The Other Side of Me

To this day, I don't know what made Sydney agree to help me. Was it because I had blundered into an impossible situation, or because I looked desperate? I will never know. But I do know that she sat at her desk all that afternoon, typing the pages as I thumbed through the book.

The clock was racing. We were only halfway through the novel when Sydney said, "It's four o'clock."

I started reading faster and talking faster.

By the time I finished dictating the thirty-page synopsis, the two-page summary, and the one-page comment, it was exactly ten minutes to six.

As Sydney handed me the last page, I said gratefully, "If there is anything I can ever do for you - "

She smiled. "A lunch will be fine."

I kissed her on the cheek, stuffed the pages into the envelope with the book, and raced out of the office. I ran all the way back to the Selznick International Studios, and arrived there at one minute to six.

I said to the same woman behind the desk, "My name is Sheldon. I want to see Mr. Selznick's secretary."

"She's been waiting for you," she said.

As I hurried down the corridor, I knew that this was just the beginning. I had read that Selznick had started as a reader at MGM, so we had something in common that we could chat about.

Selznick will put me on the staff. I'll have an office here. Wait until Natalie and Otto hear that I'm working for him.

I reached his secretary's office. When I walked in, she looked at her watch. "I was getting worried about you," she said.

"No problem," I told her, nonchalantly. I handed her the package and watched her glance through the pages.

"This is beautifully done." She handed me an envelope. "There's ten dollars in there."

"Thank you. I'm ready to do the next synopsis whenever - "

"I'm sorry," she said, "our regular reader will be back tomorrow. Mr. Selznick doesn't usually use outside readers. As a matter of fact, you were called by mistake."

I swallowed. "Mistake?"

"Yes. You're not on our regular list of readers."

So I was never going to be a part of David Selznick's team. We were not going to have a cozy chat about his days as a reader. This frantic day had been the beginning and the end. At that moment, I should have been deeply depressed. Oddly enough, I felt happy. Why? I had no idea.

When I reached Gracie's, the boys were waiting for me.

"Did you see Selznick?"

"What's he like?"

"Are you going to work there?"

"It's been an interesting afternoon," I said. "Very interesting." And I went into my room and closed the door.

I saw the bus ticket on the table next to my bed. It was the symbol of failure. It meant going back to the checkrooms and the drugstore and parking cars and the life I thought I had escaped from. I had reached a dead end. I picked up the bus ticket and it was all I could do to keep from tearing it in half. How could I turn this failure into a success? There has to be a way. There has to be a way.

And then it came to me. I called home. Natalie answered the phone. "Hello, darling. We can't wait to see you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I have some good news. I just did a synopsis for David Selznick."

"Really? That's wonderful! Was he nice?"

"Yes. Couldn't have been nicer. And this is only the beginning. The gates here have opened, Natalie. Everything is going to be great. I just need a few more days."

She did not hesitate. "All right, darling. Let us know when you're coming home."

I'm not coming home.

The following morning, I went to the bus station and cashed in the ticket Otto had sent me. I spent the rest of the day writing letters to the literary departments of all the major studios.

The letters read, in part:

At his personal request, I have just finished a synopsis of a novel for David O. Selznick, and I'm now free to do other synopses . . .

The telephone calls began coming in two days later. Twentieth-Century-Fox called first, then Paramount. Fox needed a book synopsized and Paramount wanted me to synopsize a play. Each synopsis paid five or ten dollars, depending on the length.

Since each studio had its own staff of readers, the only time they called in outside readers was when they were overburdened. I could do only one novel a day. It took me that long to get to a studio to pick it up, return to Gracie's boardinghouse, read the book, type a synopsis, and take it back to the studio. I averaged two or three calls a week. I didn't have Sydney in my life anymore.

To augment my meager income, I telephoned a man I had never met. Vera Fine had mentioned him on the drive to California. His name was Gordon Mitchell. He was head of the Technical Branch of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

I called and mentioned Vera Fine's name, and told him I was looking for a job. He was very cordial. "As a matter of fact, I have something here that you can do."

I was thrilled. I would be working for the esteemed Academy.

The following day, I met him in his office.

"It's perfect timing," he said. "You'll be working evenings here, watching films in our projection room."

"Great," I said. "What's the job?"

"Watching films in our projection room."

I was staring at him. He went on to explain.

"The Academy is testing different film preservatives. We've coated different sections of the film with different chemicals. Your job is to sit in the projection room and keep a record of the number of times each film is run." He added, apologetically, "I'm afraid it only pays three dollars a day."

"I'll take it."