The first movie I saw over and over was The Man Who Lived Twice, and I was soon able to quote every line. I spent my evenings watching the same films and my days waiting for the telephone to ring.
On the fateful date of December 12, 1938, I received a call from Universal Studios. I had just done a few synopses for them.
"Sidney Sheldon?"
"Yes."
"Could you come in to the studio this morning?"
Another three dollars.
"Yes."
"Go to Mr. Townsend's office."
Al Townsend was the story editor at Universal. When I arrived at the studio, I was ushered into his office.
"I've read the synopses you've done for us. They're very good."
"Thank you."
"We need a staff reader here. Would you like the job?"
I wondered if he would be offended if I kissed him. "Yes, sir," I said.
"It pays seventeen dollars a week. We work six days a week. Your hours will be from nine to six. You'll start Monday."
I called Sydney at her office to break the news to her and invite her to dinner.
An unfamiliar voice answered the phone. "Yes?"
"I would like to speak to Sydney Singer."
"She's not here."
"When will she be back?"
"She's not coming back."
"What - ? Who is this?"
"This is Dorothy Arzner."
"Oh. Do you have her forwarding address, Miss Arzner?"
"She didn't leave one."
I never saw Sydney again, but I have never forgotten the debt I owe her.
Universal was a studio that made B pictures. It had been founded by Carl "Papa" Laemmle in 1912, and it was noted for its thriftiness. A few years earlier the studio had called the agent of a top western star and said they wanted to hire him to work on a low-budget movie.
The agent laughed. "You can't afford him. He makes a thousand dollars a day."
"That's all right," the studio executive assured him. "We'll pay him."
The movie was about a masked bandit. The first day of production the director shot endless close-ups of the star in various locations, and at the end of the day they told him that he was finished. What they did after that was to substitute a minor actor who wore a mask throughout the picture.
On Monday morning, when I walked through the gates onto a studio lot for the first time, I was filled with a sense of wonder. I walked past the facades of western towns and Victorian houses, San Francisco streets and New York streets, and felt the magic.
Al Townsend explained my duties to me. My job was to read the dozens and dozens of screenplays that had been written for silent movies and to try to weed out the ones that might be worth making into talkies. Nearly all of the screenplays were hopeless. I remember one memorable line describing a villain:
He had a bag of gold in his eyes.
During Papa Laemmle's regime, Universal was an easygoing, shirt-sleeved kind of studio. There was no feeling of pressure. It was like a large family.
I was now receiving a weekly paycheck and I was able to pay Gracie regularly. I reported to the studio six days a week and never got over the thrill of walking onto the studio lot where dreams were created every day. I knew that this was just the beginning. I had come to Universal as a reader, but I would start working again on original stories and sell them to the studio. I wrote to Natalie and Otto to tell them how well things were going. I had a permanent job in Hollywood.
One month later, Papa Laemmle sold Universal and along with everyone else, I was fired.
I did not dare tell Natalie or Otto what had happened because they would insist that I return to Chicago. I knew that my future was here. I would have to find another job - any job - until I could get back into a studio.
I looked through the want ads. One item caught my eye:
Hotel switchboard operator wanted.
No experience necessary. $20 a week. Brant Hotel.
The Brant Hotel was a chic hotel off Hollywood Boulevard. When I arrived there, the lobby was deserted except for the hotel manager.
"I'm here about the switchboard operator job," I said.
He studied me a moment. "Our telephone operator just quit. We need someone right away. Have you ever run a switchboard?"
"No, sir."
"There's really not much to it."
He took me behind a desk, where there was a large, complicated-looking switchboard.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat down. The switchboard consisted of two rows of vertical plugs and about thirty holes to plug them into, each hole connected to a numbered room.
"You see these plugs?"
"Yes, sir."
"They're in twos, one above the other. The lower one is called the sister plug. When the board lights up, you put the front plug into that hole. The caller will tell you the room he wants and then you take the sister plug and plug it into that room number, and you move this button to ring the room. That's all there is to it."
I nodded. "That's easy."
"I'll give you a week's trial. You'll work nights."
"No problem," I said.
"How soon can you start?"
"I've started."
The manager had been right. Running a switchboard was easy. It became almost automatic. When a light flashed, I would put in a plug from the first row. "Mr. Klemann, please."
I would look at the roster of guests. Mr. Klemann was in Room 231. I put the sister plug into the hole for Room 231 and pushed the button that rang the room. It was as simple as that.
I had a feeling that operating a switchboard was just a beginning. I could move up to night manager, and then perhaps general manager, and since the hotel was part of a chain, there was no telling how high I could go, and I would write a screenplay about the hotel business with the knowledge of an insider, sell it to a studio, and be back where I wanted to be.