy | eBook

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I Should Have Stayed Home

A Novel

By Horace McCoy

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

CHAPTER 1

SITTING, SITTING, SITTING: I had been sitting since I came back from the courtroom, alone and friendless and frightened in the most terrifying town in the world. Looking out the window at that raggledy palm tree in the middle of the bungalow court, thinking Mona, Mona, Mona, wondering what I was going to do without her, that and nothing more: What am I going to do without you? and all of a sudden it was night (there was no purple or pink or mauve), deep, dark night, and I got up and went out to walk, going nowhere in particular, just to walk, to get out of the house where I had lived with Mona and where her smell was still everywhere. I had been wanting to get out for hours, but the sun had kept me in. I was afraid of the sun, not because it was hot but because of what it might do to me in my mind. Feeling the way I did, alone and friendless, with the future very black, I did not want to get out on the streets and see what the sun had to show me, a cheap town filled with cheap stores and cheap people, like the town I had left, identically like any one of ten thousand other small towns in the country—not my Hollywood, not the Hollywood you read about. This is what I was afraid of now, I did not want to take a chance on seeing anything that might have made me wish I had stayed home, and this is why I waited for the darkness, for the night-time. That is when Hollywood is really glamorous and mysterious and you are glad you are here, where miracles are happening all around you, where today you are broke and unknown and tomorrow you are rich and famous ...

On Vine Street I went north towards Hollywood Boulevard, crossing Sunset, passing the drive-in stand where the old Paramount lot used to be, seeing young girls and boys in uniform hopping cars, and seeing too, in my mind, the ironic smiles on the faces of Wallace Reid and Valentino and all the other old-time stars who used to work on this very spot, and who now looked down, pitying these girls and boys for working at jobs in Hollywood they might just as well be working at in Waxahachie or Evanston or Albany; thinking if they were going to do this, there was no point in their coming out here in the first place.

The Brown Derby, the sign said, and I crossed the street, not wanting to pass directly in front, hating the place and all the celebrities in it (only because they were celebrities, something I was not), hating the people standing in front, waiting with autograph books, thinking: You'll be fighting for my autograph one of these days, missing Mona terribly now, more than I had all afternoon, because passing this place that was full of stars made me more than ever want to be a star myself and made me more than ever aware of how impossible this was alone, without her help.

I am alone because of Dorothy, I thought. This is all the fault of that shoplifter. This is all Dorothy's fault. I should have grabbed Mona when she jumped up in the courtroom. I should have known from the look on her face what was going to happen.

Mona and I had gone down to the court to let Dorothy have moral support. She had come out to Hollywood to crash the movies too, but she had crashed a department store instead and had systematically stolen a lot of stuff. We knew she wouldn't get off absolutely free, but we thought the judge wouldn't give her more than ninety days, six months at the outside. But the judge sentenced her to the women's prison at Tehachapi for three years and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Mona was on her feet yelling that he was a fine son of a bitch to be sitting up there dishing out justice and why didn't he hang her and be done with it? I was so astonished I couldn't do anything but sit there with my mouth open. The judge had Mona brought before him, telling her he was going to sentence her to jail for thirty days if she didn't apologize. What she told him to take for himself caused him to give her sixty days instead of thirty.

Later, when court was over, I went to the judge and begged him to let Mona go, but I didn't have any luck.

This is why I was alone. It was all Dorothy's fault; if I had known this was going to happen, I never would have let Mona go down there. All Dorothy's fault, I thought, cursing her in my mind with all the dirty words I could think of, all the filthy ones I could remember the kids in my old gang used to yell at white women as they passed through the neighborhood on their way to work in the nigger whore houses, these are what you are, Dorothy, turning off Vine on to the boulevard, feeling awful and alone, even worse than that time my dog was killed by the Dixie Flyer, but telling myself in a very faint voice that even like this I was better off than the fellows I grew up with back in Georgia who were married and had kids and regular jobs and regular salaries and were doing the same old thing in the same old way and would go on doing it forever. They would never have any fun or adventure, fame would never come to them; they were like plants in a desert that lived a little while and then died and became dust and it was as if they had never lived at all. 'Even like this,' I said to myself, 'I am better off than they are.' It made me feel good without in any way relieving the sadness and loneliness I also felt ...

Cooper and Gable and lots of others went through what I am going through, I thought, and if they did it, so can I. One of these days ...

Ahead of me, on top the Newberry store, a big neon sign flashed on and off. It was an outline map of the United States and these words kept appearing: 'ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOLLYWOOD—And the Pause that Refreshes. ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOLLYWOOD—And the Pause that Refreshes. ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOLLYWOOD—'

CHAPTER 2

I DO NOT REMEMBER what time I got back to the bungalow. It was late, sometime after midnight. All the side streets were deserted and the little houses were quiet and still and dark. There was very little hell raised in this neighborhood; this part of Hollywood was like the residential section of any small town after midnight. This was where you lived when you first started in pictures and from this point you gradually worked westward to Beverly Hills, the Promised Land.

A man was sitting on the steps of the bungalow waiting for me. There was not much light in the court and all I could see was that it was a man. He stood up as I approached.

'Good evening,' he said.

I thought he must be mixed up in his bungalows.

'I've had a hard time finding you,' he said, turning towards me. Then I recognized him, trembling all over again. He was the judge who had sentenced Dorothy and Mona, Judge Boggess.

'Oh, good evening, sir,' I said, not saying anything else, wondering how he had found me and what he wanted.

'Can't we go inside?' he asked finally.

I led the way inside the living-room and turned on the light. He took off his hat, looking around, and sat down on the davenport. He picked up a copy of a newspaper that was lying there, the Oklahoma City Daily News, and looked at it.

'Are you from Oklahoma City?'

'No, sir—that's Mona's. She's from a little town near Oklahoma City.'

'Where does she live?'

'Here.'

'Here?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Does the other girl live here too? Dorothy?'

'She lived over there,' I said, pointing out the darkened window to the bungalow across the court, behind that raggledy palm tree.

'Unfortunate about Dorothy—'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well,' he said, putting down the newspaper, looking at me thoughtfully, 'I'll tell you why I'm here. I've been thinking over what you said to me in my chambers this afternoon about Mona. Maybe I was a bit too severe with her—'

'Oh, she should have been punished after that scene she made,' I said. 'You couldn't do anything else with all those people in the courtroom. It'd be a fine thing if anybody could jump up in a courtroom and say anything they pleased. What Mona should have done was to apologize when she had the chance.'

'That's it exactly,' he said, nodding. 'I don't want to keep this girl in jail and interfere with her picture career—and on the other hand I can't let her out until she gives some indication that she's sorry for what she did—and said.'

I could see that all right.

'I think you're perfectly right,' I said. 'Maybe if I went and had a talk with her—'

He shook his head.

'I don't think that'll work. I don't think she'll give in for you or anybody else. How would this be—suppose you wrote me a letter of apology and signed her name, pretending it came from her. I realize that's not exactly ethical, but I want to do this girl a favor and that's the only way. I don't mind being a trifle unethical if that's the only way I can serve justice—and this letter'll put me in the clear. If she's as important to you as you say—'

'She's pretty important, Judge,' I said. 'She's the only friend I've got in town. I'll be glad to write the letter, but what'll I say?'

'You get some paper and a pencil. I'll tell you what to say.'

'Yes, sir. Judge, this is wonderful of you,' I said, going to the desk to get the pencil and paper.

CHAPTER 3

IT WAS AROUND THREE o'clock that same morning when Mona was released. I was waiting in the jailer's office when one of the turnkeys brought her in. Her face was paler than usual.

'Hello, Mona,' I said.

'How'd this happen?' she asked the jailer.

'You got a commutation,' he said. 'The judge cut your sentence to twelve hours.'

'Mighty white of the old son of a bitch,' Mona said.

'Is that any way to talk?' the jailer asked. 'Get that tramp outta here,' he told me.

'Come on, Mona, let's go,' I said, taking her by the arm, afraid she would get into another jam. I led her outside to the street.

'How'd this happen?' she asked.

'What're you asking me for? I don't know.'

'Then what're you doing here? Don't tell me there's a coincidence like that left in the world,' she said sarcastically. 'How'd it happen?'

'I don't know, I tell you. The judge simply let you out, I suppose. Maybe he's not as tough as you thought he was.'

'Don't tell me. That old son of a bitch's heart is as hard as this sidewalk—'

'Well, if you must know, I went out to his house and had a talk with him,' I said finally. I opened the door of her jalopy, helped her in, went round to the other side, and got under the wheel.

'Thanks—' she said.

We rolled along Broadway towards Sunset.

'Get a letter from home this afternoon?' she asked, pointing to the gasoline gauge, that registered three-fourths full. 'You were broke this morning.'

'Oh, that,' I said. 'Abie—at the market. I borrowed a dollar.'

'You get any calls today?'

'No.'

'Did I?'

'No.'

She looked out the window, in the direction, of Olvera Street. I knew what she was thinking.

'After all,' I said, 'there're twenty thousand other extras in this town. Nobody can work all the time.'

'A hell of a life, isn't it?' she said, looking at me, shaking her head slowly.

'I think it's marvelous,' I said. 'One of these days we'll look back on this and say: "They were the good old days." We'll have plenty of material for the fan-magazine writers when we do get to be stars,' I said, turning off Broadway on to Sunset, towards Hollywood ...

CHAPTER 4

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I was in the kitchen fixing some coffee when Mona came in with a newspaper.

'Seen this?'

'Not yet.'

'Take a look. Right there,' she said, holding the paper so I could see it, pointing to a story on the first page of the second section.

BOGGESS RELEASES FILM PLAYER WHO WAS SENTENCED FOR CONTEMPT

Mona Matthews, 26-year-old movie extra, who was yesterday sentenced to sixty days in jail for contempt of court by Judge Emil Boggess, was released late last night after serving only twelve hours. She is the girl who created a sensation in the courtroom yesterday when Dorothy Trotter, also a film extra, was sentenced to prison for three years after pleading guilty to grand theft. The Matthews girl yelled curses at Judge Boggess for passing the sentence on her friend.

Miss Matthews was released after she had written an apology to Judge Boggess.

'As far as I'm concerned the case is closed,' Judge Boggess said. 'I have no desire to keep the girl in jail simply for the sake of punishing her. I realize she spoke in the heat of shock and anger and I didn't want to put her in jail at all, but I had no other course to pursue if I were to uphold the dignity and fairness of our courts.'

Thus Judge Boggess again indicates why his associates call him the Great Humanitarian.

I finished reading and looked at her.

'I thought you went out to his house and had a talk with him. Whose idea was that letter of apology?'

'Now, wait a minute, Mona—'

'He thought up that letter business, didn't he?'

'Now, look—'

'You're goddam right he did. "The Great Humanitarian." Phooey!'

'You've got him all wrong,' I said.

'The hell I have. You don't think he was doing me a favor, do you? He's running for reelection and that story'll get him votes. The morons who read that paper'll believe he's really got a conscience. "The Great Humanitarian."'

'What do you care as long as you're out of jail?' I asked.

'I'd rather have stayed in jail than help that louse get reelected. Jesus,' she said, looking at me, shaking her head, 'if only I had your trusting nature.'

'Anybody here?' came a shout from the living-room. In a moment a young fellow of about my age came into the kitchen. I had never seen him before.

'Well, for Christ's sake,' he said when he saw Mona. 'Welcome home. How was the hoosegow?'

'Sam—' Mona said, going into his outstretched arms. They hugged without kissing and then stepped back, looking at each other.

'My—you're looking prosperous,' she said, feeling the material of his coat.

'Sure,' Sam said, grinning. 'Remember what I told you a year ago? That one of these days I was going to be the best-dressed man in this town?'

'You're gaining on it,' Mona said. 'You're looking grand.'

'Well, I must say you're looking grand too—considering you've done time,' Sam said, grinning.

Mona looked from me to Sam.

'This is Ralph Carston,' she said. 'Sam Lally.'

We shook hands. Instinctively I disliked him. This is what comes of always leaving the front door open, I thought.

'Hello, Ralph,' he said, very friendly. 'I used to do that—'

'What?'

'What you're doing. I used to be Mona's chief cook and bottlewasher. Does he sleep on the davenport too?' he asked Mona.

She nodded, looking at me sidewise.

'It's marvelous the way she collected guys who are down and out,' Sam said to me. 'She's always—'

'Let's go in the other room,' she said, taking him by the arm, leading him off.

I went on making the coffee until I heard the kitchen door close and then I realized that Mona felt guilty about something or she never would have done this. The hell with them, I thought, turning off the burner under the coffee pot, going out the back door to the market round the corner ...

When I got back, Lally was gone and Mona was in the kitchen.

'You mustn't pay any attention to Sam,' she said.

'What do you mean?' I asked. 'I didn't pay any attention to him. I don't pay any attention to people I don't like.'

'Now, cut that out. I knew you were burned. I could tell by the expression on your face—'

'Well, after all, there's nothing like meeting the guy who used to sleep in your bed,' I said. 'How long ago was that?'

'Six months. There was nothing between us. No more than there is between you and me. I simply gave him a lift.'

'He certainly seems to be doing all right now. That suit he had on must've cost a hundred bucks.'

'A hundred and fifty. You know what he's doing?'

'I remember the name from somewhere,' I said, 'but I wasn't sufficiently interested to worry about it.'

'Mrs. Smithers,' she said. 'You've heard of Mrs. Smithers.'

I had heard of Mrs. Smithers, all right. Her name was in the movie column every day. Her husband had died and left her a lot of money and she had come to Hollywood and taken charge of the social register.

'Yes,' I said.

'That's what Sam does. He's living with her. That's where he got all those clothes.'

I remembered now. Sam Lally. You never saw her name in the paper without his.

'I didn't know he was living with her.'

'Sure, she wouldn't have it any other way. She'll wear him out in another six months. She's a nymphomaniac, you know.'

'A what?'

'A nymphomaniac. She can't get enough.'

(Continues...)

Excerpted from I Should Have Stayed Home by Horace McCoy. Copyright © 1938 Horace McCoy. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

I Should Have Stayed Home: A Novel

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