Gerry's Interview
Pam Munter
Some days, it’s hard for me to remember why I’m here. I know where I am. I’m here at Emerald Glen. I mean at this point in my life. First off, I need to tell you I never wanted to be a movie star. Momma drove me to my dancing and singing lessons. Picked me up right after school. She kept telling me how wonderful I was, how I was making her so proud. Nobody in Beatrice, Nebraska had ever been in movies, so I don’t know why she thought it would be me up there on the big screen. Oh, I had done community theater, church socials, you know. Typical small-town stuff. Big frog and all that.
I don’t know why you wanted this interview, to tell you the truth. It all happened a long time ago. It’s nice to be remembered, though. Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it?
It was spring when we left because of the smell of the white blossoms on the pear tree in the front yard. Daddy was waving goodbye and Momma was crying in the car. They never fought about anything so I guess they thought this was the right thing to do. Him staying home, I mean. I had graduated from high school the day before. Going to Hollywood was a big improvement over working in Studd’s Western Wear, I’ll tell you.
Momma found us a—what was it?—oh, yeah, a furnished apartment right away. It was a lot smaller than our house in Nebraska. The neighborhood was a little dicey. I was nervous about everything but, boy, she was enthusiastic enough for both of us. She took me to auditions for night clubs, if you can believe that. She lied about my age and I got hired pretty quick. I guess I looked older. Momma kept telling me not to be scared, that when men would try naughty things, I should just smile and say, “No, thank you, sir.” I understood that but it was a lot harder when I met the owner of this club—Mr. Tony Chandler, himself. What year would that have been? Let’s see. I was 17, right out of high school, so it would have been…let me think…I was born in 1920. So, 17! Yes, 17.
Of course, I already knew who Mr. Chandler was. We listened to his records all the time at home. Didn’t you love “I Remember Spring”? He was on the radio, too. My mother adored him. So the thought I was singing in his night club made everything a huge, glamorous adventure. Movie stars came into the club and requested songs. When Mr. Chandler walked in, I tell you, the Red Sea parted and everything sparkled. He was charismatic and so handsome. Shorter than I had thought. Well, I was short, too, so I guess he liked that I made him look taller. I loved it when he came in every night and asked me to sing his big hits Then, on my nights off, he would take me to dinner at some fancy place and we’d go back to his huge mansion to, um, watch movies. You know.
I can’t tell you how I got to Paramount. I made a lot of movies there, all small parts. Later, I found out Mr. Chandler owned part of the studio. By then, I had an agent. Bernie Morgan was his name. To get me a part, Bernie told a guy in the front office that I could ride a horse. Well, I’ll tell you, that weekend, he had me out in Griffith Park, teaching me how to do it. By then, I had learned that Hollywood was all about illusion. Not everyone was as nice as Mr. Chandler. I don’t want to talk about that part.
I think it’s almost time for lunch. We’ll have to stop soon.
You know, I wanted to be a reporter just like you. Mamma thought I belonged on the stage. She was probably right. She usually was. I played one in a movie once.
Anyway, all my life I was told I was cute and perky, sort of America’s Sweetheart, you know? But those people at Paramount said my hair was too dark, my bosom too small and that I needed help with makeup. Everything about me was wrong. I went shopping with a girlfriend and bought clothes I thought the studio would approve of. I still have most of them. What was her name? She was sleeping with the production manager. It was so long ago, wasn’t it?
It was like I was on a treadmill, one movie after the other. I can’t remember all the names, but a lot of them involved horses. And then, I was cast in a film with Johnny McBride. It was called “Frontier Gentleman.” Johnny was a big star so I figured this small-town girl had made good. Over the next few years, we did a bunch of pictures together. I was the trusting, clueless wife who needed rescuing in the last reel. I didn’t mind because it was all so much fun. Johnny was very sweet to me so when I heard he’d been murdered…Oh, wait. I’m forgetting some things here. Sorry. That happens a lot these days. Now, where was I? What was your question?
Oh, yes. Remember Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers? Weren’t they wonderful? They made a bunch of pictures together at RKO. Sometimes years would pass between them. Well, that’s what happened with me and Johnny. OK, I did have a big crush on Johnny. Who didn’t? He was tall, well-built, didn’t drink too much. So many people did back then. We spent a lot of time together off-screen, but you don’t have to know about that. It was his eyes, I think. The way he looked at me. I’d just melt. They were much softer when we were together than they were on the screen. He was so…I don’t know.
When the westerns stopped, I fell back into small parts. Even did a little TV when that came along. One afternoon—I think it was around three o’clock—I got a call from Bernie who told me the western movies I made with Johnny were being adapted into a weekly television series for NBC. Johnny and I would be back together again. Between you and me, I worried a little. I was older, you know, not a dewy-eyed ingenue. It was the 1950s, “Ozzie and Harriet,” “Father Knows Best,” and all that. At that time, though, westerns were very big. They’re not now.
I don’t know if you want to hear about this. I want to say that all this was really taking its toll on me. The Hollywood life, the long hours. Momma died, which was really hard. My marriage had ended. I had a couple of good friends and that was my life. Period! So much going on. It all ran together. No, I don’t want to talk about that crappy marriage to what’s his name. Talk about illusion. He had neglected to tell me he had a boyfriend in Santa Barbara. Anyway, it didn’t last long and I moved on. Marriage came second to my career, to tell you the truth. So, I asked myself, why not do a television series? It was something to pass the time and pay the bills.
When the script was finally delivered, Bernie was upset because my part was so small. I didn’t have many lines in all those movies, either, so I don’t know what he expected. It was OK with me. Really, it was. Even after it aired, I could still go to the market and not be—what’s the word?—uh, recognized most of the time. Johnny and I sort of picked up where we left off. There wasn’t a lot of private time, if you know what I mean, but enough, at least for me.
Damned if that low-budget little series didn’t go on and on and on. I think it ran for seven years. Funny, huh? It was terrific to get a regular paycheck. I tried to be smart with the money. Bought a cute little cottage in the Santa Monica canyon. Traveled some, went to visit my cousins in Nebraska. To them, I was a big celebrity. That was fun.
After a while, I could see the savings dwindling down but I didn’t know how to stop it. I had heard all those horror stories about getting ripped off by managers so I never trusted anyone with my money.
Wait. Give me a second. I’m trying to stay on track. Where was I? Oh yeah. Johnny. I got that awful phone call in the middle of the night. When the phone rings at that hour, it’s never good. I still get the willies when I think about it. I don’t remember how Bernie told me, the exact words, but he said Johnny was dead. That he had shot himself. I didn’t see Johnny much after the series was canceled. We met once in a while for dinner, you know. I knew he had been sleeping with the wife of some big movie executive. Johnny told me the husband was “connected” and could bump anyone off he wanted. But then he met someone else, a rich widow. Woo-hoo. That was OK with me. That part of our relationship had ended years before. Well, more or less. Johnny won’t like it if I talk about that.
The newspapers said it was suicide. I don’t believe it. Johnny was a happy-go-lucky guy. Yeah, he was between pictures but he talked about this new woman all the time. He was really in love with her. I wondered how the wife took the whole thing. Johnny said she was crazy jealous and that they had fought a lot when they were together. It’s hard to think a woman would slug a guy, especially someone as big as Johnny. No wonder he cut it off. I bet she had him killed because he was seeing this other woman. Then it occurred to me, was I next? I was scared shitless. After all, we saw each other almost to the end. Now and then, I mean. Did she know? Oh my God. Was she crazy enough to come after me?
I locked all the doors in my house and didn’t even answer the phone for a long time. At night, I’d turn on the TV so anyone wandering around outside could hear someone was here and wouldn’t break in. I know, I know. That was stupid. Anyone who wanted to kill me wanted me to be here. But, you know. I was out of my mind with fear. I could picture Johnny’s face when I’d close my eyes, imagining his head being blown off by some thug with a five o’clock shadow in a dark suit. Sort of like George Raft, you know?
I don’t know how many days and hours passed. One afternoon, someone knocked on my door and I almost jumped through the roof. When I looked out the peephole, I saw Sandra, my friend from down the road so I let her in. Isn’t it funny how I can bring back how terribly scared I was but I can’t remember much about those years we did “Frontier Gentleman”? That show went on a lot longer than my fear. The mind’s a funny thing, don’t you think?
You know, I don’t think they ever did solve the case. The police called it a suicide and let it go at that. Those big studio guys controlled everything in those days. When time passed by and I wasn’t murdered, I started to relax. Maybe I was low enough on the hit list that she wouldn’t bother with me. I think she’s dead now. I hope so. I still think about Johnny almost every day.
Don’t know if I told you this but one night, he came to me in a dream. He said very firmly, “Gerry, you need to start your life over again. You have to get out of the movies. You’re never going to be a star. It’ll kill you.”
It was funny he would tell me that because I never wanted to be a movie star. It was all sort of an accident. One day became another and there I was, singing for Tony Chandler in his night club. Did I tell you that story? If I didn’t, remind me later. Did he say “it” will kill me or “she” will kill me? Anyway, I needed to do something to get out of the house, get my mind off it.
I believe there’s a reason for everything. If Johnny warned me to get out of the business, maybe he was right. The money was running low—fast. I knew I had to do something. I called a friend at Republic Studios I had met at a party a year or so back. You know, one of the good things about this business is that you know everybody one way or another and it’s all one family – except some I could mention. Anyway, I called this guy and asked if he had any jobs open.
He said, “You sure, honey? All I have right now is a slot in the secretarial pool. This isn’t the place for you.”
I told him I needed the job and that I had taken typing in high school. Even got an A. I promised to practice at home.
Then he told me, “OK, if you’re sure.”
I wasn’t but this is what I needed to do. He asked if I was worried someone there would recognize me. Ha! That was the least of it. Most of my career happened a decade or more before and I was never a star. Never wanted to be. Most of the pictures and even the TV show had me in costume. I didn’t think anybody would know who I am or even who I was. Oh. Look. My shoes don’t match. Huh. One’s just a little browner than the other. I wonder how that happened. Probably that housekeeper mixed them up. She doesn’t pay attention to these important details.
Now, where was I? Did I tell you about my trip with my mother to California? Wait. I remember now.
People ask me if I was depressed about having to do this. You know, being a secretary. No, not at all. I knew a long time ago that this little actressy thing wouldn’t last. Once you get old in Hollywood, you might as well quit. Nobody wants you, anyway. This was something I could do to fill my days and pay the bills. I never really wanted to be a movie star.
Republic was just a small studio, not like the big ones—MGM, Warners or Paramount. I had been there once before, dubbing one of the westerns, I think. The secretarial pool was on the third floor, all of us in the same room, each with her own little desk and typewriter. Honestly, when I walked in, it looked like a movie set. It seemed oddly familiar. What was the name of the movie with all the women in the same room sitting at typewriters? Wasn’t Joan Crawford in it? Maybe it was Joan Blondell.
Anyway, I had a desk by the window so I could watch people walking by on their way to the set. The young kids in the secretarial pool didn’t know anything about me and didn’t care. They already had their own clique. I think that’s what finally got to me. It wasn’t the daily grind, typing invoices and correspondence all day. That took my mind off Johnny and everything else. But those dreadful girls snubbed me. They didn’t think I could hear them whispering.
Miranda was the head of the department, about ten years older than me and I know she resented my being there. She lorded it over all these young women and flouted her power, demanding they stay late or work through lunch. When she asked me to stay late for some project, the question always had a barb attached.
“Is the movie star available to stay late?”
I always said, “Yes,” but it wasn’t enough for her.
“I thought you might be going to a big premiere tonight or something.”
I’d smile and do what she asked but we didn’t like each other. Even so, I worked there a long time. It paid pretty well, not as much as my acting days, but enough to live on. I loved driving in those studio gates every morning. Took me back, you know?
One afternoon, one of the bosses called me into his office. I was nervous.
Was he going to fire me? Worse, was he going to try to get me back into pictures?
He had a deep, gravelly voice. “Mitchell Ellis is looking for someone to answer his fan mail. You know who he is?”
Sure, I knew. He reminded me a bit of Johnny McBride but he was an honest-to-God movie star. He wasn’t just in westerns but in dramas and musicals. He’d been nominated for an Oscar for his role as Thomas Jefferson. Should’ve won, too. I voted for him. My boss had put in a good word already. The job was mine if I wanted it. Miranda was probably glad to get rid of me.
I hoped the pay was good working for Mr. Ellis. Even if it wasn’t, it would be a lot more fun. I knew how to answer fan mail. I still got letters from people from time to time, commenting on the TV show usually, rather than the old movies. It’s nice to be remembered. I still get one once in a while here. Nice. Really nice.
Anyway, Mr. Ellis asked me to meet him at his house in, where was it? Bel Air? Yes, Bel Air. It was at the top of Bellagio and had a fabulous view of downtown LA. I had been to a lot of Hollywood parties in my time but this house was something else. A butler answered the door wearing a morning coat. Can you believe it? I was ushered into the largest living room I’d ever seen, way bigger than my house. There was a massive grand piano in the middle and tons of overstuffed, expensive furniture. I could picture all the parties, the big stars who drank and schmoozed there. When I sat down, I wondered if Clark Gable had perched himself on that leather chair by the window.
When Mr. Ellis entered, he looked exactly as he did on the screen. Big, virile, with an overgrown moustache, and longish hair that curled around his ears. His intense blue eyes were arresting and compelling.
“Nice to meet you, Gerry. I’m Mitchell Ellis.”
I laughed out loud, because it was absurd that anyone on the planet would not know who he was.
I stood as tall as I could and told him, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Ellis.”
“It’s Mitch,” he said. “And the honor is mine. I enjoyed your pictures with Johnny McBride. And I watched a lot of the TV series, too. You were a good actress.”
I remember my exact words. His, too. Isn’t that funny? Like watching the movie.
“Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you. No Academy Award nominations on my shelf.”
“Not sure there’ll be more on mine, either. I know Abe probably told you but I’m getting so much mail now that my staff can’t keep up. I need another hand here. Someone who knows the business. Like you.”
“I guess I do. Does this mean I’m hired?”
“Sure, if you want the job. Frankly, I wonder how long you’ll last. Another audition will come along eventually and you’ll be gone.”
“Nope. No way. I’m done. It’s like there’s an hourglass and when your time’s up…”
I hoped Mitch wouldn’t be one of those—what do you call them—egotists who live their lives with one eye on the mirror. I wondered what people would write to really famous movie stars. Over the years, I got some pretty weird mail, like marriage proposals or people claiming to be the child I gave up for adoption. No, I never had a child, if you’re asking. Never wanted kids. And I never wanted to be a movie star, either. Life is so funny.
Say, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re busy and need to get on with your day. Are you on a deadline? Before you go, though, I want to say that the job with Mitch was a complete delight. There were several of us answering the mail that came in and, boy, he was right. There was a ton of it. Some of it was sad—one mother begged for money for her son’s surgery. That got to me. And some were funny in a peculiar sort of way. Why would anyone want a fingernail clipping? Some woman in Dubuque sure did and even sent a SASE. Mitch and I laughed about that for a long time. He was still big at the box office. I guess his hourglass had more sand in it than mine did.
Anyway, the next time I turned around, I was nearly 60. Thanks to Mitch, I had saved and invested enough so that I no longer had to work. I wanted to. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed pulling up that long driveway each morning. And what do you know? He never made a pass. Not once. Damn it.
People always want to hear about the men. I think some things should remain private, don’t you? I didn’t want to marry again. It would just complicate things. I went out with friends on weekends. I took a cab when I went out. A few drinks and I could forget my own address! My friends thought it was funny but I could tell I was losing things. One afternoon, I went to the freezer to get some ice and found my car keys in there. Everybody forgets things when they’re 60, don’t they?
And then, bingo! Enter stage right. Another act in this funny little life of mine. You sure you want to hear all this? OK.
One day, when we were taking our lunch break, Mitch mentioned an actor friend about my age who had been doing a bunch of nostalgia shows.
I didn’t want to pretend I knew, since I hadn’t ever heard of such a thing. I had to ask.
Mitch told me it’s for movie and TV people who have been out of the public eye for a while. They were once famous but now they sell their autographs. And their 8X10s, if they have them. He said Mickey Rooney does this all the time. And the kid who used to be on ‘Lassie.’ What was his name? Mitch told me, “You can make good money, Gerry. You’d be surprised how many people remember you. Or would, if they saw an 8 x 10 from one of your movies, like the ones with Johnny.”
I couldn’t imagine people paying money for my signature, much less anyone who would want to meet me. Why? I was just somebody’s sidekick. It was a long time ago. I never wanted to be a big movie star. And I was sure I didn’t want to leave Johnny. I mean Mitch. I loved it there. We were all good friends. It was like being on a set.
I went home that night, made myself a gin and tonic. My old agent, dear Bernie, probably had some leftover 8X10s. And maybe Paramount would have some in the files. I started to talk to myself. What if nobody knows who you are? You’ll be sitting at a table all by yourself watching hundreds swarm around Mickey Rooney. I wondered what Johnny would have wanted me to do. Then, I could see his face, smiling down at me with love in his eyes, telling me I should do it. OK, Johnny, if you say so.
I took the morning off and drove down Melrose. I was surprised and a little sad when I found out poor Bernie had died but the guy who took over his agency had left me a packet of photos. Wow, was that me? I looked so young. Not bad, either, if I do say so. I checked the Thomas Guide and found the publicity office at Paramount. They had tons of stills from our pictures together. When I opened the package, I felt that same jolt of electricity I did when Johnny would come into the room. It would be lovely to help people remember him and talk about what a wonderful actor he was.
That first nostalgia show almost didn’t happen. I had trouble finding it, then the parking. Worst of all, I had to talk my way in.
The guy at the door was a snotty, fuzzy-faced punk. “And who are you with?”
I wasn’t with anybody. Somebody had set it up. Who, exactly?
He called another guy over who waved me in.
When the creep at the door didn’t know who I was, my anxiety zoomed. What was I doing here? Who was I kidding?
I pressed my folder of photos under my arm and walked into the room like I belonged, using the demeanor I had learned in the movies. The room was huge, with at least 30-40 tables in rows. I flashed back on the first time I walked into Republic Studios and saw all the secretarial desks positioned like soldiers in a platoon. I moved around the edge of the room so I could see name plates on the desks. The first one I saw said “Whitey Holton.” I was excited to see him. He had been Johnny’s stunt man, taking those dangerous leaps and falls off mountains and the tops of buildings. His eyes lit up when he saw me.
“Gerry! Gerry! Where have you been? Whatever are you doing here?”
“I wonder that myself.” I was so relieved to see a familiar face.
“Uh oh. Is this your first time?”
“I guess I’m a nostalgia show virgin.” That made him throw back his head and laugh.
“Let’s walk around and find your table.” He grabbed my arm and, like the gentleman I remembered him to be, guided me to the other side of the room. It wasn’t until I saw the “Geraldine Leonard” name plate that I knew I was truly welcome here. The guy at the next table looked familiar, but then a lot of these people did. I just couldn’t place him.
“Hi, Gerry. Gordon Beckett. We did some pictures together.” My mind was blank. “You know? “The Scarlet Saddle,” and “Wanted for Murder”?
I smiled and nodded, but I had no clue. Did he have the right person? Why is he asking me this? It didn’t matter. The doors opened and people filed in. Some were coming my way and I forced what I hoped was a genuine smile. When I saw it was an older woman and a teenage boy, I relaxed. And I can remember the whole scene. So odd.
“You’re Geraldine Leonard, aren’t you? I was telling my son just the other day about going to see your movies. You were wonderful. So courageous.”
“Hello. Thanks so much. Happy to meet you. Thanks for coming.” Now what do I say? Oh yeah, the photos.
“Would you like an autographed photo? It’s only $25.” I picked up my Sharpie, poised for the inscription.
“Oh, I don’t think so. Thanks, anyway. But we are both thrilled to meet you, aren’t we, Jonah?”
The kid looked a whole lot less than enthusiastic. So, there goes my first customer. No sale. Then a seedy, middle-aged guy came up to my table.
“Gerry. Hey. I’m Pete.” He shook my hand so hard I thought he might break a bone. “I’ve seen every movie you made with Johnny McBride. He was such a macho dude. So cool.”
Made me wish he were here. He’d know how to do this with more panache. Where are you, Johnny? Why did you go away?
“You know, I’ve been trying to remember the name of the one you guys made, I think it was around 1955, just before the TV series. It was the one where Johnny was being hunted by his brother who blamed him for their parents’ death. You know the one I mean?”
It sounded familiar. Maybe. I wasn’t sure what to say to him. Out of nowhere, I started to feel funny, almost—what’s the word—disoriented. Sort of out of my body. For a minute, I forgot where I was. My ears plugged up. I saw someone standing in front of me. Did I know him? I looked around, trying to figure out where I was and why I was here. I think I signed the photo, collected the money and shook the guy’s hand again. There were others who wanted to meet me and I hoped they wouldn’t ask me any questions about my career. As you can see, sometimes I can recall exact dialogue, but other times...I was glad when it was over and I could go home.
Problems happened when I was going somewhere, too. I’d start off for the grocery store, going to pick up a few items for dinner, you know, and forget which way to turn. I didn’t know if I was lost or just forgot how to get there. So I sold my car. It was much easier to call a cab or just take the bus.
Do you think it’s time for lunch now?
Well, there were more shows, I’m happy to tell you. I enjoyed meeting people and was always surprised they knew who I was. Most of their questions were about Johnny so it probably didn’t seem strange to them that I didn’t know the answers to their questions. Those shows made me feel close to Johnny. I made him proud, I know.
Why are you asking about all this, again? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten why you’re here. Do you know Johnny? I know where I am. I’m in the assisted living place, aren’t I? Being here is like doing the autograph shows where people seem to know me. The questions are different but most of the time I can answer them. Oh, I know. I hope I’ve given you a good interview. It has been a long time since I’ve done this. You’re not from The National Enquirer, are you?
What did you say your name was, again? I’m Gerry.
Pam Munter
Some days, it’s hard for me to remember why I’m here. I know where I am. I’m here at Emerald Glen. I mean at this point in my life. First off, I need to tell you I never wanted to be a movie star. Momma drove me to my dancing and singing lessons. Picked me up right after school. She kept telling me how wonderful I was, how I was making her so proud. Nobody in Beatrice, Nebraska had ever been in movies, so I don’t know why she thought it would be me up there on the big screen. Oh, I had done community theater, church socials, you know. Typical small-town stuff. Big frog and all that.
I don’t know why you wanted this interview, to tell you the truth. It all happened a long time ago. It’s nice to be remembered, though. Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it?
It was spring when we left because of the smell of the white blossoms on the pear tree in the front yard. Daddy was waving goodbye and Momma was crying in the car. They never fought about anything so I guess they thought this was the right thing to do. Him staying home, I mean. I had graduated from high school the day before. Going to Hollywood was a big improvement over working in Studd’s Western Wear, I’ll tell you.
Momma found us a—what was it?—oh, yeah, a furnished apartment right away. It was a lot smaller than our house in Nebraska. The neighborhood was a little dicey. I was nervous about everything but, boy, she was enthusiastic enough for both of us. She took me to auditions for night clubs, if you can believe that. She lied about my age and I got hired pretty quick. I guess I looked older. Momma kept telling me not to be scared, that when men would try naughty things, I should just smile and say, “No, thank you, sir.” I understood that but it was a lot harder when I met the owner of this club—Mr. Tony Chandler, himself. What year would that have been? Let’s see. I was 17, right out of high school, so it would have been…let me think…I was born in 1920. So, 17! Yes, 17.
Of course, I already knew who Mr. Chandler was. We listened to his records all the time at home. Didn’t you love “I Remember Spring”? He was on the radio, too. My mother adored him. So the thought I was singing in his night club made everything a huge, glamorous adventure. Movie stars came into the club and requested songs. When Mr. Chandler walked in, I tell you, the Red Sea parted and everything sparkled. He was charismatic and so handsome. Shorter than I had thought. Well, I was short, too, so I guess he liked that I made him look taller. I loved it when he came in every night and asked me to sing his big hits Then, on my nights off, he would take me to dinner at some fancy place and we’d go back to his huge mansion to, um, watch movies. You know.
I can’t tell you how I got to Paramount. I made a lot of movies there, all small parts. Later, I found out Mr. Chandler owned part of the studio. By then, I had an agent. Bernie Morgan was his name. To get me a part, Bernie told a guy in the front office that I could ride a horse. Well, I’ll tell you, that weekend, he had me out in Griffith Park, teaching me how to do it. By then, I had learned that Hollywood was all about illusion. Not everyone was as nice as Mr. Chandler. I don’t want to talk about that part.
I think it’s almost time for lunch. We’ll have to stop soon.
You know, I wanted to be a reporter just like you. Mamma thought I belonged on the stage. She was probably right. She usually was. I played one in a movie once.
Anyway, all my life I was told I was cute and perky, sort of America’s Sweetheart, you know? But those people at Paramount said my hair was too dark, my bosom too small and that I needed help with makeup. Everything about me was wrong. I went shopping with a girlfriend and bought clothes I thought the studio would approve of. I still have most of them. What was her name? She was sleeping with the production manager. It was so long ago, wasn’t it?
It was like I was on a treadmill, one movie after the other. I can’t remember all the names, but a lot of them involved horses. And then, I was cast in a film with Johnny McBride. It was called “Frontier Gentleman.” Johnny was a big star so I figured this small-town girl had made good. Over the next few years, we did a bunch of pictures together. I was the trusting, clueless wife who needed rescuing in the last reel. I didn’t mind because it was all so much fun. Johnny was very sweet to me so when I heard he’d been murdered…Oh, wait. I’m forgetting some things here. Sorry. That happens a lot these days. Now, where was I? What was your question?
Oh, yes. Remember Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers? Weren’t they wonderful? They made a bunch of pictures together at RKO. Sometimes years would pass between them. Well, that’s what happened with me and Johnny. OK, I did have a big crush on Johnny. Who didn’t? He was tall, well-built, didn’t drink too much. So many people did back then. We spent a lot of time together off-screen, but you don’t have to know about that. It was his eyes, I think. The way he looked at me. I’d just melt. They were much softer when we were together than they were on the screen. He was so…I don’t know.
When the westerns stopped, I fell back into small parts. Even did a little TV when that came along. One afternoon—I think it was around three o’clock—I got a call from Bernie who told me the western movies I made with Johnny were being adapted into a weekly television series for NBC. Johnny and I would be back together again. Between you and me, I worried a little. I was older, you know, not a dewy-eyed ingenue. It was the 1950s, “Ozzie and Harriet,” “Father Knows Best,” and all that. At that time, though, westerns were very big. They’re not now.
I don’t know if you want to hear about this. I want to say that all this was really taking its toll on me. The Hollywood life, the long hours. Momma died, which was really hard. My marriage had ended. I had a couple of good friends and that was my life. Period! So much going on. It all ran together. No, I don’t want to talk about that crappy marriage to what’s his name. Talk about illusion. He had neglected to tell me he had a boyfriend in Santa Barbara. Anyway, it didn’t last long and I moved on. Marriage came second to my career, to tell you the truth. So, I asked myself, why not do a television series? It was something to pass the time and pay the bills.
When the script was finally delivered, Bernie was upset because my part was so small. I didn’t have many lines in all those movies, either, so I don’t know what he expected. It was OK with me. Really, it was. Even after it aired, I could still go to the market and not be—what’s the word?—uh, recognized most of the time. Johnny and I sort of picked up where we left off. There wasn’t a lot of private time, if you know what I mean, but enough, at least for me.
Damned if that low-budget little series didn’t go on and on and on. I think it ran for seven years. Funny, huh? It was terrific to get a regular paycheck. I tried to be smart with the money. Bought a cute little cottage in the Santa Monica canyon. Traveled some, went to visit my cousins in Nebraska. To them, I was a big celebrity. That was fun.
After a while, I could see the savings dwindling down but I didn’t know how to stop it. I had heard all those horror stories about getting ripped off by managers so I never trusted anyone with my money.
Wait. Give me a second. I’m trying to stay on track. Where was I? Oh yeah. Johnny. I got that awful phone call in the middle of the night. When the phone rings at that hour, it’s never good. I still get the willies when I think about it. I don’t remember how Bernie told me, the exact words, but he said Johnny was dead. That he had shot himself. I didn’t see Johnny much after the series was canceled. We met once in a while for dinner, you know. I knew he had been sleeping with the wife of some big movie executive. Johnny told me the husband was “connected” and could bump anyone off he wanted. But then he met someone else, a rich widow. Woo-hoo. That was OK with me. That part of our relationship had ended years before. Well, more or less. Johnny won’t like it if I talk about that.
The newspapers said it was suicide. I don’t believe it. Johnny was a happy-go-lucky guy. Yeah, he was between pictures but he talked about this new woman all the time. He was really in love with her. I wondered how the wife took the whole thing. Johnny said she was crazy jealous and that they had fought a lot when they were together. It’s hard to think a woman would slug a guy, especially someone as big as Johnny. No wonder he cut it off. I bet she had him killed because he was seeing this other woman. Then it occurred to me, was I next? I was scared shitless. After all, we saw each other almost to the end. Now and then, I mean. Did she know? Oh my God. Was she crazy enough to come after me?
I locked all the doors in my house and didn’t even answer the phone for a long time. At night, I’d turn on the TV so anyone wandering around outside could hear someone was here and wouldn’t break in. I know, I know. That was stupid. Anyone who wanted to kill me wanted me to be here. But, you know. I was out of my mind with fear. I could picture Johnny’s face when I’d close my eyes, imagining his head being blown off by some thug with a five o’clock shadow in a dark suit. Sort of like George Raft, you know?
I don’t know how many days and hours passed. One afternoon, someone knocked on my door and I almost jumped through the roof. When I looked out the peephole, I saw Sandra, my friend from down the road so I let her in. Isn’t it funny how I can bring back how terribly scared I was but I can’t remember much about those years we did “Frontier Gentleman”? That show went on a lot longer than my fear. The mind’s a funny thing, don’t you think?
You know, I don’t think they ever did solve the case. The police called it a suicide and let it go at that. Those big studio guys controlled everything in those days. When time passed by and I wasn’t murdered, I started to relax. Maybe I was low enough on the hit list that she wouldn’t bother with me. I think she’s dead now. I hope so. I still think about Johnny almost every day.
Don’t know if I told you this but one night, he came to me in a dream. He said very firmly, “Gerry, you need to start your life over again. You have to get out of the movies. You’re never going to be a star. It’ll kill you.”
It was funny he would tell me that because I never wanted to be a movie star. It was all sort of an accident. One day became another and there I was, singing for Tony Chandler in his night club. Did I tell you that story? If I didn’t, remind me later. Did he say “it” will kill me or “she” will kill me? Anyway, I needed to do something to get out of the house, get my mind off it.
I believe there’s a reason for everything. If Johnny warned me to get out of the business, maybe he was right. The money was running low—fast. I knew I had to do something. I called a friend at Republic Studios I had met at a party a year or so back. You know, one of the good things about this business is that you know everybody one way or another and it’s all one family – except some I could mention. Anyway, I called this guy and asked if he had any jobs open.
He said, “You sure, honey? All I have right now is a slot in the secretarial pool. This isn’t the place for you.”
I told him I needed the job and that I had taken typing in high school. Even got an A. I promised to practice at home.
Then he told me, “OK, if you’re sure.”
I wasn’t but this is what I needed to do. He asked if I was worried someone there would recognize me. Ha! That was the least of it. Most of my career happened a decade or more before and I was never a star. Never wanted to be. Most of the pictures and even the TV show had me in costume. I didn’t think anybody would know who I am or even who I was. Oh. Look. My shoes don’t match. Huh. One’s just a little browner than the other. I wonder how that happened. Probably that housekeeper mixed them up. She doesn’t pay attention to these important details.
Now, where was I? Did I tell you about my trip with my mother to California? Wait. I remember now.
People ask me if I was depressed about having to do this. You know, being a secretary. No, not at all. I knew a long time ago that this little actressy thing wouldn’t last. Once you get old in Hollywood, you might as well quit. Nobody wants you, anyway. This was something I could do to fill my days and pay the bills. I never really wanted to be a movie star.
Republic was just a small studio, not like the big ones—MGM, Warners or Paramount. I had been there once before, dubbing one of the westerns, I think. The secretarial pool was on the third floor, all of us in the same room, each with her own little desk and typewriter. Honestly, when I walked in, it looked like a movie set. It seemed oddly familiar. What was the name of the movie with all the women in the same room sitting at typewriters? Wasn’t Joan Crawford in it? Maybe it was Joan Blondell.
Anyway, I had a desk by the window so I could watch people walking by on their way to the set. The young kids in the secretarial pool didn’t know anything about me and didn’t care. They already had their own clique. I think that’s what finally got to me. It wasn’t the daily grind, typing invoices and correspondence all day. That took my mind off Johnny and everything else. But those dreadful girls snubbed me. They didn’t think I could hear them whispering.
Miranda was the head of the department, about ten years older than me and I know she resented my being there. She lorded it over all these young women and flouted her power, demanding they stay late or work through lunch. When she asked me to stay late for some project, the question always had a barb attached.
“Is the movie star available to stay late?”
I always said, “Yes,” but it wasn’t enough for her.
“I thought you might be going to a big premiere tonight or something.”
I’d smile and do what she asked but we didn’t like each other. Even so, I worked there a long time. It paid pretty well, not as much as my acting days, but enough to live on. I loved driving in those studio gates every morning. Took me back, you know?
One afternoon, one of the bosses called me into his office. I was nervous.
Was he going to fire me? Worse, was he going to try to get me back into pictures?
He had a deep, gravelly voice. “Mitchell Ellis is looking for someone to answer his fan mail. You know who he is?”
Sure, I knew. He reminded me a bit of Johnny McBride but he was an honest-to-God movie star. He wasn’t just in westerns but in dramas and musicals. He’d been nominated for an Oscar for his role as Thomas Jefferson. Should’ve won, too. I voted for him. My boss had put in a good word already. The job was mine if I wanted it. Miranda was probably glad to get rid of me.
I hoped the pay was good working for Mr. Ellis. Even if it wasn’t, it would be a lot more fun. I knew how to answer fan mail. I still got letters from people from time to time, commenting on the TV show usually, rather than the old movies. It’s nice to be remembered. I still get one once in a while here. Nice. Really nice.
Anyway, Mr. Ellis asked me to meet him at his house in, where was it? Bel Air? Yes, Bel Air. It was at the top of Bellagio and had a fabulous view of downtown LA. I had been to a lot of Hollywood parties in my time but this house was something else. A butler answered the door wearing a morning coat. Can you believe it? I was ushered into the largest living room I’d ever seen, way bigger than my house. There was a massive grand piano in the middle and tons of overstuffed, expensive furniture. I could picture all the parties, the big stars who drank and schmoozed there. When I sat down, I wondered if Clark Gable had perched himself on that leather chair by the window.
When Mr. Ellis entered, he looked exactly as he did on the screen. Big, virile, with an overgrown moustache, and longish hair that curled around his ears. His intense blue eyes were arresting and compelling.
“Nice to meet you, Gerry. I’m Mitchell Ellis.”
I laughed out loud, because it was absurd that anyone on the planet would not know who he was.
I stood as tall as I could and told him, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Ellis.”
“It’s Mitch,” he said. “And the honor is mine. I enjoyed your pictures with Johnny McBride. And I watched a lot of the TV series, too. You were a good actress.”
I remember my exact words. His, too. Isn’t that funny? Like watching the movie.
“Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you. No Academy Award nominations on my shelf.”
“Not sure there’ll be more on mine, either. I know Abe probably told you but I’m getting so much mail now that my staff can’t keep up. I need another hand here. Someone who knows the business. Like you.”
“I guess I do. Does this mean I’m hired?”
“Sure, if you want the job. Frankly, I wonder how long you’ll last. Another audition will come along eventually and you’ll be gone.”
“Nope. No way. I’m done. It’s like there’s an hourglass and when your time’s up…”
I hoped Mitch wouldn’t be one of those—what do you call them—egotists who live their lives with one eye on the mirror. I wondered what people would write to really famous movie stars. Over the years, I got some pretty weird mail, like marriage proposals or people claiming to be the child I gave up for adoption. No, I never had a child, if you’re asking. Never wanted kids. And I never wanted to be a movie star, either. Life is so funny.
Say, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re busy and need to get on with your day. Are you on a deadline? Before you go, though, I want to say that the job with Mitch was a complete delight. There were several of us answering the mail that came in and, boy, he was right. There was a ton of it. Some of it was sad—one mother begged for money for her son’s surgery. That got to me. And some were funny in a peculiar sort of way. Why would anyone want a fingernail clipping? Some woman in Dubuque sure did and even sent a SASE. Mitch and I laughed about that for a long time. He was still big at the box office. I guess his hourglass had more sand in it than mine did.
Anyway, the next time I turned around, I was nearly 60. Thanks to Mitch, I had saved and invested enough so that I no longer had to work. I wanted to. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed pulling up that long driveway each morning. And what do you know? He never made a pass. Not once. Damn it.
People always want to hear about the men. I think some things should remain private, don’t you? I didn’t want to marry again. It would just complicate things. I went out with friends on weekends. I took a cab when I went out. A few drinks and I could forget my own address! My friends thought it was funny but I could tell I was losing things. One afternoon, I went to the freezer to get some ice and found my car keys in there. Everybody forgets things when they’re 60, don’t they?
And then, bingo! Enter stage right. Another act in this funny little life of mine. You sure you want to hear all this? OK.
One day, when we were taking our lunch break, Mitch mentioned an actor friend about my age who had been doing a bunch of nostalgia shows.
I didn’t want to pretend I knew, since I hadn’t ever heard of such a thing. I had to ask.
Mitch told me it’s for movie and TV people who have been out of the public eye for a while. They were once famous but now they sell their autographs. And their 8X10s, if they have them. He said Mickey Rooney does this all the time. And the kid who used to be on ‘Lassie.’ What was his name? Mitch told me, “You can make good money, Gerry. You’d be surprised how many people remember you. Or would, if they saw an 8 x 10 from one of your movies, like the ones with Johnny.”
I couldn’t imagine people paying money for my signature, much less anyone who would want to meet me. Why? I was just somebody’s sidekick. It was a long time ago. I never wanted to be a big movie star. And I was sure I didn’t want to leave Johnny. I mean Mitch. I loved it there. We were all good friends. It was like being on a set.
I went home that night, made myself a gin and tonic. My old agent, dear Bernie, probably had some leftover 8X10s. And maybe Paramount would have some in the files. I started to talk to myself. What if nobody knows who you are? You’ll be sitting at a table all by yourself watching hundreds swarm around Mickey Rooney. I wondered what Johnny would have wanted me to do. Then, I could see his face, smiling down at me with love in his eyes, telling me I should do it. OK, Johnny, if you say so.
I took the morning off and drove down Melrose. I was surprised and a little sad when I found out poor Bernie had died but the guy who took over his agency had left me a packet of photos. Wow, was that me? I looked so young. Not bad, either, if I do say so. I checked the Thomas Guide and found the publicity office at Paramount. They had tons of stills from our pictures together. When I opened the package, I felt that same jolt of electricity I did when Johnny would come into the room. It would be lovely to help people remember him and talk about what a wonderful actor he was.
That first nostalgia show almost didn’t happen. I had trouble finding it, then the parking. Worst of all, I had to talk my way in.
The guy at the door was a snotty, fuzzy-faced punk. “And who are you with?”
I wasn’t with anybody. Somebody had set it up. Who, exactly?
He called another guy over who waved me in.
When the creep at the door didn’t know who I was, my anxiety zoomed. What was I doing here? Who was I kidding?
I pressed my folder of photos under my arm and walked into the room like I belonged, using the demeanor I had learned in the movies. The room was huge, with at least 30-40 tables in rows. I flashed back on the first time I walked into Republic Studios and saw all the secretarial desks positioned like soldiers in a platoon. I moved around the edge of the room so I could see name plates on the desks. The first one I saw said “Whitey Holton.” I was excited to see him. He had been Johnny’s stunt man, taking those dangerous leaps and falls off mountains and the tops of buildings. His eyes lit up when he saw me.
“Gerry! Gerry! Where have you been? Whatever are you doing here?”
“I wonder that myself.” I was so relieved to see a familiar face.
“Uh oh. Is this your first time?”
“I guess I’m a nostalgia show virgin.” That made him throw back his head and laugh.
“Let’s walk around and find your table.” He grabbed my arm and, like the gentleman I remembered him to be, guided me to the other side of the room. It wasn’t until I saw the “Geraldine Leonard” name plate that I knew I was truly welcome here. The guy at the next table looked familiar, but then a lot of these people did. I just couldn’t place him.
“Hi, Gerry. Gordon Beckett. We did some pictures together.” My mind was blank. “You know? “The Scarlet Saddle,” and “Wanted for Murder”?
I smiled and nodded, but I had no clue. Did he have the right person? Why is he asking me this? It didn’t matter. The doors opened and people filed in. Some were coming my way and I forced what I hoped was a genuine smile. When I saw it was an older woman and a teenage boy, I relaxed. And I can remember the whole scene. So odd.
“You’re Geraldine Leonard, aren’t you? I was telling my son just the other day about going to see your movies. You were wonderful. So courageous.”
“Hello. Thanks so much. Happy to meet you. Thanks for coming.” Now what do I say? Oh yeah, the photos.
“Would you like an autographed photo? It’s only $25.” I picked up my Sharpie, poised for the inscription.
“Oh, I don’t think so. Thanks, anyway. But we are both thrilled to meet you, aren’t we, Jonah?”
The kid looked a whole lot less than enthusiastic. So, there goes my first customer. No sale. Then a seedy, middle-aged guy came up to my table.
“Gerry. Hey. I’m Pete.” He shook my hand so hard I thought he might break a bone. “I’ve seen every movie you made with Johnny McBride. He was such a macho dude. So cool.”
Made me wish he were here. He’d know how to do this with more panache. Where are you, Johnny? Why did you go away?
“You know, I’ve been trying to remember the name of the one you guys made, I think it was around 1955, just before the TV series. It was the one where Johnny was being hunted by his brother who blamed him for their parents’ death. You know the one I mean?”
It sounded familiar. Maybe. I wasn’t sure what to say to him. Out of nowhere, I started to feel funny, almost—what’s the word—disoriented. Sort of out of my body. For a minute, I forgot where I was. My ears plugged up. I saw someone standing in front of me. Did I know him? I looked around, trying to figure out where I was and why I was here. I think I signed the photo, collected the money and shook the guy’s hand again. There were others who wanted to meet me and I hoped they wouldn’t ask me any questions about my career. As you can see, sometimes I can recall exact dialogue, but other times...I was glad when it was over and I could go home.
Problems happened when I was going somewhere, too. I’d start off for the grocery store, going to pick up a few items for dinner, you know, and forget which way to turn. I didn’t know if I was lost or just forgot how to get there. So I sold my car. It was much easier to call a cab or just take the bus.
Do you think it’s time for lunch now?
Well, there were more shows, I’m happy to tell you. I enjoyed meeting people and was always surprised they knew who I was. Most of their questions were about Johnny so it probably didn’t seem strange to them that I didn’t know the answers to their questions. Those shows made me feel close to Johnny. I made him proud, I know.
Why are you asking about all this, again? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten why you’re here. Do you know Johnny? I know where I am. I’m in the assisted living place, aren’t I? Being here is like doing the autograph shows where people seem to know me. The questions are different but most of the time I can answer them. Oh, I know. I hope I’ve given you a good interview. It has been a long time since I’ve done this. You’re not from The National Enquirer, are you?
What did you say your name was, again? I’m Gerry.
