Hollywood Dog 2
The Post-Standard’s prehistoric movie critic was a woman named Joan Vadeboncoeur. Joan was was a stout woman of medium height. Everyone at the paper called her simply Joan, because her name — Vadeboncoeur — was an absolute chore to pronounce. Joan never married; she was a rare woman who was confident enough not to be defined by a man. She had worked at the paper for what sometimes seemed like 1,000 years. She kept a pair of eyeglasses on a lengthy rhinestone chain around her neck. Her hair always looked the same: like a manicured dollop of grey yogurt.
My buttocks clenched up like two fists whenever Joan clomped into the editorial bullpen on her high heels. “You can hear her walking all the way in Cazenovia,” one of the nearby reporters whispered to me one day. (Note: Cazenovia is a suburb of Syracuse. That was where Joan lived.)
Joan was quietly irritated that Sven had given the Gregory Peck interview to “The Underling.” That’s what Joan had nicknamed me: The Underling. What right, she wanted to know, did The Underling have to speak to a bona fide Hollywood legend? I could hear the two of them arguing in Sven’s office. We all could. Sven stood his ground. “I assigned the story to that kid. Therefore, it will remain the kid’s story, Joan,” Sven shouted. “Case closed.” (Note: I did not mind Sven referring to me as a kid.)
Once the argument was over, Joan clip-clopped to a nearby desk and began to lick her wounds. She sighed dramatically, theatrically, exhaling vast amounts of air. She sounded like a volcano venting steam. “PSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Joan said, to no one in particular. “PSSSHHHHHHHHHH.”
With sweat pooling underneath my under arms, I clumsily dialled the number I had been given in Los Angeles at the predesignated time. (Note: I believe this was the first time I had ever called a number in Los Angeles. This is an important moment in a person’s life, the first time they call a number on the opposite coast.) A woman picked up. She introduced herself as Mr. Peck’s assistant. “This is Scott Jones, from the Post-Standard, in Syracuse,” I said. My back teeth were chattering as I talked. I was so goddamn nervous. “I have an interview? With Mr. Peck? At 2 o’clock? Is he available?”
“PSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” the volcano said.
Joan was listening to me — I could feel her listening to me. She was studying me, scrutinizing me. I could feel her trying to find fault. Joan’s mean-spirited scrutiny made the already-difficult task of conducting my first phone interview that much more difficult. To reiterate: I had no formal journalism training. I’d never conducted an interview in my life. All I had was this: I remembered a scene from a movie where one tough guy says to another tough guy, “You knew how to handle that situation — you shit your pants, and you dive in and swim.” I kept hearing that line in my head, like a mantra. It was a comfort to me.
The assistant put the telephone down. I could hear muffled voices in what sounded like a large room. Voices echoed, but were unintelligible. I pictured a lone telephone receiver sitting on an grand, old desk. I hadn’t ever been to Los Angeles at that point in my life. So I pictured the mansion that Norma Desmond lives in in the 1950 movie Sunset Boulevard. I imagined I was calling vast rooms, parlours, sitting rooms, libraries the size of gymnasiums.
At first I heard Gregory Peck’s unmistakeable voice off in the distance. His laughter, which sounded theatrical, and sort of showy to me: HUH, HUH, HUH. Then, Gregory Peck saying, closer to the phone now, “Tell Karen that I’ll be outside in about 20 minutes. And, Janice, can you bring me my iced tea? Thank you, dear.” He cleared his throat for a few moments, making grumbling sounds.
Then, strangely, there was utter silence. In that silence, I could feel someone there, close to the phone. Was it Gregory Peck? Was he getting himself ready to talk to me? Was he performing some kind of ritual? “Hello?” I said quietly, into the receiver. “Is anyone there?”
In that yawning void, I heard the sound of the Los Angeles afternoon. It was expansive, bright, vast. Birds were singing. A dog was barking in a nearby yard. The barks were stern, assertive yaps: BARK, BARK, BARK. This was the sound of a creature that was frightened. This was the sound of a creature that was letting something know that he was there.
BARK, BARK, BARK. BARK, BARK, BARK.
The volcano vented: PSSSHHHHH.
Through the phone line, I heard the bright music of ice cubes in a glass of iced tea being held in the hand of an old Hollywood lion. The Hollywood lion was picking up the receiver now. The Hollywood lion was about to speak now…
BARK, BARK, BARK.
I didn’t know it at the time — how could I have possibly known? — but this moment was the beginning of my unexpected 20-year career as a writer and as a reporter. My career has been full of surreal moments like this: anonymous dogs barking, ice cubes tinkling against glass, a conversation that’s about to begin.
I thought my life was going to go one way. Then this happened, and my life went another way.
The old Hollywood lion is gone now. Peck died in 2003. And Joan Vadeboncoeur is gone, too. She died in 2011 at the age of 78. Joan never forgave me for this. I don’t blame her, really. Kids try to take things from me all the time now. It’s normal for them to do that. But it always pisses me off. And Sven? Good, old Sven. I have no idea where Sven is now. I hope he’s doing OK. I owe Sven a thank-you. I hope I get the chance to give it to him someday.
Originally published at Scott C. Jones.
