Mack Sennett

Mack had this huge office on stilts right in the center of his lot so he could watch over all the production on the stages like a goddamned prison warden watching over his yard. The stages were all open-air in those days, no ceilings, to let the natural sunlight in, so Mack could see everything. He was especially keen on keeping an eye on Mabel, make sure she wasn't carousing with that week's leading man. He liked to watch the Bathing Beauties of course too.

Mack had a big reputation. Everybody started with Mack: Fatty, Chaplin, Mabel, all the greats.

Murray, my manager at the time, gets the idea in his head that he ain't gonna let Mack Sennett, the King of Comedy, push him around. We're in the elevator up to Mack's office and Murray leans over to me and says, "Don't you worry about a thing. We ain't gonna let some porkbarrel get you for a nickel less than you're worth. The thing about these Hollywood guys is you gotta grab'em by the balls."

I knew Murray was gonna embarrass me. I could smell it. Instead I just told myself the same rubbish people always tell themselves when they're trying to make it easy for themselves. "Murray's been around for a long time. He bought me a train ticket all the way out to Hollywood. He's making ten percent. He wants me to succeed." I shoulda trusted my instinct. I shoulda stopped the goddamn elevator right then and there and booted his ass out. Always trust your instincts. That's why God put'em there.

So we get up there and the doors open and Sennett is sitting behind this desk with a bib tied around his neck eating the biggest steak I've ever seen in my life. Looks like he cut down a redwood tree, carved a desk out of it, slaughtered a bull and cooked the whole ass. He stands up to greet us and, aside from being big in the business, he was physically one of the largest men I've ever seen in my life. Every one of his pictures had some big, black-eyed bastard chasin' the little hero around, the Heavy they call him. Well, Mack was twice is big as any of those guys. He's got two feet on me, easy. He puts his arm around my shoulder, says "Hey kid lemme show you something." He walks me over and points to the Bathing Beauties down laying around the pool in the sun. He says "See them girls? I keep'em on set full-time. Pay'em twenty-five a week. Think they're gonna be stars. See the kid cranking that camera at'em? There ain't even film in that camera." Then he laughs like a buncha bowling pins clobberin' about and goes back to his steak.

That's when Murray went to work. Murray marches right up and starts banging his fist on Sennett's desk. Sennett looks up, a little confused, not mad or anything, just curious why this guy's banging his fist on his desk. Then Murray does something I'll never forget so long as I live. Most damn fool thing I ever saw. Murray takes Sennett's plate and throws it across the room against the wall like it's a goddamn banana creme pie. Then he looks Sennett right in the eye and goes "Fuck you, you fat fuck."

Mack had a look on his face like he just about shit. Murray was a good manager, or had been up to that point. He knew how to talk to the Circuit owners, theatrical agents. Mack wasn't one of those city guys. He was from the forest somewhere in Canada. He was a lumberjack. He was Paul Bunyan.

Murray points at me and says, "Sign this kid right now or kiss your studio goodbye cause he's gonna be the hottest star there ever was and Metro and United Artists already offered us three thou a piece."

I had no idea what to do. I was just a dumb kid. I stood there, nodding my head, flaring my nostrils, trying to look tough even though I knew goddamn well we didn't talk to Metro and UA wouldn't even let us on the lot.

Mack, real calmly, takes off his bib, puts it on his desk, stands up, looks over at me, sizes me up. I turned away. I couldn't watch. I looked down at the Bathing Beauties. They were so gosh darn pretty down there dangling their toes in the pool. The water looked so cool and blue.

"This the Irish kid?" Mack says. Murray says yeah.

"I'll give him seventy-five a week to play stock. We'll see where it goes from there." And he sits down like that's the final offer. No negotiations, nothing.

Well, I'll tell you, that sounded pretty good to me. I'd been making fifty a week doing eight shows, six cities, and that was before travel expenses. I was lookin' around at all the palm trees and the Bathing Beauties, thinking, yeah this is the place for me. I felt like I was in some Arabian Palace or something, like Sennett was the Sultan with his harem and all that. I shoulda spoke up. I shoulda said something.

Murray leans over Sennett, gets right up nose to nose with Sennett and laughs, once, as hard as he can right in his face.

HA.

He turns around and walks past me right out the door. Doesn't even say anything. Like an idiot, I follow him to the elevator but right before I get on I hear this great, booming voice call out.

"Boy," he says. I turn around.

"Yes, Mr. Sennett?" I says.

"I seen your act," he says, "It's one of the best."

"Thanks Mr. Sennett."

And that was it. I got on the elevator and the doors closed and I looked over at Murray, with his nose sticking up in the air like it was the goddamn cherry on top of the Sundae. He was saying something about how this was ultimately the best thing for my career, but I wasn't listening. I just had this feeling like maybe one of my dreams had passed right in front of me.

Mack Sennett was the King. He was prestige. Everybody started out wearing those bobby hats and badges, swingin' those billy clubs and bumblin' and chasin' each other around the screen.

I got a job making my own two-reelers at King Studios for $125 a week. Sure, I was starring in my own two-reelers, but who ever heard of King Studios?