Laughing Gas

  That's how it was with me next morning when, opening my eyes to another day, I reviewed the recent events. It was as if a great weight had rolled off me. For about five seconds, the relief was amazing. 'Well, well,' I felt, 'how very droll, to be sure. Positively bizarre.' And then suddenly it all went phut.

  It was catching sight of the sleeve of my pyjama jacket that first made me think a bit. It so happens that in the matter of pyjamas I've always been a trifle on the choosy side. I'm not one of those fellows who just charge into a hosier's and grab anything. They have to be silk for me, and a nice lively pattern, too. And this sleeve, it would have been plain to the most vapid and irreflective observer, was constructed of some foul patent health-conserving wool. It was, moreover, a light, bilious green in colour, like my cousin Egremont at breakfast-time.

  'Hullo!' I said to myself. 'What, what?'

  And then I saw a beastly little hand protruding from the end of the sleeve, and the truth came home to me. I didn't have to hop out of bed and look in the glass. That half-portion of a hand told its own story. It informed me absolutely officially that what I had been kidding myself was a dream had been no dream at all. I really had become this blasted Cooley child, complete to the last button, and what I had once more to ask myself was: What would the harvest be?

  The shock was so severe that I just lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling. It was as if I had walked into a right swing while boxing with the village blacksmith.

  However, I was not allowed much time for chewing the bitter cud. The kid Cooley's day apparently started early. I don't suppose I had been groaning in spirit more than about ten minutes or so when some kind of a secretary hove alongside with a fountain-pen and about a gross of photographs for me to sign. She was followed by a masseur. Then a facial rubber blew in to tune up my features. And after him a hairdresser, who attended to my curls.

  And I was lying there, a bit used up, wondering whether the next item on the programme would be a chiropodist or somebody to put me through a course of rhythmical breathing, when the door opened and the butler manifested himself.

  'Good morning, sir’ he said.

  'Good morning,' I replied. I was glad to see him. As on the previous day, I found him consoling. The sight of that smooth, round face and spreading waistcoat had a restorative effect. 'Come in and take a seat,' I said hospitably, for I had long since become reconciled to the fact of my bedroom being a sort of meeting-place of the nations. 'Or are you just passing through?'

  'I have brought your breakfast, sir.'

  This had the effect of bucking me up still more, for breakfast in bed is always breakfast in bed, until he went out and reappeared with the tray, and I perceived that all it contained was milk, some stuff that looked like sawdust, and a further consignment of those blighted prunes. A nice bit of news to have to break to a stomach which had been thinking in terms of scrambled eggs and kidneys.

  'Hey!' I cried.

  'Sir?'

  'What's all this?'

  'It is your customary breakfast, sir.' 'Hell 1' I said, with feeling. 'Well, all right. Better than nothing, I suppose.'

  He regarded me with kindly sympathy as I dug into the sawdust.

  'It's hard, sir, isn't it.' 'Pretty foul.'

  'They tell me it's to keep your weight down.'

  'Oh. I suppose they've got some sort of story.'

  'It is what is called a balanced diet. But it is not pleasant to be compelled to abet this, if I may so describe it, Spartan regimen. I know what young gentlemen's appetites are.'

  'Me, too.'

  'I know just how you must feel, sir. You may be a highly important figure in the world of motion pictures, but you are only a small boy, after all, aren't you?'

  'And not likely to get larger on this muck.'

  'If I had my way, I'd let you eat what you wanted. You're only young once.'

  'Twice?'

  'Sir?'

  'Nothing.'

  'What you would enjoy, I dare say, would be a nice plate of sausages.' 'Please 1'

  'They're having them downstairs. Sausages and buckwheat cakes.' 'Would you torture me, butler?'

  'No, sir, it's only that I was thinking that if you could pay me some small honorarium to compensate me for the risk of losing my place, I might contrive to smuggle some up.'

  The prunes turned to ashes in my mouth. Not that it altered the taste of them much. 'I haven't any money.' 'None at all, sir?' 'Not a penny.' He sighed.

  'Well, there you are, you see. That's how it goes.'

  I finished the prunes in silence, and dipped into the milk. I was musing on this matter of money. There, I saw, lay the nub of my troubles. No cash.

  'Could you lend me a bit?'

  'No, sir.'

  I swigged milk morosely. He sighed again. 'There is a great deal of sorrow in the world, sir.' 'Quite.' 'Look at me.'

  I did, pretty sharply. His words astounded me. 'Why, there's nothing wrong with you, dash it. You're all right.' 'Far from it, sir.'

  'Don't talk drip, butler. I expect you breakfasted till your eyes bulged.'

  'I made a hearty breakfast, yes, sir. But is breakfast everything?'

  'I see what you mean. There's lunch, too. And dinner.'

  'There's the heartache of the exile, sir. There's the yearning to be away from it all. There's the dull despair of living the shallow, glittering life of this tinsel town where tragedy lies hid behind a thousand false smiles.'

  'Oh, is there?' I said aloofly.

  I was in no mood to listen to other people's hard-luck stories. I declined to allow this butler to sob on my shoulder. He appeared to be looking to me to hold his hand and be the little mother, and I wasn't going to do it.

  'I dare say you are wondering how I come to be here, sir.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'It's a long story.'

  'Save it for the winter evenings.'

  'Very good, sir. Ah, Hollywood, Hollywood,' said the butler, who seemed not to like the place. 'Bright city of sorrows, where fame deceives and temptation lurks, where souls are shrivelled in the furnace of desire, whose streets are bathed with the shamed tears of betrayed maidens.'

  'Keep it clean.'

  'Hollywood, Home of mean glories and spangled wretchedness, where the deathless fire burns for the outspread wings of the guileless moth and beauty is broken on sin's cruel wheel. If you have finished with the tray, sir, I will take it.'

  He popped off sombrely. And as there didn't seem to be any more callers coming - one of those slack periods which occur, no doubt, in the busiest lives - I got out of bed and donned the frilly shirt and knickerbockers and went downstairs to see how things were coming along with the Brinkmeyer family.

  They had apparently been breakfasting out in the patio, for there was a white-clothed table in the middle by the goldfish pond. It bore the remains of a meal, and it was with a rush of emotion that I perceived that on a dish in the centre there was lying a derelict sausage. Sated with pleasure, these gorgers hadn't been able quite to make the grade. They had left of their abundance this admirable sausage.

  The goldfish were looking up expectantly, obviously hoping for their cut, but my need was greater than theirs. I ate the unclaimed. The goldfish made faces like Leslie Henson and withdrew. And I picked up the morning paper which was lying on the table. I had a not unnatural curiosity to see what it said of yesterday's doings. As I had taken over little Joey Cooley as a going concern with all the goodwill and fixtures, his notices were my notices.

  If this journal was a reliable indication of the trend of critical thought, I had had a good press. In spite of the heaviness of my heart and the emptiness of my stomach, I could not but feel gratified to see that I had practically ousted the rest of the world's news from the front page. There was the usual announcement that the President - that old Good Time Charley, bless his heart - was planning to spend another billion dollars of other people's money on something or other, but except for that the only non-Cooley item was a parag
raph tucked away in the southeast corner to the effect that the unveiling of the statue of T. P. Brinkmeyer, head of the Brinkmeyer-Magnifico

  Motion Picture Corporation, would take place to-day at six p.m. on the Brinkmeyer-Magnifico lot.

  I had just begun to turn the pages to see if there was further material inside, hunting absently the while among the dishes in case there might be another sausage somewhere, when Mr Brinkmeyer in person came drifting through the French windows, clad in a dressing-gown and looking more like a captive balloon than ever.

  His manner, it seemed to me, was that of a captive balloon with something on its mind. His eyes had a sort of haunted look. He wandered about the patio, followed by the cord of his dressing-gown, rubbing his hands nervously.

  ' 'Morning,' he said.

  'Good morning.'

  'Nice weather.'

  'Beautiful.'

  He gave a sort of giggling groan. 'Well, young man, to-day's the day.' 'Yes,' I said. I took it that he was alluding to this statue business. 'Quite a binge it will be, no doubt.' 'And I wish it was over I'

  He gave another of those groans, and I thought a word of encouragement might help. I could see that he was one of those men who shrink from public functions and beanos.

  'Tails up, Brinkmeyer,' I said. 'What's that?'

  'I said: 'Tails up, Brinkmeyer." You mustn't be nervous.'

  'But I am. You know what?' 'What?'

  'She says I've got to wear my cutaway coat and a stiff collar.'

  'You'll be the belle of the ball.'

  'And a gardenia, she says. And spats. I shall feel like a sissy.'

  He took another turnabout the patio.

  'Spats!' he said, looking at me piteously.

  I was beginning to be a bit fed up with this business of every bally person I met wanting me to kiss the place and make it well. I liked this old buster, but I had troubles of my own.

  'You could scarcely expect to turn up in sneakers and a sweater, my good fellow,' I said - rather unkindly, perhaps, but, as I say, I was annoyed.

  'Yay, I know. But spats!'

  'Better men than you have worn spats.'

  He continued to circulate.

  'You know what? Half the trouble in this world comes of people getting ambitious. They don't know when they're well off.'

  'Shrewdly put, Brinkmeyer.'

  This observation seemed to arrest him. He paused in his patio-prowling and gave me one of his owl-like looks. 'What's that?'

  'I said: "Shrewdly put, Brinkmeyer." There is much in what you say.'

  'You're talking kind of funny this morning,' he said. Then his mind seemed to skid back to what was on it. 'Listen. I got too ambitious.'

  'Yes?'

  'There I was, perfectly happy in the cloak and suit business, and I ought to have stuck to it. But, no. Nothing would do but I had to go into the pictures. And look at me now. President of the organization, worth every cent of twenty million dollars ...'

  An idea struck me.

  'You couldn't lend me a bit, could you?'

  '... And what does it all amount to? Here I am, got to stand up there in spats, with everybody staring at me, looking like a comic valentine. I might have known it would happen. It's always the way. You get on just the least little bit in this world, and first thing you know they're putting up statues to you. The moment your back's

  turned. I ought to have stuck to the cloak and suit business.'

  I forgot ray own troubles. All this was moving me. It occurred to me how little the outside world knew of the discontent that seethed in practically every bosom you met in Hollywood. The casual observer saw these bosoms going about the place and envied them, assuming that, being well provided with the stuff, they must be happy. And all the time discontent seethed. In my own little circle, April June wanted to be a wife and mother. Joey Cooley wanted to be back in Chillicothe, Ohio, eating fried chicken, southern style. The butler wasn't any too pleased with things. And this Brinkmeyer sighed for the cloak and suit business. A bit poignant.

  'Those were the days! All friends together like a lot of kids.... Matching fabrics, joshing the buyers....'

  I think he would have spoken further on the matter, for his manner seemed to indicate that there was much on his chest, but at this moment Miss Brinkmeyer came but of the house, and he bit back the words that were rising to his lips. He looked sheepish. I, too, as always in the presence of this female, was conscious of a certain embarrassment. We stood there shuffling our feet. It was as if we had been a couple of the lads at the dear old school surprised by the head master while enjoying a quiet smoke in a corner of the cricket field.

  'Ah, my dear,' said old Brinkmeyer, 'I was just having a chat with little Cooley here.'

  'Oh?' said Miss Brinkmeyer.

  She seemed to be feeling that there was no accounting for tastes. The look she gave me was austere. That horned toad evidently still rankled in all its pristine freshness. It was plain that she saw no reason to revise her opinion that I was just an off-scouring of the underworld.

  'About that statue.'

  'What about it?'

  'Oh, we were just talking about it. Exchanging views.'

  'Well, I hope he quite understands what he has to do. We don't want him muddling everything up.' I started visibly.

  'Good Lord!' I said. 'I'm not mixed up in this statue jamboree, am I?'

  I was much exercised. Ever since I had ceased to be Reginald, Lord Havershot, people seemed to have been springing something new on me all the time. I wondered if any child had ever led a fuller life than this kid Cooley. Never an idle moment, I meant to say. If not doing so-and-so, busily occupied with such-and-such.

  Miss Brinkmeyer threw her hands heavenwards. One noted the touch of fever.

  'Well, of all the ... Don't tell me you've forgotten, after the way you've been rehearsed in every word and move. ...'

  I saw that suavity was the note.

  'Oh, no, rather not. I'm pretty sure I've got the idea. But you know how it is. So many things on one's mind, don't you know. Just barely possible I may have forgotten a spot or two of the procedure. I'll tell you what. Run over the main points on the programme, and I'll see if I'm clear.'

  She swallowed once or twice. Still a bit overwrought, she struck me as.

  'The ceremony begins at six sharp.'

  'Yes. I know that.'

  'While the speeches are going on —' 'Do I make a speech?'

  'No, you do not, and don't let me catch you trying to. While the speeches are going on, you stand at the back.'

  'I can do that all right. Well within my scope.'

  'After the speeches comes the unveiling. The moment Mr Hays has unveiled the statue, you run forward with the nosegay and give it to Mr Brinkmeyer.'

  I frowned a quick frown.

  'Did you say nosegay?'

  'Nosegay was what I said.'

  'Gosh!’

  'For goodness sake, it's quite simple, isn't it?'

  Simple, yes. But what I was feeling was what a priceless pair of asses we should look. I mean, nosegays 1 And I could see that old Brinkmeyer saw eye to eye with me in this matter. He didn't like the cutaway coat. He didn't like the gardenia. He didn't like the spats. Add a golden-haired child leaping at him with nosegays, and you had something that might well make a man of retiring disposition wish he was back in the cloak and suit business.

  I shot him a sympathetic glance, which seemed to be appreciated.

  'And as you hand him the nosegay, you say: "Pitty f’owers for 'oo, Mithter B'inkmeyer".'

  Well, that didn't seem so bad. Not a frightfully attractive layout, of course, but might have been considerably worse. I might have had to address the multitude at length. Unaccustomed though I was to public speaking, I felt pretty sure I shouldn't blow up in a short, snappy gag like that.

  I nodded intelligently.

  'I see. Yes, I get that. "Pretty flowers for you, Mr Brinkmeyer." '

  She did the bending and stretching exerc
ises once more. She seemed to be registering despair. Her whole demeanour was that of one unable to cope.

  'For goodness gracious sake! Are you really dumb, or are you just trying to be aggravating? Haven't I told you a hundred times? Not "pretty" - "pitty". Not "flowers" -"f'owers". Not "you" - " 'oo". And not "Mr Brinkmeyer" - "Mithter B'inkmeyer". Will you please get the line right 1 We've had conference after conference ... all the highest-paid authors in the organization working on the thing... and you go and mess it up. You say "Pitty f'owers for 'oo, Mithter B'inkmeyer". And, remember, not a syllable more. No wisecracks.'

  'Right ho.'

  'About my spats, for instance,' said Mr Brinkmeyer. 'Right ho.'

  'And don't giggle. Smile, but not giggle.'

  'Right ho.'

  'And then hold it.'

  'The nosegay?'

  'The picture.'

  This puzzled me.

  'What picture? You didn't mention any picture.' She wandered off on to a side-issue. 'Do you want a good box on the ear?' 'No.'

  'Then don't try to be funny. After business with nosegay, speak the line and hold the picture.' 'She means "Don't cut",' explained Mr Brinkmeyer. 'Exactly. Hold it. Wait for the kiss.' I shook from ringlets to toenails. 'Kiss?'

  'That's where I kiss you,' said Mr Brinkmeyer, in an odd, strangled voice, like one speaking from the tomb. Behind their glasses his eyes looked hunted and haggard.

  I was still quivering.

  'You kiss me?'

  'Of course he kisses you. Haven't you been told that over and over and over? Can't you understand plain English? He - kisses - you. It will make a very pretty and appealing picture.'

  I was just seeking for words in which to make plain how little it appealed to me, when the footman who had brought me my supper on the previous evening appeared.

  'Excuse yes possibly,' he said.

  'Well, what is it?'

  'Chap at door,' said the footman, becoming clearer. Miss Brinkmeyer nodded.

  'It must be your new elocution teacher,' she said, starting to move towards the exit. 'I think you and the child had better have a run through, Theodore. He's such a lunkhead that he probably hasn't got it even now. You can use the coffee-pot as a nosegay.'