The Golden Age of Hollywood

I’d like to tell you about the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not talking about kissing a bearded lady or riding a two-headed cow. This is something seriously strange, like a UFO abduction or catching the Loch Ness Monster.

It all began on a bus, of all places, in such a simple, ordinary way.

I was on my way to work. It was raining, so the bus was moving very slowly through the city streets, jerking to a stop every few minutes. I was standing towards the back of the bus, dangling from an overhead strap, immersed in daydreams and thoughts of sleep.

I’d noticed this guy sitting in a window seat about halfway down the bus. A tiny Asian woman sat next to him, gripping her handbag as though her life depended on it. The man was tall and tanned, and wore a nice, grey suit. He wore a matching hat, and his hair (well, what I could see of it) was dark and trim.

Now I have to confess, I didn’t spend much time thinking about this smartly-dressed man. I was more concerned with the track selection on my music player. But I did think the guy looked out of place. No one wore hats like that anymore! And it’s not as if he was very old – he looked as though he was about forty, maybe younger.

Anyway, as the bus made its way through the city, it began to empty. It was still raining, so most people exited the bus in a hurry and rushed off with heads down. But the smartly-dressed man stepped casually from the bus, and with hands in pockets, strolled along the street and disappeared around the first corner. He looked so casual that I imagined him whistling as he walked.

Nothing too strange so far? Well, get this.

I got off the bus just after this man, and being the clumsy arse that I am, I tripped and kicked the back of his perfectly shined shoes. My immediate response was a mumbled, “Sorry mate!”

The man said nothing, but he turned and smiled at me! It wasn’t a normal smile. It was a smile that came from a place of supreme confidence and well-being. The sort of smile possessed by rock stars and supermodels. I was in awe of that smile. I felt both very small and immensely huge at the same time. And for one brief moment, there was no bus and no rain, just me and that beautiful smile.

Now, the thing is, I knew that face!

He was a movie director, a millionaire playboy, or a politician. He was someone special, I just couldn’t figure out who!

I didn’t see the well-dressed man on the journey home, and by the time I was sitting down for dinner with the rest of the family, I was no longer obsessing about him. I’d simply reconciled the encounter by telling myself that I’d seen someone marginally famous. Big deal!

Later that night, however, the incident resurfaced in my mind, and I started sifting through books and magazines in search of my ‘mystery man’. Then I thought to sort through our DVD collection, shuffling through them quickly, as though they were playing cards.

“Anthony Hopkins, no. Jeremy Irons, no. Patrick Stewart, no. Rob Lowe, no, no, no!”

I picked up a few older movies, from Mum’s ‘classics’ collection – “Gone with The Wind“, “The Wizard of Oz“, “To Kill a Mockingbird“.

Hang on! “To Kill a Mockingbird“!

I picked up the case again and furiously read the blurb on the back. Then I ran through the house muttering – “Gregory Peck, Gregory Peck, Gregory Peck!” I threw myself down in front of the computer, found the Internet Movie Database, and typed in the name of that very well dressed man – Gregory Peck!

The face I had seen so briefly on the bus that morning soon beamed at me from dozens of photos on the website.

“Gregory fuckin’ Peck!” I said to myself, between laughs. “I saw Gregory Peck on the 502.”

I was still laughing when Mum appeared in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Guess who I saw on the bus this morning,” I said, with a smug grin. “Gregory Peck! Y’know, the movie actor!”

“I know who Gregory Peck is,” replied Mum. “But you couldn’t have seen him on the bus.”

“Huh! Why not?”

“He’s been dead since about 2003.”

She was right! I looked it up – Peck was dead at 87 on 12th June 2003.

If Gregory Peck was dead, who did I see? A look-alike? A distant relation?

I resolved to hunt down this Gregory Peck look-alike and find out the truth, not knowing at the time I would never see him again. However, the strange encounters grew stranger, and before long I saw someone else just as compelling as Peck and far more beautiful.

               ***

In the following weeks, I scanned the bus carefully, expecting to see a tall, dark man in a hat and beautiful suit at any moment. I even began to imagine things, swearing I’d seen Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.

But I saw no one. No Hollywood stars, no celebrity chefs, not even the local weather presenter.

It was about a month later that I found myself on an almost empty bus. I could have sat alone, as there were plenty of seats available, but chose instead to sit next to a young woman with the most luminous blonde hair I have ever seen. It fell in waves across her face, cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of gold.

As I sat down, I attempted a quick look at her face, but she was turned away from me, her hair a shield against prying eyes. Her identity further hidden by a pair of dark glasses.

Could this woman be another Gregory Peck? How could I be sure with so little to go on? Sure, she was also smartly dressed – light blue slacks, a yellow blouse, a sparkling blue flower brooch on her lapel. It all looked a little 1940s, I guess, but I was no expert.

I determined to talk her, but couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. I rehearsed opening lines in my head – “Are you a famous Hollywood film star?” and “What are you doing on the 502?” – but everything I came up with sounded silly. I grew nervous. I began to sweat. I even began to feel faint.

Then I realised the woman was crying, the sound of her tears barely audible above the rumble of the bus. From the corner of my eye, I watched her fumble nervously with her purse, out of which tumbled a snow white handkerchief.

It fell to the floor in front of me. Too quickly, I picked it up and held it out to the woman.

“You dropped this,” I said, stupidly.

“Why thank you,” she replied, taking the handkerchief in a gloved hand. “You are too kind.” Her voice a whisper, with just the hint of an American accent. Then she turned away from me, hidden once more behind that amazing hair.

In the few seconds that I’d held the handkerchief, I’d noticed, embroidered in the corner, the letters V.L. Were these her initials? Her sweetheart’s? Her dog’s?

The mystery woman got off the bus at the same stop as me, and like Gregory Peck, turned left at the first corner. She didn’t have Peck’s casual swagger, but walked hurriedly, as though wanting to avoid contact with anyone or anything in this world.

She was soon out of sight.

I couldn’t concentrate at work that day. All I could think about was the woman on the bus and those mysterious initials. I went to a book shop in my lunch break, and spent the entire hour going through the movie books. But there was no sign of the woman, and no clues as to the meaning of the initials V.L.

That night, I asked my Mum if the initials made any sense to her. I didn’t expect anything, but she replied as though the information was right there on the tip of her tongue.

“V.L.? You mean Veronica Lake?” she said casually. “She was so beautiful.”

We looked her up on the Internet Movie Database, and sure enough, there was the woman I’d sat next to on the 502. Like Peck, Veronica Lake had been dead for a while. She’d left the world in 1973 when she was just 50 years old.

“Next you’re going to tell me you saw Veronica Lake on the bus,” said Mum, with a giggle.

I laughed. “That would be stupid!”

***

For the next few days I thought of nothing but Gregory Peck and Veronica Lake. I read about them. I watched their movies. I found pictures of them on the Internet. But I could find nothing to connect them in any way, nothing to suggest they might turn up on Adelaide’s transit system in the early 21st Century.

In the end, I decided there was no way they could be the actual movie stars. Unless they were ghosts, which was the silliest idea of all, they must be look-alikes, perhaps employed by an agency to turn up at weddings and birthday parties.

Of course, after reaching this conclusion, I saw something that turned all of my ideas upside down.

If things were strange already, this is where they got seriously strange!

This time I’d already left the bus and was walking slowly in the direction of my workplace. I needed a drink, so I stopped and turned around, sure that I’d just passed a mini-mart. And as I stood there in a daydream, scanning the shopfronts, I saw her, striding confidently along the sidewalk towards me, a carefree smile upon her face.

It was Katherine Hepburn! Katherine Hepburn!

And this time I’m sure I was not the only one who saw her, as a pair of elderly women giggled as she passed, and another younger woman watched with a confused look upon her face, as though she recognised Hepburn, but couldn’t quite place her.

Impulsively, I started to follow her, making sure I maintained a safe distance, while, at the same time, keeping her firmly in my sights. I was determined to find out what was going on – look-alikes, ghosts, time travelers – whatever they might be, I would finally reveal their secret.

Hepburn turned left at the same corner as Peck and Lake, she crossed the first major intersection, and the second, then turned left down a narrow alleyway situated between two office buildings. The alleyway was dark and dirty, decorated with graffiti and strewn with paper rubbish. Hepburn didn’t seem to mind, as she made her way to the end of the alleyway and turned right, into a barely visible alcove behind one of the buildings.

For a moment, I thought I’d lost her, but I ran to the end of the alleyway, and just caught sight of her as she climbed an iron staircase and entered a door on the second floor. I followed, scaling the steps two at a time. Suddenly afraid of what I might have discovered, I took a deep breath, and opened the door carefully.

I entered a dark hallway, looked in vain for a light switch, then made my way slowly along the corridor. I came across several doors, but they were either locked or opened onto an empty room. The corridor reached a T-junction. Both left and right were equally dark and unappealing. But very faintly, from a room somewhere to the right of me, came the sound of music, and over the music a very beautiful, and very familiar, voice.

A sliver of light was visible some way along the corridor. I approached carefully, noticing that the door was marked “Cleaner Only”. It stood slightly ajar. I pushed on it gently. Beyond was another door. The sounds of music and conversation were quite loud now. I opened this door too, and entered, my heart pounding, breath caught in my throat.

I stood there numb, overwhelmed by the scene in front of me. It was as though I had entered the most spectacular dream, a lavish movie set from the Golden Age of Hollywood!

It was a 1940’s nightclub, filled with people and laughter and music. And what people! While there were many faces I didn’t recognise, there were many I did. At the nearest table, Judy Garland shared a joke with Gene Kelly. I saw James Stewart and Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. And chatting with the bartender was Gary Cooper.

Each table was overflowing with the most amazing selection of food – intricate arrangements of meat and vegetables, bowls of fresh fruit, steaming hot soups, and gorgeous desserts. And still the waiters brought more.

I fumbled my way to a chair at one of the closest tables. It was empty except for a man absorbed in his martini. He stared sadly into space while playing absentmindedly with a cigarette lighter. I recognised his face, but couldn’t quite remember the name. Stewart? Steven? Simon?

I helped myself to one of the drinks at the table – a bubbling champagne. And as I took my first sip, the band started up again, and that beautiful voice filled the room. I leaned forward to get a good look at the singer.

“Is that Sinatra?” I exclaimed loudly, jumping up like a fool, then sliding back into my chair, hoping that no one had heard.

“Yep, that’s our Frankie,” said Stewart bitterly, as he took a gulp from his martini.

“You don’t like Frank Sinatra?” I asked.

“Oh sure I do,” replied Stewart. “You just get a little tired of ‘New York, New York‘ after twenty years.”

“What is this place anyway?”

“It’s heaven, of course,” replied Stewart. “Can’t you tell? Everything is so perfect – the food, the music, the women.”

“But is it real?”

Before Stewart could answer, a firm hand grabbed my shoulder. The hand belonged to a big, burly thug with dark rings around his eyes and the smoldering remains of a cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t be in here, buddy,” he grunted. “C’mon, let me show you the door.”

“Leave him alone, Ed,” said Stewart. “He’s not doing any harm.”

“Let me deal with him, Mr Grainger,” snarled Ed. “You know we can’t have outsiders in here. It’s just against the rules.”

With that, he dragged me out of my chair and pushed me towards the exit.

“I don’t wanna see you in here again,” said Ed, as he guided me firmly through both doors, and out into the dark corridor. “Next time you might find yourself in real trouble.”

***

I couldn’t go to work after that, but wandered the city streets, stopping now and then in a bar or coffee shop. Again and again, I sorted the events of the past weeks through my mind, but couldn’t make sense of any of them.

In the end, there was only one conclusion: I was going mad!

A couple of years ago, I’d seen a psychiatrist for a few months. I decided it was time to see her again. A simple medication might cure me of these ‘visions’. That night I found her business card and resolved to call for an appointment the following day.

But later, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I found myself crowded with doubts.

The thing is, I didn’t just see these ‘visions’, I’d touched them too! I kicked Gregory Peck in the heel. I picked up Veronica Lake’s handkerchief. And at the club, I drank champagne and got manhandled by the thug, Ed.

What if I took someone with me? At least it would prove I wasn’t going crazy.

The following morning, I had a strange proposal for my Mother.

“Hey Mum, how would you like to come somewhere special with me?”

“Today? What about your job?” replied Mum.

“Don’t worry about that,” I explained. “This is something really special. You’ll need to wear your very best clothes.”

“What are you up to, Billy? You know I don’t like surprises.”

Mum continued to grumble the whole time she was getting ready. She didn’t like her dress, she didn’t like her shoes, she didn’t like her hair. Meanwhile, I was squeezing into my best suit. I hadn’t worn it for a couple of years, and had put on a few kilos.

Before long, we were both ready for our trip to Hollywood heaven, me in my too-tight suit, and my Mother in a gaudy orange dress from the mid-70’s, and far too much make-up.

“I feel silly,” said Mum, as she fussed over her hair.

“Don’t worry, you look terrific,” I said, reassuringly. “We’d better go or we’ll miss the bus.”

“What!” grumbled Mum. “I’m not going on the bus dressed like this! Why can’t we take the car?”

“We have to go on the bus,” I explained. “It’s all part of the surprise.”

We were soon on the bus heading towards the city. I was really uncomfortable in my old suit, and Mum must have felt the same, as she wouldn’t stop fiddling with her dress and hair. Every few minutes I turned around, scanning the bus for Hollywood celebrities.

“Who are you looking for, Gregory Peck?” laughed Mum.

“Sort of,” I replied.

We disembarked at the usual stop, and headed towards the first corner. Mum was wearing uncomfortable shoes, and dawdled behind me, stopping now and then to adjust them.

“Where are we going, Billy?” she grumbled. “I don’t like this!”

I ignored her, and kept walking. I turned left at the corner, and headed towards the series of intersections. When I reached the alleyway between the two office buildings, I stopped and waited for Mum.

I could see she was saying something, but couldn’t hear what it was. It was accompanied by frustrated gestures. Eventually, she caught up with me.

“I’m not enjoying this,” she said. “I want to go home.”

“You can’t go home now,” I replied. “We’re just about there.”

“Where? Down this dirty alley,” said Mum. “Are you going to show me some rats?”

I persuaded her to follow me, and despite her endless complaints, we made our way to the end of the alleyway, climbed the iron staircase, and entered the building at the second floor. As before, there was no lighting. This time, however, I’d brought a torch.

“We’re going to get murdered,” whispered Mum. “I just know it!”

“Shh…”

I turned right at the T-junction, and just a short way along, found the door marked “Cleaner Only”.

“Okay, Mum, prepare yourself for the most exciting thing you will ever see,” I said.

“I don’t want to see a girl with man parts! Or a man with lady parts!” replied Mum.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

Before she could come up with anything else, I pulled the door wide open, expecting to hear Frank Sinatra or Louis Armstrong or Fred Astaire.

But there was nothing, it was just a closet! Brooms and mops stood tangled against the back wall. Bottles of cleaning product cluttered the floor. A bucket filled with rubber gloves and other paraphernalia hung by a hook on the door.

Mother poked her head into the closet. “Mmm…nice mop! Are we going to do some cleaning?”

I ignored her, climbed into the closet, and began examining the back wall. But it seemed solid, and there were no knobs or handles by which to open it. I was beginning to feel an overwhelming sinking feeling. I must have imagined everything. All of it an elaborate hallucination.

“What are you doing, Billy?” moaned Mother. “I think you’d better to go back to seeing Dr Rice.”

As I stood there among the cleaning equipment, staring vacantly at the floor, I noticed something that shouldn’t have been there, half hidden among the bottles of bleach and floor cleaner – a champagne glass!

I picked it up carefully, holding it by the stem, and turning it over in my fingers. It had a small crack on one side, and a lipstick smear on the other. And although it was bone dry, it still smelt of champagne. I held it up before me, as though expecting a refill, or some sort of divine intervention.

“What are you holding it like that for, Billy?” asked Mum. “It’s just a dirty old glass!”

“It’s more than that,” I replied, with a grin. “It’s a little piece of heaven.”