My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht

car back the next day and was able to romp around from studio to studio and enjoy the usual quota of snubs.

12
    Â 
i jump through
   the paper hoop
    Â 
    I rushed to Aunt Grace with the big news. I had a job. I could enter a studio without being asked fifty questions. And I didn’t have to sit in a waiting room. I was on a payroll as an actress.
    â€œIt’s the finest studio in the world,” I said. “20th Century-Fox.”
    Aunt Grace beamed and went to the stove for coffee.
    â€œThe people are all wonderful,” I said, “and I’m going to be in a movie. It’ll be a small part. But once I’m on the screen—”
    I stopped and looked at Aunt Grace. She was still smiling at me. But she was standing still. Her face was pale, and she looked tired—as if life was something too heavy to carry much further.
    I put my arms around her and helped her to the table.
    â€œI’m all right,” she said. “The coffee will fix me up fine.”
    â€œIt’ll be different now for all of us,” I said. “I’ll work hard.”
    We sat a long time and discussed a new name for me. The casting director had suggested I think up some more glamorous name than Norma Dougherty.

    â€œI’d like to oblige him,” I said. “Especially since Dougherty isn’t my name anymore anyway.”
    â€œHaven’t you any ideas for a name?” Aunt Grace asked.
    I didn’t answer. I had a name, a real name that thrilled me whenever I thought of it. It belonged to the man with the slouch hat and the Gable mustache. His photograph was now in my possession.
    I tried the name out in my mind, but kept silent. My aunt was smiling at me. I felt she knew what I was thinking.
    â€œThe man at the studio suggested Marilyn,” I said.
    â€œThat’s a nice name,” my Aunt said, “and it fits with your mother’s maiden name.”
    I didn’t know what that was.
    â€œShe was a Monroe,” said Aunt Grace. “Her family goes way back. I have some papers and letters I’m keeping for your mother. They show that she was related to President Monroe of the United States.”
    â€œYou mean I’m related to a president of the United States?” I asked.
    â€œDirectly descended,” said Aunt Grace.
    â€œIt’s a wonderful name,” I said. “Marilyn Monroe. But I won’t tell them about the president.” I kissed Aunt Grace and said, “I’ll try to make good on my own.”
    The assistant director said, “Now just walk up to Miss June Haver, smile at her, say hello, wave your right hand, and walk on. Got that?”
    The bells rang. A hush fell over the set. The assistant director called, “Action!” I walked, smiled, waved my right hand and spoke. I was in the movies! I was one of those hundred to one shots—a “bit player.”
    There were a dozen of us on the set, bit players, with a gesture to make and a line or two to recite. Some of them were veteran bit players. After ten years in the movies they were still saying one line and walking ten feet toward nowhere. A few were young and had nice bosoms. But I knew they were different from me. They didn’t have my illusions. My illusions didn’t have anything to do with being a fine actress. I knew how third rate I was. I could actually feel my lack of talent, as if it were cheap clothes I was wearing inside. But, my God, how I wanted to learn! To change, to improve! I didn’t want anything else. Not men, not money, not love, but the ability to act. With the arc lights on me and the camera pointed at me, Isuddenly knew myself. How clumsy, empty, uncultured I was! A sullen orphan with a goose egg for a head.
    But I would change. I stood silent and staring. Men were smiling at me and trying to catch my eye. Not the actors or the director and his assistants. They were important people and important people try to catch the