The Other Side of Midnight

When I reached Gracie’s, the boys were waiting for me.

“Did you see Selznick?”

“What’s he like?”

“Are you going to work there?”

“It’s been an interesting afternoon,” I said. “Very interesting.” And I went into my room and closed the door.

I saw the bus ticket on the table next to my bed. It was the symbol of failure. It meant going back to the checkrooms and the drugstore and parking cars and the life I thought I had escaped from. I had reached a dead end. I picked up the bus ticket and it was all I could do to keep from tearing it in half. How could I turn this failure into a success? There has to be a way. There has to be a way.

And then it came to me. I called home. Natalie answered the phone. “Hello, darling. We can’t wait to see you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I have some good news. I just did a synopsis for David Selznick.”

“Really? That’s wonderful! Was he nice?”

“Yes. Couldn’t have been nicer. And this is only the beginning. The gates here have opened, Natalie. Everything is going to be great. I just need a few more days.”

She did not hesitate. “All right, darling. Let us know when you’re coming home.”

I’m not coming home.

The following morning, I went to the bus station and cashed in the ticket Otto had sent me. I spent the rest of the day writing letters to the literary departments of all the major studios.

The letters read, in part:

At his personal request, I have just finished a synopsis of a novel for David O. Selznick, and I’m now free to do other synopses . . .

The telephone calls began coming in two days later. Twentieth-Century-Fox called first, then Paramount. Fox needed a book synopsized and Paramount wanted me to synopsize a play. Each synopsis paid five or ten dollars, depending on the length.

Since each studio had its own staff of readers, the only time they called in outside readers was when they were overburdened. I could do only one novel a day. It took me that long to get to a studio to pick it up, return to Gracie’s boardinghouse, read the book, type a synopsis, and take it back to the studio. I averaged two or three calls a week. I didn’t have Sydney in my life anymore.

To augment my meager income, I telephoned a man I had never met. Vera Fine had mentioned him on the drive to California. His name was Gordon Mitchell. He was head of the Technical Branch of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

I called and mentioned Vera Fine’s name, and told him I was looking for a job. He was very cordial. “As a matter of fact, I have something here that you can do.”

I was thrilled. I would be working for the esteemed Academy.

The following day, I met him in his office.

“It’s perfect timing,” he said. “You’ll be working evenings here, watching films in our projection room.”

“Great,” I said. “What’s the job?”

“Watching films in our projection room.”

I was staring at him. He went on to explain.

“The Academy is testing different film preservatives. We’ve coated different sections of the film with different chemicals. Your job is to sit in the projection room and keep a record of the number of times each film is run.” He added, apologetically, “I’m afraid it only pays three dollars a day.”

“I’ll take it.”

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.