The lights went out again. “Vun-two, vun-two,” S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell said. “Loook, loook at ze elements, vat zey do ze roomboom.”
“Iss prununce chroomba,” Carmen Miranda said, snapping her fingers and grabbing his hips.
“Hmph,” Eugene Pallette growled huskily, something funny happening to his eyes, “you call that shaking? I’ll show you shaking.” He began moving his hips violently and caught little Dickie Dobber full in the chest, jamming him helplessly between the two elephants.
“That’s not in the script,” Sabu said to Elizabeth Languor. “He did that on his own.”
Real VO, I thought. Real Eugene Pallette drinking real VO.
The camera moved in jerkily to expose Dickie Dobber’s white, panic-struck face. The elephants rumbaed menacingly. Only Sabu could call them off.
“Koop left this in?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous?”
When everything was calm, Edward Arnold went up to Eugene Pallette and pulled his sleeve. “Better stay away from the bar,” Edward Arnold whispered. He said “bah.”
“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Elizabeth Languor said.
“He certainly is,” Sabu said.
“I was with him in Latin Holiday,” Elizabeth said.
Was that you, I wondered to myself. I thought it was Jane Powell.
“Honestly,” Elizabeth said, “he’s so paternal and dignified. He had little Jane Powell thinking he really was her father.”
That’s right, I thought, you were the one who went to school in Switzerland, the daughter of the big industrialist.
Eugene Pallette looked up at Edward Arnold. “What bar?” he asked. He was panting heavily.
“By the wall,” Edward Arnold hissed.
“Hmph,” Eugene Pallette rasped, “you call that a wall?”
Sabu put his arm around Elizabeth Languor’s shoulder. “‘And let there be no moaning at the bar when I put out to sea,’” he whispered. He said “see.”
I squirmed in my seat; I bit my lips; I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. I had never been happier. There he was — Sabu, fourteen feet tall up there on the screen. A Star. Only not a star up there—up there only Rama, triply adopted son of department store magnates, Down here, beside me. I could smell elephant on him. Fourteen feet tall down here. It was a wonder he could even fit into the seat. And Elizabeth Languor thrown in! Could there be greater happiness in this world? I forgot my guilt and uneasiness. What guilt, what uneasiness?
Suddenly it wasn’t enough just to sit there — I had to impress them in some way. But if I spoke they would change their seats. They would call the usher, and I might be arrested. The law is made to protect the great. That’s civics — the folks in Chilanthica would know about that. I could explain to them who I was. “Perhaps you’ve seen me wrestle, Sabu and Elizabeth. On television. On the TV. Perhaps you saw me break the Mad Magruder’s ass.” I could lower my voice. I could wink, blow my fingernails; “it’s all fixed!” I would say precisely. Then later, over a tall drink, I would tell them the secrets of my trade, and in a little while, after confidence had been developed, I would pounce. “Is Hollywood ffixsed?” I would say. “Is Hollywood fixseď?”
Idiot! You think they don’t have jails in Chilanthica? (I saw it, a single jail, like the town’s single movie. The “pokey,” they would call it.)
I tried to control myself, to concentrate on Plenty of Daddies, but I couldn’t even understand it any more. The temptation was simply to turn in my seat and stare at them. Every so often that’s just what I did. I would turn my head an inch and glance at them out of the corner of my eyes. I was sure they noticed it. I was sure, in fact, that while they pretended to watch the picture they were staring at me in the same way, and that if I had nerve enough I could say just the right thing to engage them. The chat over a drink wasn’t such a wild notion after all. I wasn’t an idiot; I am an interesting human being. Surely they could respond to that. That was the pitch, of course, but how would I make it?
Nothing happened. The movie was almost over, and soon the lights would go up and we would all shuffle out to our cars, our houses, our buses, our hotel rooms. Surely it was too much to expect that Sabu and Elizabeth would go across the street to the ice cream parlor.
Act, I thought. Act!
I looked to my right. I was on the aisle. I looked to my left. Sabu. Elizabeth. A filled row. I made my decision. I stood up.
I turned to Sabu, the Elephant Boy. “Excuse me,” I said gravely.
He looked up at me, confused.
“I have to get by,” I explained.
Instinctively he pulled in his legs, but then, glancing significantly toward the aisle to my right, he frowned. I moved against his legs heavily.
“Ouch,” he said softly.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” he said, and stood to let me pass.
I halted in front of Elizabeth Languor. She glanced up at me and stood without a word. I moved quickly past the rest of the people in the row and out into the aisle. I went to the lobby and put a dime in the Coca-Cola machine.
“They stood up for me,” I croaked. “They stood up for me. Sabu and Elizabeth Languor.”
I threw the Coke away untasted and rushed back into the theater. I haven’t been gone long enough, I thought. It’ll look funny.
The big production number was on the screen. Edward Arnold and Eugene Pallette and S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell had their arms around each other. They had just merged their three department stores. Sabu was on one elephant and Margaret O’Brien was on the other. They all seemed to be coming through the big Manhattan apartment right into the audience. José Iturbi’s piano was following them. Everybody was singing Sabu’s concerto. I was coming down the aisle while they seemed to be coming up it. It was thrilling.
I moved into my row. Already people were getting up to leave, but I pushed past them to get to my seat. They looked at me, annoyed, but made timid by my size.
When I got to Sabu’s and Elizabeth’s seats, they were unoccupied.
Boswell, I thought, mover of men!
The journal entry closes there. I was up most of the night writing it, and Felix Bush, the Schenectady Stalwart, beat me the next evening in a match I was supposed to win. Bogolub came into the locker room afterwards while I was still in the shower.
“Boswell!” I pretended not to hear him.
“Boswell?”
“Boswell, you in there? You hear me? You in there? Well, I hope you’re in there because that’s where you wash up and that’s what you are, you understand? Washed up! No more in LA do you wrestle for me in my gardens with the television and the hook-ups to San Francisco and all the way up to Portland, Oregon. That’s all finished, tanker. A guy that can’t win a fixed fight! Wash up good, you hear me? I’m paying for the soap and I say to you you are welcome because you are washed up in Los Angeles, do you understand me?”
“Yes. Beat it.”
“Beat it? Beat it? Do you threaten me, phony? I better not understand you to threaten me because I got guys who sell popcorn for me in this place who can whip your ass. You’re finished.”
I came out of the shower and went over to my locker. Bogolub followed and stared at me while I dried myself. It always makes me nervous when people look at me when I’m naked. Even girls. I turned my back.
“Dry up good, do you understand me?” Bogolub said.
“Please,” I said wearily. “Mr. Bogolub.”