Sunset Blvd. Page #2

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softball team, put in a few numbers.

Might make a cute musical. It Happened

in the Bullpen:
Story of a Woman.

Are you trying to be funny?

Because I'm all out of laughs.

I'm over a barrel.

I need a job.

- I haven't got a thing.

- Anything. Additional dialogue.

There's nothing. Honest.

Look, Mr. Sheldrake.

Could you let me have 300 bucks

yourself, as a personal loan?

Could I? Gillis.

Last year somebody talked me

into buying a ranch in the Valley.

So I borrowed the money from the

bank in order to pay for the ranch.

This year I mortgaged the ranch so

I could keep up my life insurance...

so I could borrow on my insurance...

After that

I drove down to headquarters.

That's the way a lot of us

think about Schwab's drugstore.

Kind of a combination office,

kaffeeklatsch and waiting room.

Waiting.

Waiting for the gravy train.

I got myself ten nickels and started

sending out a general SOS.

Couldn't get hold of my agent,

naturally.

So then I called a pal of mine,

Artie Green...

an awful nice guy,

an assistant director.

He could let me have 20.

But 20 wouldn't do.

Then I talked to

a couple of yes-men at Metro.

To me they said no.

Finally I located that agent

of mine. The big faker.

Was he out digging up a job

for poorJoe Gillis?

No. He was hard at work in Bel-Air,

making with the golf sticks.

So you need $300.

Of course I could give you $300.

- Only I'm not going to.

- No?

Get this. I'm not just your agent.

It's not the ten percent.

- I'm your friend.

- You are?

Don't you know the finest things

were written on an empty stomach?

Once a talent gets in that Mocambo-

Romanoff rut, you're through.

Forget Romanoff's.

It's the car I'm talkin' about!

If I lose my car, it's like

having my legs cut off.

Greatest thing

that could happen to you.

Now you'll have to sit behind the

typewriter. You'll have to write.

What do you think I've been doin'?

I need $300.

Sweetheart, maybe what you need

is another agent.

As I drove back towards town,

I took inventory of my prospects.

They now added up to exactly zero.

Apparently I just didn't have

what it takes...

and the time had come to wrap up the

whole Hollywood deal and go home.

Maybe if I hocked all my junk I'd

have enough for a bus back to Ohio.

Back to that $35-a-week job writing

copy at the Dayton Evening Post...

if it was still open.

Back to the smirking delight

of the whole office.

All right, wise guys. Why don't you

go and take a crack at Hollywood?

Maybe you think

that you could make...

Uh-oh.

I had landed myself in the driveway

of some big mansion...

that looked run-down and deserted.

At the end of the drive

was a lovely sight indeed...

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