The Red Car To Hollywood Master

A page in an argyle vest and brown tweed pants stood by his cart, watching my every move.

“It’s just that you’re such a pretty thing with that China-white skin and black satiny hair . . .”
I backed away, glowering at him, until I came to the end of the shelf and then spun on my heel.

Fifth Street wasn’t nearly as busy as it had been in the morning, which oddly made me feel even more conspicuous on the sidewalk.

After six or seven blocks, the high-rise buildings became less imposing, less ornamental.

I passed under the narrow balconies clinging to the run-down tenements.

I peered into the windows of the district’s herbalists, general stores, and curio shops.

Fong See On Company, the art and antiques emporium on Los Angeles Street, had the only storefront with any real visual appeal, in my opinion.

“Well, she’s accusing you of several things, including ensnaring her son Russell into a licentious relationship. And destruction of property.”

I was livid, too livid to be embarrassed about saying such things to Ba and Ma.

Kuen didn’t want to further stain the already blighted image of the Chinese, which she was fighting so hard to change with the Chinese Methodist Church.

I couldn’t help but notice the deference Ba paid to Mrs.

Her esteemed position in the community, with the church, and as someone who could speak almost unaccented English seemed to supersede her position as a woman.

Ba pounded the table beside him, juddering a celadon bowl displayed on it.

Kuen was gone, I steeled myself for Ba’s apoplectic rage.

He nodded back, and the light streaming in from the stained glass window glinted gold on his slicked-back tawny hair.

She flipped the lid up and went into raptures about the fried chicken and potato salad.

Two huge eucalyptus trees scented the air and cast shade against the flat blue sky.

At the old Spanish Plaza, a crowd—mostly older Mexican men from the neighboring district—had gathered on the paved walks and grassy sections of the circular tract.

A man in boots and jodhpurs standing beside the cameraman raised a megaphone and shouted, “Ready! Action!”

I glanced at the second-floor window where I knew her classroom was, hoping that the old prude wouldn’t peer out and spot me in the crowd.

Anna May’s voice was quite deep, but the tone was light, frivolous, different from what I’d imagined when I’d seen her on the silent screen.

Acting was still considered a tawdry profession in China, just a step above being a courtesan, and those who could get past that still objected to the kinds of roles Anna May played.

Acting was still considered a tawdry profession in China, just a step above being a courtesan, and those who could get past that still objected to the kinds of roles Anna May played.

Her face was full of angst, but she didn’t say anything.

“But Ba”—my voice cracked as I shifted to a tractable tone—“I haven’t even finished school yet.”

In the back room, she tucked a few wayward strands into the hair bun at her nape and tied an apron over her housedress.

Ba came up with the inventory ledger and a clipboard and settled in his chair beneath the gas lamp on the wall.

I was willful.

I couldn’t change until the others were already in bed because Ba thought it indecorous for anyone to see me in my nightclothes.

How I’d slipped downstairs and stolen out into the blustery dark that night.

They loitered under the portico at the top of the wide steps.

A jaunty sequence was needed, and my fingers took up the keys.

“We did. And I wish I had time to chew the fat again, but my brother and I are going out to buy a typewriter.”

Formann’s Department Store was a tan art deco monolith.

I wanted to twist the knobs on the radios and punch at the keys of the typewriters, but the admonishment from the counter girl downstairs made me keep my hands firmly clasped together.

“Yes, and what a blowout with Papa that caused.”

She seemed wistful, almost as if she did have regrets.

Ba’s mouth worked itself in a sort of contained pique, but he didn’t say anything.

I’d almost convinced myself that his summoning of the matchmaker had just been a conniption, that he’d done it purely to scare me straight.

She stood at
the top of the stairs, clutching the newel post.

Ma always wore her own hair in a low bun, and I’d half expected the hairdo to be matronly like hers.

James made no move to close the space between us, but that intoxicating stirring came over me.

Ma used to do piecework herself, but the materials had always been delivered to our home.

Her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly.

...duty. You are not here to socialize with the staff or to chitchat with the other operators or customers. Here at Formann’s we adhere to a strict code of propriety.”

I gave her a tentative smile.

13
JUNE 1924
O
n the Thursday afternoon of my third week at Formann’s, a dapper
fella in a raglan suit strode onto the elevator.

The men never spoke to me if there were women present, but on occasions when I was in the cab with one man, maybe two, there were affable greetings that invited conversation.

But before I could think of how to respond tactfully, Mr.

I made sure to come home all vim and vigor, never complaining about the customers’ behavior or about my feet hurting from standing all day.

~
When I passed through the double doors of Alterations, I was greeted by the loud rattling of electric sewing machines.

“Well, don’t worry! Because actually, there is no stage. These weekday shows are no big thing. A few girls, a couple of outfits, two short strolls around a handful of tables. The women barely look up from their abalone chowder and frappés.”

“Come on now, don’t balk. Be a good sport. Any other girl on the floor would jump at the chance. But we don’t have time to fuss about and hunt for someone else, so you’ll just have to get on with it. Oh, and I’m sure you’ll see a bump in your pay envelope.”

I nodded numbly at the deluge of instructions, latching on to do what she does.

I had a clear view of the restaurant space, which was shaded by a white wooden pergola threaded with fake greenery.

By the time I took my second promenade, the women seated around Anna May were craning their necks her way.

“I don’t know —”
“It would be such a boon to the store,” Mr.

She opened the box and pulled out a slender gray velvet dress with thin shoulder straps and a curlicue pattern of beading down one side.

I knew she meant the submissive or conniving female roles that so many in the Chinese community judged her for.

“How about one of these? Something not too ornate, since the dress is fairly understated.”

“I can’t imagine living by myself, but sometimes my pop . . . ugh. He’s in a snit about this new movie.”

Ma avoided my gaze, but I could see that she was reluctant to acquiesce to Auntie Matchmaker.

I’d found images of women wearing snug-fitting cheongsams styled with scarves, stoles, jackets, and flowing robes.

“It’s a traditional dress, but the socialites in Shanghai have modernized it by making it tight-fitting, with a slit up the side.”

I hadn’t forgotten the accusing look Miss Buckner had given me when she saw me with the petty cash—as if I had been doing something untoward, soliciting favors from Mr.

“Yes, the show! Wonderful idea, Shanghai Chic. I think it’s going to bring a good turnout.”

Their mortification the afternoon Mrs.

Then I heard
a deep guttural voice.

A Mexican man loitering against the wrought iron fence pointed across the street to the Lugo House.

Like a dirge.

I was being churlish, but I couldn’t seem to help it.

“There’s always the risk of your past indiscretions being discovered. Even if this friendship between you and James Wong were to carry on while he attends college, having a steady suitor is not enough to protect you from your moral transgressions. In fact, it’s this kind of friendship that will cause you to . . .” She blinked several times as if searching for the right word. “. . . to falter. Especially since you’ve already shown a weakness in how you conduct yourself.”

“Listen, I have to run over to the studio and leave the contract for my next movie. Do you want to come with me? We can have lunch in the commissary while we’re there.”

The memory tried to skulk into my head, but with Anna May beside me, I easily pushed it out.

The inside was a complete contrast to the stark exterior.

Modeling bathing suits in a roomful of ladies was one thing, but having my image as a woman of ill repute played over and over for crowds of people would be another thing altogether.

“I’m glad now that it didn’t happen, but I hate that I was taken in by such a cad.”

The coldness of it was bracing, but otherwise it tasted bright and sweet with a bitter kick to it.

With her wide, round eyes on me, I kept talking, leaving out only a few things: the time that Russell had shown me that magazine photo of her and the details of our more intimate moments.

As the minutes ticked by, the models began to throw tetchy glances my
way, as if it were my fault that Anna May was late.

A vague apprehension welled inside me.

Haber’s chest heaved and hawed like a bellows.

The girls muttered a few more disparaging comments as they scuttled to get in order.

I took in the decorations: carved wooden lanterns and heavy painted scrolls hanging from the arbor terrace, screens with images of birds of paradise and other floral designs placed around the tables.

In a half stupor, I turned around, but that brought Mr.

“His trust! That—that—man . . .” He deserved to be called worse, but in the wood-paneled office, I couldn’t debase myself to use the words that were on the tip of my tongue.

Four or five paragraphs were devoted to detailing the theater design—Oriental deities, minarets, hanging rugs, burning incense.

I could picture it in my mind—the flock of white actresses and musicians with brown greasepaint and heavily lined eyes, the garish costumes, the hodgepodge of real and imagined cultures lumped together.

“You have no decorum! No shame!”

“Instead, he dresses you like a—a wanton!”

“It’s a sordid life!” their ba growled.

Dead tired, I imagined, of the arguments, of the disapproval, and of being typecast.

Ma, who had always been so deferential, so gentle, had found a way out of a bad situation and had executed it.

The sales column for the last few months held paltry sums for curios and a few smaller pieces of furniture.

His voice was laced with derision, but he spoke low enough that the other worker wouldn’t hear.

I hadn’t expected him to be so fusty.

Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, and she wore a smart tailored navy suit.

“It’s absolutely gorgeous the way you overlapped the strands so skillfully. The gradation is flawless.”

“You can’t! All your work . . .” I knew what it meant to her, the painstaking hours she’d labored over it.

“My agents suggested I buy there. Especially since there’s chatter about a new train station being built here in Chinatown, and if that happens, some people would have to give up their property to make room for it. I don’t want to risk losing my house to eminent domain.”

Being blinded by my own desire was bad enough, but then I had turned impetuous, reckless, vengeful.

A small concession.

I started to pull the door open when I noticed something else in the window—a placard on an easel.

A Special Inducement: One Dozen Beautiful Photographs $10.00.

I’d been given a reprieve.

Most of those sales were probably for the usual bric-a-brac and curios the scenarioists bought for themselves, but the tally was easily going to be the best of the summer.

It was a sigh of acquiescence, and my heart surged even before he straightened up and gave a tense nod.