“A reader? What does that mean?” I asked.
“All the studios have them,” he explained. “They synopsize stories for producers, which saves them the trouble of reading a lot of trash. If the producer likes the synopsis, he’ll take a look at the full book or play. Some studios have staffs of readers. Some use outside readers.”
My mind was racing. I had just read Steinbeck’s masterpiece, Of Mice and Men, and—
Thirty minutes later, I was skimming through the book and typing a synopsis of it.
By noon the next day I had made enough copies on a borrowed mimeograph machine to send to half a dozen studios. I figured that it would take a day or two to deliver them all and I should hear back about the third day.
When the third day came, the only mail I received was from my brother, Richard, asking when I was going to send for him. The fourth day brought a letter from Natalie.
The next day was Thursday, and my bus ticket was for Sunday. One more dream had died. I told Gracie that I would be leaving Sunday morning. She looked at me with sad, wise eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
I gave her a hug. “You’ve been wonderful. Things haven’t worked out as I hoped they would.”
“Never stop dreaming,” she told me.
But I had stopped.
Early the following morning, the telephone rang. One of the actors ran over to it and grabbed it. He picked up the receiver and in his best actor voice said, “Good morning. Can I help you? . . . Who? . . .”
The tone of his voice changed. “David Selznick’s office?”
The room went completely silent. David Selznick was the most prestigious producer in Hollywood. He had produced A Star Is Born, Dinner at Eight, A Tale of Two Cities, Viva Villa!, David Copperfield, and dozens of other movies.
The actor said, “Yes, he’s here.”
We were literally holding our breaths. Who was he?
He turned to me. “It’s for you, Sheldon.”
I may have broken the boardinghouse record racing to the phone.
“Hello?”
A woman’s high voice said, “Is this Sidney Sheldon?”
I sensed instantly that I was not speaking to David Selznick himself. “Yes.”
“This is Anna, David Selznick’s secretary. Mr. Selznick has a novel that he wants synopsized. The problem is that none of our readers are available.”
Is available, I thought automatically. But who was I to correct someone who was about to launch my career?
“And Mr. Selznick needs the synopsis by six o’clock this evening. It’s a four-hundred-page novel. Our synopses usually run about thirty pages with a two-page summary and a one-paragraph comment. But it must be delivered by six o’clock this evening. Can you do it?”
There was no possible way I could get to the Selznick Studios, read a four-hundred-page novel, find a decent typewriter somewhere, write a thirty-page synopsis, and get it done by six o’clock.
I said, “Of course I can.”
“Good. You can pick up the book at our studio in Culver City.”
“I’m on my way.” I replaced the receiver. Selznick International Studios. I looked at my watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning. Culver City was an hour and a half away. There were a few other problems. I had no transportation. I am a hunt-and-peck typist, and to have typed a thirty-page synopsis would have taken me forever, and forever did not even include time to read a four-hundred-page novel. If I arrived at the Culver City studio at eleven, I would have exactly seven hours to perform a miracle.
But I had a plan.
CHAPTER 9
It took a streetcar and two buses to get me to Culver City. On the second bus, I looked around at the passengers and wanted to tell them all that I was on my way to see David Selznick. The bus dropped me off two blocks from the Selznick International Studios.
The studio was a large, imposing Georgian structure, fronting on Washington Street. It was familiar because I recognized it from the opening credits of David Selznick’s movies.
I hurried inside and said to the woman behind the desk, “I have an appointment with Mr. Selznick’s secretary.” At least I was going to meet David Selznick now.
“Your name?”
“Sidney Sheldon.”
She reached into the desk and pulled out a thick package. “This is for you.”
“Oh. I thought maybe I could see Mr. Selznick and—”
“No. Mr. Selznick is a busy man.”
So I would meet David Selznick later.
Clutching the package, I left the building and started running down the street, toward the MGM studios, six blocks away, reviewing my plan as I ran. It stemmed from a conversation with Seymour about Sydney Singer, his ex-wife.
Do you ever see her, Seymour?
No. She went to Hollywood. She got a job as a secretary at MGM for a woman director. Dorothy Arzner.
I was going to ask Sydney Singer to help me. It was a long, long, long shot, but it was all I had.
When I reached the MGM studios, I went up to the guard behind the desk in the lobby. “My name is Sidney Sheldon. I want to see Sydney Singer.”
“Sydney . . . Oh—Dorothy Arzner’s secretary.”
I nodded knowingly. “Right.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yes,” I said confidently.
He picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Sidney Sheldon is here to see you . . .” He repeated slowly, “Sidney Sheldon.” He listened a moment. “But he said—”
I stood there, paralyzed. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.
“Right.” He replaced the receiver. “She’ll see you. Room 230.”