Driving Blind

“I’ll be damned,” she breathed with revelatory delight.

“You ain’t the only one.”

“When the Japs fly over or the subs surface out beyond Culver City, the people painting that building and re-lettering the signs hope that the Japs will think Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy are running around Hughes Aircraft two miles north of here, making pictures. And that MGM, here, has Rosie the Riveters and P-38s flying out of that hangar down there all day!”

Jerry Would opened his eyes and examined the evidence below. “I got to admit, a sound stage does look like a hangar. A hangar looks like a sound stage. Put the right labels on them and invite the Japs in. Banzai!”

“Brilliant,” his secretary exclaimed.

“You’re fired,” he said.

“What?”

“Take a letter,” said Jerry Would, his back turned.

“Another letter?”

“To Mr. Sid Goldfarb.”

“But he’s right upstairs.”

“Take a letter, dammit, to Goldfarb, Sidney. Dear Sid. Strike that. Just Sid. I am damned angry. What the hell is going on? I walk in the office at eight a.m. and it’s MGM. I walk out to the commissary at noon and Howard Hughes is pinching the waitresses’ behinds. Whose bright idea was this?”

“Just what 7 wondered,” his secretary said.

“You’re fired,” said Jerry Would.

“Go on,” she said.

“Dear Sid. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sid, why weren’t we informed that this camouflage would happen? Remember the old joke? We were all hired to watch for icebergs sailing up Culver Boulevard? Relatives of the studio, uncles, cousins? And now the damned iceberg’s here. And it wears tennis shoes, a leather jacket, and a mustache over a dirty smile. I been here twelve years, Sidney, and I refuse—aw, hell, finish typing it. Sincerely. No, not sincerely. Angrily yours. Angrily. Where do I sign?”

He tore the letter from the machine and whipped out a pen.

“Now take this upstairs and throw it over the transom.”

“Messengers get killed for messages like this.”

“Killed is better than fired.”

She sat quietly.

“Well?” he said.

“I’m waiting for you to cool down. You may want to tear this letter up, half an hour from now.”

“I will not cool down and I will not tear up. Go.”

And still she sat, watching his face until the lines faded and the color paled. Then very quietly she folded the letter and tore it across once and tore it across twice and then a third and fourth time. She let the confetti drift into the trash basket as he watched.

“How many times have I fired you today?” he said.

“Just three.”

“Four times and you’re out. Call Hughes Aircraft.”

“I was wondering when you—”

“Don’t wonder. Get.”