Driving Blind

Name it, said the quiet voice a long way off.

“I was thinking if the Japs come with the next tide by air or by sea and no Paul Revere to say which, well, when they see those big letters right outside my window, they’re sure going to bomb the hell outta what they think is P-38 country and Hughes territory. A brilliant concept, sir, brilliant. Is what? Is everyone here at MGM happy with the ruse? They’re not dancing in the streets but they do congratulate you for coming up with such a world-shaking plan. Now here’s my point. I gotta lot of work to finish. Six films shooting, two films editing, three films starting. What I need is a nice safe place to work, you got the idea? That’s it. Yeah. That’s it. You got a nice small corner of one of your hangars that—sure! You’re way ahead of me. I should what? Yeah, I’ll send my secretary over right after lunch with some files. You got a typewriter? I’ll leave mine here. Boy, How—Mr. Hughes, you’re a peach. Now, tit for tat, if you should want to move into my office here? Just joking. Okay. Thanks. Thanks. Okay. She’ll be there, pronto.”

And he hung up.

His secretary sat stolidly, examining him. He looked away, refused to meet her stare. A slow blush moved up his face.

“You’re fired,” she said.

“Take it easy,” he said.

She rose, gathered a few papers, hunted for her purse, applied a perfect lipstick mouth, and stood at the door.

“Have Joey and Ralph bring all the stuff in that top file,” she said. “That’ll do for starters. You coming?”

“In a moment,” he said, standing by the window, still not looking at her.

“What if the Japs figure out this comedy, and bomb the real Hughes Aircraft instead of this fake one?”

“Some days,” sighed Jerry Would, “you can’t win for losing.”

“Shall I write a letter to Goldfarb to tell him where you’re going?”

“Don’t write, call. That way there’s no evidence.”

A shadow loomed. They both looked up at the sky over the studio.

“Hey,” he said, softly, “there’s another. A third balloon.”

“How come,” she said, “it looks like a producer I used to know?”

“You’re—” he said.

But she was gone. The door shut.

Hello, I Must Be Going (#u30e4601b-d37e-5713-8335-da252d46b327)

There was a quiet tapping at the door and when Steve Ralphs opened it there stood Henry Grossbock, five foot one inches tall, immaculately dressed, very pale and very perturbed.

“Henry!” Steve Ralphs cried.

“Why do you sound like that?” Henry Grossbock said. “What have I done? Why am I dressed like this? Where am I going?”

“Come in, come in, someone might see you!”

“Why does it matter if someone sees me?”

“Come in, for God’s sake, don’t stand there arguing.”

“All right, I’ll come in, I have things to talk about anyway. Stand aside. There. I’m in.”

Steve Ralphs backed off across the room and waved to a chair. “Sit.”

“I don’t feel welcome.” Henry sat. “You have any strong liquor around this place?”

“I was just thinking that.” Steve Ralphs jumped, ran into the kitchen, and a minute later returned with a tray, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and some ice. His hands were trembling as he poured the liquor.

“You look shaky,” said Henry Grossbock. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you know, can’t you guess? Here.”

Henry took the glass. “You sure poured me a lot.”

“You’re going to need it. Drink.”

They drank and Henry examined his coat front and his sleeves.

“You still haven’t told me where I am going,” he said, “or have I been there already? I don’t usually dress this way except for concerts. When I stand up there before an audience, well, one desires respect. This is very good scotch. Thanks. Well?”

He stared at Steve Ralphs with a steady and penetrating stare.

Steve Ralphs gulped half of his drink and put it down and shut his eyes. “Henry, you’ve already been to a far place and just come back, for God’s sake. And now you’ll have to return to that place.”

“What place, what place, stop the riddles!”

Steve Ralphs opened his eyes and said, “How did you get here? Did you take a bus, hire a taxi, or … walk from the graveyard?”

“Bus, taxi, walk? And what’s that about a graveyard?”

“Henry, drink the rest of your drink. Henry, you’ve been in that graveyard for years.”

“Don’t be silly. What would I be doing there? I never applied for any—” Henry stopped and slowly sank back in his chair. “You mean—?”

Steve Ralphs nodded. “Yes, Henry.”

“Dead? And in the graveyard? Dead and in the graveyard four years? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“It’s hard to tell someone who’s dead that he is.”

“I see, I see.” Henry finished his drink and held the glass out for more. Steve Ralphs refilled.

“Dear, dear,” said Henry Grossbock, slowly. “My, my. So that’s why I haven’t felt up to snuff lately.”

“That’s why, Henry. Let me catch up.” Steve Ralphs poured more whiskey in his own glass and drank.

“So that’s why you looked so peculiar when you opened the door just now—”

“That’s why, Henry.”