Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [14]
Make my mark on TV, indeed! Ridiculous!
Nonetheless, I took Emma’s advice and decided to go to Los Angeles and not New York. I still didn’t wholeheartedly abandon myself to the adventure without giving it a great deal of thought and planning. That’s my nature. So instead of plunging in at the deep end and booking myself a hotel room in the heart of downtown Hollywood, I played it safe and arranged to stay with my aunt Margie and uncle Grandville in San Marino, just sixteen miles away.
I intended to commute from San Marino to Hollywood each day, imagining that the journey would be quick and uncomplicated. By rights it should have been, but after I had my first experience with the LA transit system, a seemingly interminable journey on a hot, crowded bus, I quickly concluded that unlike San Francisco, Los Angeles County just wasn’t a bus-friendly place.
However, things began to look up considerably when through a mutual friend I managed to wangle an introduction to Solly Biano, head talent scout at the Warner Brothers studio.
I was highly excited and intensely aware that this could prove to be my big break, so on the morning of my interview with Solly I painstakingly ironed my best plaid skirt and my nicest beige blouse, polished my best patent leather shoes until they shone brilliantly, and, last of all, donned my whitest of white gloves.
Uncle Grandville drove me to Burbank, and though I was probably more nervous than I’d ever been in my life, I took comfort in the fact that he decided not to leave me at the studio but would wait outside in his car while I had my interview.
So when I walked through the gigantic iron gates at Warner Brothers and the security guard gave me a pass, then directed me to Solly Biano’s office, I didn’t completely feel as if I were Little Red Riding Hood about to place herself at the mercy of the big bad wolf.
I relaxed further after the casting director’s affable assistant showed me into the office and introduced me to Solly, a handsome blond, blue-eyed man with a mustache. He was courteous and started by asking me about my drama training, my home, and my family.
Then, all of a sudden and to my everlasting shock, he pulled out a picture of his daughter, Lonnie, and said, “See, honey, that’s what you need. Big tits!”
Tits! He said tits to me!
I must have turned as white as my gloves, but he wasn’t finished with me yet. “You’re a pretty girl from a nice home,” he said, “and you come from a good family. Problem is, you’re too nice.” I brightened a trifle, but then he went on. “But you’re not pretty enough, and you’re not tough enough, either. Go back to San Francisco and marry the boy next door as fast as you can.”
Now, as young and naive as I was, I had already made it a firm rule not to cry in front of anyone, and I wasn’t about to break my rule, not then, not ever. But by the time I got back to the car and told Uncle Grandville what had happened, I found it difficult to hold back the tears.
My uncle, in contrast, wanted to go up to Solly Biano’s office and give him what for. I spent the next ten minutes convincing him not to, by which time my tears had stopped and I had composed myself sufficiently for the drive home.
But once I got upstairs to the privacy of my room, I let go completely and sobbed till I felt like my head was about to explode.
Fifteen minutes later, I finally calmed down, and gave myself a stern talking-to. Barbara Huffman, just you remember that Hollywood isn’t only about mammary glands. You can act, so become a character actress.
Then I dried my tears and promised myself I’d do just that. I also made up my mind to part ways with the Los Angeles County bus system as well.
Always cautious with money, I’d managed to save an impressive thousand dollars from all my band appearances and Hoffman and Huffman shows, so I bought a beat-up old Buick. My boyfriend, trumpeter Al Sunseri (who had worked with me in San Francisco bands), reupholstered and cleaned it until it shone like a newly faceted high-quality stone, and