The Early Ayn Rand

They are fools, Claire thought, sitting in her hotel room, all of them just blind, lazy fools. It was their job to find talent, yet they did not see it, because... because it seemed that they didn't give a damn. Who had said that to her before, so long ago? Then she remembered who had said it, and the cold, mocking eyes of the speaker, and she jumped to her feet with a new determination; a new determination and a brand-new feeling of loneliness.

If they had no eyes to see for themselves, she decided, she would show them. If it's acting experience they want, she would throw the experience in their faces. She started on a round of the little theaters that flourished like mushrooms on Hollywood's darkest corners. She learned that one did not get paid for acting in the wretched little barns, because the "chance to be seen" was considered payment enough for the weeks of rehearsals. She was willing to accept this, even though she did wonder dimly how she would have been able to accept it were she a real beginner left alone to struggle on her own earnings. But her willingness brought no results. In four of the theaters, she was told that they employed no one without previous stage experience. In three others, her name and phone number were taken with the promise of a call "if anything came up," a promise made in such a tone of voice that she knew this would be the end of it, and it was.

But in the eighth theater, the fat, oily manager took one look at the thirty-dollar hat and bowed her eagerly into his office.

"But of course, Miss Roberts," he gushed enthusiastically, "of course! You are born for the screen. You have the makings of a star, a first-class star! Trust me, I'm an old horse in this business and I know. But talent's gotta be seen. That's the secret in Hollywood. You gotta be seen. Now I have just the play for you and a part — boy, what a part! One part like this and you're made. Only, unfortunately, our production has been delayed because of financial difficulties, most unfortunate. Now, two hundred dollars, for instance, wouldn't be too much for you to invest in a future that would bring you millio — Well," said the manager to his secretary, blinking at the slammed door, "what do you suppose is the matter with her?"

The agents, Claire thought, the agents; they made their money on discovering new talent and they would be honest about seeking it. Why hadn't she thought of them before?

She was careful to call only on those agents who had never met Claire Nash in person. She found that the precaution was unnecessary: she was never admitted any farther than the exquisite, soft-carpeted waiting rooms, modernistic riots of glass, copper, and chromium, where trim secretaries sighed regretfully, apologizing because Mr. Smith or Jones or Brown was so busy in conference; but if Miss Roberts would leave her telephone number, Mr. Smith would be sure and call her. Miss Roberts left the number. The call never came.

The agents who had no waiting rooms and no chromium, but only a hole facing a brick wall, and a mid-Victorian armchair shedding dirty cotton upon a spotted rug, were delighted to meet Miss Roberts and to place her name upon the lists of their distinguished clients; which was as much as they were able to accomplish for Miss Roberts.

One of them, tall and unshaved, seemed more delighted to meet her than all the others. "You have come to the right man, kid," he assured her, "the right man. You know Joe Billings down at Epic Pictures? The assistant director? Well, Joe's a partic'lar friend of mine and he's got a lotta pull at Epic. All I gotta do is slip a coupla words to Joe and bingo! you get a screen test. A real, genuine screen test. How about dinner tonight down at my place, kiddo?" She fled.

Her face... her face that had been called "one of the screen's treasures" so often... her face seemed to make no impression on anyone. With a single exception. One of the agents, whom she had never seen before, did look at her closely for a long moment, and then he exclaimed:

"By God but you're a dead ringer for Claire Nash, sister!"

Then he looked again, shook his head, and changed his mind.

"Nope," he said, "not exactly. Claire's eyes are lighter, and her mouth smaller, and she's got it over you as far as the figure's concerned. Great friend of mine, Claire... Tell you what we'll do: you leave your phone number and I'll get you a swell job as Claire's stand-in. You look like her — or near enough for that. Only we'll have to wait — she's away in Europe right now."

Jane Roberts' opportunity came; not exactly in the way she had expected it to come, but it came anyhow.

One evening, as she sat on the bed in her stuffy hotel room, her slippers flung into a corner and her feet aching miserably, a neighbor came in to ask if she hadn't two nickels for a dime. The neighbor was a tall, cadaverous girl with a long nose and seven years of movie-extra experience.