Memoirs of a Hollywood Starlet

Later we talked about the beauty of failure, and the way in which
even the most profound and heart-rending of tragedies can be
illuminated by a kind of beauty, a sense of grace.

Hollywood, Schwabbs Drugstore, November 1951. How'd I come to be sat
with her? Well, it was busy, there were no free tables. Schwabbs was
always packed. Everyone from the studio went there to drink coffee and
smoke cigarettes- not just administration staff and aspiring actresses,
like me, but real stars too. One time I saw Robert Mitchum.
Anyway, as I was saying, there were no free tables and my heels were
killing so I sat with her. She seemed a shy, insular sort of girl, but
I was outgoing and optimistic once upon a time. I filled the silence
chattering about how I'd always wanted to be in the movies and how Mr.
Zanuck, the head of 20th Century, had requested to see me in his office
that afternoon.
I figured she was a secretary or something; happy and star struck to
be working at the studio but much too shy to be in front of the camera;
wholly unremarkable. Her skin was pale and slightly shiny with no
make-up and her ash blonde hair was pinned back in the style factory
girls wore during the war. Her shoes were flats and no stockings. I'd
certainly never noticed her before. She was fumbling round in her
handbag, real clumsy, saying, "I think some people get l-l-lonely all
the time? Even in a c-crowd?" She finally pulled out a little notepad
inscribed with schoolgirl writing, and spent a few painful minutes
struggling to pronounce a word writ inside. Until I put her out of
misery and helped her break it down into syllables.
"Stan-is-lav-isk-i," She continued. "He said that every one has their
own c-c-circle of light? And that it can protect you? But it's also
solitude in p-public." Her uncertain, little girl voice was almost a
whisper; barely audible over the hustle and bustle of Schwabbs. There
was a fleck of glitter on her lip, catching the light as she looked at
me eagerly, hopeful, needing some response. But I'd lost the thread of
what we were talking about and my expression betrayed it. She looked
embarrassed and slightly startled, like she'd been slapped, and laughed
a nervous little squeaky laugh as she slid the notepad back into her
bag.
That's when I noticed. This little girl was good looking. Or would
have been, if she'd known it. But you could see she didn't. She was so
painfully shy and prim, too. Whenever my cigarette smoke went near her
you could see her pale eyes watering and she coughed a little
virgin-lunged cough. Everyone in Hollywood smoked.
We shared the table for another 20 minutes or so. Me, checking my face
in my compact and talking about the time I was 5 yards away from Bob
Mitchum. Her, with wide eyes, gushing, "Gee, I just adore Mr.
Mitchum."
I intimated I had to leave for my meeting with Mr. Zanuck. She rose
too, leaning real close across the table, "Good luck and, honey, try
not to bleed on Zanuck's rug. When you're in your important meeting,
that is. I don't think he's ever forgiven me."
And that's when it happened. Like a light bulb. Her voice had become
real breathy and sexy. Her skin now seemed to have an ethereal luminous
quality. She'd switched it on. She'd switched on being Marilyn Monroe.
Hell, it was all I could do to sit there slacked jawed as she gave my
hand a squeeze and winked.
Everyone else had noticed too; general conversation had more or less
ceased. Some of us stared openly while the rest stole glances: her ass,
her doll parts, her immortal walk as she left and the door swung shut
behind her.

In retrospect, I regret not calling out after her, "Hey! Miss Monroe!
Wait!"
Maybe I could have saved her from herself, knowing what I know now. I
guess that's what tragedy is&;#8230;&;#8230;..missed
opportunities; failure.