Myra Breckinridge

  I have now got Mary-Ann to the point where she will at least audition for an agent before June, and that means I must start making the rounds myself, trying to find the best person to handle her. Although her voice has a classic tone like Jeanette MacDonald (and so of no use in the current market), she also has a second more jazzy voice not unlike that of the late La Verne, the most talented of the Andrews Sisters. I am certain that if she were to develop her La Verne-voice she could, with her remarkable appearance acting as opening wedge, become a star.

  Last night I played several Andrews Sisters records for her and though she had never before heard of the Andrews Sisters (!), she conceded that their tone was unusual—which is understating the matter! Their tone is unique and genuinely mythic, a part of the folklore of the best years of the American past. They really did roll out that barrel, and no one has yet rolled it back. Mary-Ann has just nudged my arm. “Really, Miss Myra, you musn’t write like that in public!” She chides me gently, for to write in public in the electronic age is to commit an antisocial obscenity.

  To please her, I shall now put away this notebook and listen to the jokes of the comedian as he responds to the sterile laughter of the studio audience of which I am a part, for we are suddenly all of us—such a pleasure on the air!

  22

  Just as I expected, seventy-two per cent of the male students are circumcised. At Clem’s party-I had been reminded of the promiscuous way in which American doctors circumcise males in childhood, a practice I highly disapprove of, agreeing with that publisher who is forever advertising in the New York Times Book Review a work which proves that circumcision is necessary for only a very few men. For the rest, it constitutes, in the advertiser’s phrase, “a rape of the penis.” Until the Forties, only the upper or educated classes were circumcised in America. The real people were spared this humiliation. But during the affluent postwar years the operation became standard procedure, making money for doctors as well as allowing the American mother to mutilate her son in order that he might never forget her early power over him. Today only the poor Boston Irish, the Midwestern Poles and the Appalachian Southerners can be counted upon to be complete.

  Myron never forgave Gertrude for her circumcision of him. In fact, he once denounced her in my presence for it. She defended herself by saying that the doctor had recommended it on hygienic grounds—which of course does not hold water since most foreskins are easily manipulated and kept clean. What is truly sinister is the fact that with the foreskin’s removal, up to fifty per cent of sensation in the glans penis is reduced . . . a condition no doubt as pleasing to the puritan American mother as it is to her co-conspirator, the puritan Jewish doctor who delights in being able to mutilate the goyim in the same vivid way that his religion (and mother!) mutilated him.

  I once had the subject out with Dr. Montag, who granted me every single point and yet, finally, turned dentist and confessed, “Whenever I hear the word ‘smegma,’ I become physically ill.” I am sure Moses is roasting in hell, along with Jesus, Saint Paul, and Gertrude Percey Breckinridge.

  I was not able to find Rusty’s medical report and so do not know whether or not he has been circumcised. I hope not for I prefer the penis intact . . . in order that it be raped not by impersonal surgery but by me!

  23

  In an alcove at the back of the cafeteria Buck Loner often has lunch with some notable he would like the students to observe at close hand. Today it was the famous agent Letitia Van Allen, and so I joined them, to Buck’s ill-disguised fury. Miss Van Allen is a handsome vigorous woman of perhaps forty, with steely gray eyes. We got on famously, to Buck’s chagrin.

  “Talent is not what Uncle Buck and I deal in, Miss Van Allen,” I said, lightly resting my hand on Buck’s clenched fist. “We deal in myths. At any given moment the world requires one full-bodied blonde Aphrodite (Jean Harlow), one dark siren of flawless beauty (Hedy Lamarr), one powerful inarticulate brute of a man (John Wayne), one smooth debonair charmer (Melvyn Douglas), one world-weary corrupt lover past his prime (Humphrey Bogart), one eternal good-sex woman-wife (Myrna Loy), one wide-eyed chicken boy (Lon McCallister), one gentle girl singer (Susanna Foster), one winning stud (Clark Gable), one losing stud outside the law (James Cagney), and so on. Olympus supports many gods and goddesses and they are truly eternal, since whenever one fades or falls another promptly takes his place, for the race requires that the pantheon be always filled. So what we are looking for—and what you, Miss Van Allen, have found time and again—are those mythic figures who, at the right moment, can be placed upon their proper pedestal. For instance, since the death of Marilyn Monroe, no blonde voluptuous goddess has yet appeared to take her place and so, if I were creating stars, I would look for a girl who most filled that particular bill, who could be the lost Golden Girl. In fact, as in any other business, we must begin with market research. This means carefully analyzing Olympus to find out which archetypal roles are temporarily vacant and who are the contenders. At the moment the suave male seducer is in great supply while the befuddled normal man next door, filled with ludicrous fantasies, is a drug on the market, what with at least one and a half Jack Lemmon pictures each year. But the blonde goddess, the dark goddess, the singing girl and the inarticulate hero are each currently in need of someone to make of the divine spirit living flesh as well as eternal celluloid. At this very moment, perhaps in this very room, there are unknown boys and girls destined to be—for the length of a career like gods, if only we can find and reveal them. That is why you and I, Letitia—I may call you that?—are similar to those Tibetan priests who upon the death of the Dalai Lama must seek out his reincarnation. And so, like priestesses, despite all personal hardship, we must constantly test and analyze the young men and women of America in order to find the glittering few who are immortal, who are the old, the permanent gods of our race reborn.”

  There was a long silence when I finished. Buck toyed with his icebox cake while Letitia Van Allen simply stared at me. Then she said, “That is the damnedest, truest thing I’ve ever heard said about this lousy racket. Come on, let’s have a drink. Buck, give us a drink in that office of yours, you old bastard!” She took me by the arm. “He’s far and away the biggest con-man in the business, but from where I sit it looks like he may have met his match. You’ve got quite a line and, as a fellow con-girl, I would like to give it some study.” I had made, as I intended, an enormous impression.

  Over a beaker of Scotch in Buck’s office, Letitia told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever wanted to leave Buck there was a place in her office for a go-getter like me.

  Buck brightened when he heard this. “Why, honey, that sounds just swell, don’t it? This is too little a pond for a talent like yours.” To which I replied demurely, “It may be a small pond but it’s ours, Uncle Buck, yours and mine (you see, Letitia, I’m a half-owner of the property), and I could never let Uncle Buck down.” Buck’s face shut with a snap.

  Miss Van Allen missed this exchange, for I had just given her some photographs of Mary-Ann Pringle. ‘Pretty girl. But no Marilyn Monroe.” She gave the pictures back.

  “It’s her voice,” I explained. “That’s what makes her a possible immortal. She is the Singing Girl Goddess, waiting for the chance to reveal herself.”

  “They’re not making that kind of picture right now. But maybe she could work up a nightclub act or get in the road show of some Broadway musical. Anyway, on your say-so, I’ll listen to her—but not now. What about studs?” Letitia, I fear, is a monosexual. Only men arouse her.

  “We got some swell kids . . .” began Buck but I cut him short. “There’s one—maybe. Category: Inarticulate Hero. His name is Rusty Godowsky . . .”

  “That name has got to go and so do I.” Letitia turned to me. “Come see me the first of the week, Myra lunch . . . I’ll pick your brains. You Easterners have all the kinky angles that are in right now. That’s what I keep telling them at Universal: ‘Don’t be so California, for God’s sake! California’s s
quare, while the world is full of kinks as yet undreamed of in the Greater Los Angeles Area.’ Then she was gone.

  I could not help but rub it in. “Stick with me,” I said to the crestfallen Buck, “and maybe some of your students will work in show biz.” Before he could answer, the masseuse arrived: a spectacular Eurasian in a white nurse’s uniform. As we parted, I reminded him of our deadline. Either he has paid me my share in full by April 1 or we up the ante.

  BUCK LONER REPORTS—

  Recording Disc No. 763—

  4 March

  Things are coming to a head at least if they dont I dont know if I can stand it much longer with the new masseuse it took over an hour which is a sign of something and that something is Myra Breckinridge archfiend Flagler and Flagler are doing their best they say to get something on Myra but so far nothing at all they are even bugging her telephone and just now sent over this tape which may be significant or so they think of her talking long distance to a New York headshrinker called Randolph Montag his tape is herewith enclosed or included or whatever you call it

  The Golden State Detective Agency submits the following unedited telephone conversation with the understanding that the contents of same are highly confidential and Golden State assumes no responsibility whatsoever for having obtained said property.

  OPERATOR: Los Angeles calling Dr. Rudolph Moon . . . what’s the name again, dear?

  MYRA: Montag, Randolph not Rudolph Montag, and why don’t you . . .

  OPERATOR: Los Angeles calling Dr. Moondog is he there?

  VOICE: Mummy [two words not audible] later [three to four words not audible] the cat’s sick . . .

  OPERATOR: Little boy, could you tell your daddy this is Los Angeles . . .

  MYRA: Damn it, Dr. Montag is not married . . .

  OPERATOR: . . . Los Angeles calling and . . .

  VOICE: . . . threw up all over the floor . . .

  MYRA: God damn it, operator, you’ve got the wrong number . . .

  OPERATOR: I hear you, miss, you don’t have to shout . . .

  MYRA: The number is . . .

  OPERATOR: . . . I will redial the number, miss.

  ELECTRONIC SOUNDS: heavy breathing of operator and/or Myra.

  VOICE: This is a recording. The number you have just dialed is not a working number.

  MYRA: Operator, please I don’t have all day.

  OPERATOR: Apparently the number you gave me is not a working number . . .

  MYRA: Dial it again, damn it! You silly [word not clearly audible].

  VOICE: Yes?

  OPERATOR: Los Angeles calling Dr. Rupert Moonman, are you him?

  VOICE: Yes, yes. This is Dr. Moonman, I mean Montag, who is calling he . . . &

  MYRA: Randolph, this is Myra . . .

  OPERATOR: Your party is on the line, Miss . . .

  MYRA: I haven’t written because I’ve been . . .

  OPERATOR: Dr. Moon is on the line . . .

  MYRA: I know he is, now will you kindly get off . . .

  MONTAG: Who is calling him again?

  MYRA: It’s Myra Breckinridge, you idiot!

  MONTAG: Myra! This is a real pleasure . . .

  MYRA: . . . didn’t write because so much work to do

  MONTAG: . . . so how’s the weather out there?

  MYRA: . . . need your help . . .

  MONTAG: . . . cold here, maybe twelve above zero which is why the ten o’clock patient missed her hour so I can talk . . .

  MYRA: . . . about this damned inheritance . . .

  MONTAG: . . . how is your dental health?

  MYRA: Never been better, as a matter of fact we are on the verge of a real mental breakthrough which should . . .

  MONTAG: I meant how are your teeth? That impacted wisdom tooth that was giving us so much trouble . . .

  MYRA: For God’s sake, Randolph, don’t waste the three minutes talking about teeth . . . they’re O.K. . . .

  MONTAG: Good dental health means good mental health . . .

  MYRA: . . . what I want is this: for you to say you were a witness to my marriage, in Monterrey, Mexico. And, God knows, in the truest sense you were and are . . .

  MONTAG: At a certain level of course I am a witness and will gladly say so but there’s also the legal aspect . . .

  MYRA: . . . have to do is come out here and at a crucial moment which may or may not arise say you were present when I married Myron, which you were . . .

  MONTAG: . . . I suppose this all has to do with Gertrude’s property . . .

  MYRA: . . . swine Buck Loner is trying to do me out of a settlement, and so he wants to prove we were never really married . . .

  MONTAG: . . . thinking about poor Myron the other day . . .

  MYRA: You might think about me for a change . . .

  MONTAG: . . . projecting hostility again, must be careful . . .

  MYRA: . . . am in trouble, Myron’s dead . . .

  MONTAG: Myron was a Christ figure . . .

  MYRA: Luckily he found the right doctor with the two sticks of wood and the three nails . . .

  MONTAG: . . . need help again. Can’t you come back here for a few sessions . . .

  MYRA: I’m broke and this conversation is breaking me so will you do what I ask . . .

  MONTAG: Naturally only . . .

  MYRA: In writing!

  MONTAG: Is that necessary?

  MYRA: It may have to be. Well? Cat got your tongue?

  MONTAG: No, I was lighting a cigar, oral gratification is called for at moments of discomfort . . .

  MYRA: Are you uncomfortable?

  MONTAG: Naturally, Myra. Who wouldn’t be in the spot you’ve put me in? After all our relationship is a good deal more than that of just analyst and patient. I am also your dentist and have your best interests at heart. Yes, of course I will say I was a witness to the marriage with the proviso . . .

  MYRA: No proviso unless you want to have your license as a lay analyst revoked in the State of New York for gross malpractice . . .

  MONTAG: I detect a great deal of hostility, Myra, in your voice . . .

  MYRA: . . . then it’s a deal. This is costing money . . .

  MONTAG: Of course I’ll help but . . .

  MYRA: Goodbye, Randolph . . .

  End of tape.

  BUCK LONER REPORTS—

  Recording Disc No.763 (continued)—

  Something obviously fishy but what question mark Myra probably was married in Monterrey from the sound of what they were saying to each other but why is that doctor so nervous and unwilling to put his John Hancock to any sort of document I will tell Flagler and Flagler to put the heat on this doctor because I must find out the truth or die in the attempt not to mention losing half this place which I built up from nothing period paragraph well I couldve been knocked over with a feather when Letitia Van Allen who I used to boff in the old days and was also a good friend to Bobbie Dean took a shine to Myra who barged in on our lunch in the cafeteria and promptly began one of her endless speeches which drive me up the wall like they say but Letitia who is easily the toughest dame in this town with the key to casting at Universal in her pocket and not one youd think to be taken in by nutty highbrow Eastern talk well Myra did her work and the two girls are now bosom buddies which is not good for yours truly which is why everything depends now on nailing Myra Breckinridge once and for all question what about framing her with drugs maybe no she would still get the money even in jail God damn it buy chicory for Bobbie.

  24

  Letitia Van Allen has heard the voice of Mary-Ann! And loved it! Yesterday I met Letitia at her offices on Melrose Avenue which occupy an entire Greek revival house, reminiscent of Tara, the late David O. Selznick’s trademark. All the rooms are furnished in such a way as to suggest a gracious Southern mansion, not a talent agency. Letitia’s private office (we are now on a first-name basis) is a lovely large airy second-floor bedroom-cum-boudoir, a most unusual setting for a famous agent yet somehow entirely suitable for her. Letitia works at a Dutch prov
incial writing desk in an alcove within view of the four-poster bed at the far end of the room. The effect is enchanting.

  The salad and cottage cheese lunch was less charming (I have developed an extraordinary appetite lately and must for the first time in my life worry about becoming heavy). We talked of everything, and found many areas of agreement. She believes I would make a formidable agent and I have no doubt that she is right but I prefer to go my own solitary way as critic and mythmaker, and of course as explicator of the mind of Parker Tyler. Like Myron, I am in the tradition of Mortimer Brewster, the drama critic in Arsenic and Old Lace, a man for whom, as Tyler puts it so superbly, “the facts of lunacy, virginity, and death, the last a mask for impotence, are inseparable.”

  Over a dry martini after lunch (Letitia, I suspect, has a drinking problem), we listened to a record of Mary-Ann singing a number of songs of the Forties, selected by me and arranged by Miss Cluff. Letitia listened with eyes narrowed. When the record was finished, she again asked for photographs. I gave them to her. She studied them for a long time. “O.K.,” she said, “I’ll meet her. Make an appointment with my secretary, any free time next week.” Then Letitia put her feet up on a Regency bench. “Why’re you pushing this kid?”

  “She has talent. So few people do.”

  “But according to your theory, that will probably count against her. Now if you don’t mind my asking a personal question, you aren’t perhaps involved with her on a more personal level?”

  I blushed for the first time in some years. “If you mean am I a dike, no. Not at all. Quite the contrary. Actually I’m interested in her because of her boyfriend who happens to have skipped town and I feel sorry for her . . .”