My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht Page A

eye only of other important people. But the grips and electricians and the other healthy looking workmen had grinning friendly faces for me. I didn’t return their grins. I was too busy being desperate. I had a new name, Marilyn Monroe. I had to get born. And this time better than before.
    My bit was cut out of the picture
Scudda Hoo, Scudda Hay
. I didn’t mind when I heard about it. I would be better in the next picture. I’d been hired for six months. In six months I’d show them.
    I spent my salary on dramatic lessons, on dancing lessons, and singing lessons. I bought books to read. I sneaked scripts off the set and sat up alone in my room reading them out loud in front of the mirror. And an odd thing happened to me. I fell in love with myself—not how I was but how I was going to be.
    I used to say to myself, what the devil have you got to be proud about, Marilyn Monroe? And I’d answer, “Everything, everything.” And I’d walk slowly and turn my head slowly as if I were a queen.
    One night another bit player, a male, invited me out for dinner.
    â€œI haven’t any money,” I warned him. “Have you?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “But I’ve received a sort of invitation to a party. And I would like to take you along. All the stars will be there.”
    We arrived at the Beverly Hills home at nine o’clock. It was a famous agent’s house. I felt as frightened entering it as if I were breaking into a bank. My stockings had a few mends in them. I was wearing a ten dollar dress. And my shoes! I prayed nobody would look at my shoes. I said to myself, now’s the time to feellike a queen, you dope—not when you’re alone in the room with nobody looking. But the queen feeling wouldn’t come. The best I could manage was to walk stiff legged into a large hall and stand staring like a frozen blonde at dinner jackets and evening gowns.
    My escort whispered to me, “The food’s in the other room. Come on.” He went off without me. I remained in the hall, looking into a room full of wonderful furniture and wonderful people. Jennifer Jones was sitting on a couch. Olivia de Haviland was standing near a little table. Gene Tierney was laughing next to her. There were so many others I couldn’t focus on them. Evening gowns and famous faces drifted around in the room laughing and chatting. Diamonds glittered. There were men, too, but I only looked at one. Clark Gable stood by himself holding a highball and smiling wistfully at the air. He looked so familiar that it made me dizzy.
    I stood as straight as I could and put on the highest class expression I knew. But I couldn’t enter the room where the laughter and diamonds were.
    A voice spoke.
    â€œMy dear young lady,” it said. “Do come and sit by my side.”
    It was a charming voice, a little fuzzy with liquor, but very distinguished. I turned and saw a man sitting by himself on the stairway. He was holding a drink in his hand. His face was sardonic like his voice.
    â€œDo you mean me?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t rise. My name is George Sanders.”
    I said, “How do you do.”
    â€œI presume you also have a name,” he scowled at me.
    â€œI’m Marilyn Monroe,” I said.
    â€œYou will forgive me for not having heard it before,” said Mr. Sanders. “Do sit down—beside me.”
    â€œMay I have the honor of asking you to marry me?” he said solemnly. “The name, in case you have forgotten, is Sanders.”
    I smiled at him and didn’t answer.
    â€œYou are naturally a little reluctant to marry one who is not only a stranger, but an actor,” Mr. Sanders said. “I can understand your hesitancy—particularly on the second ground. An actor is not quite a human being—but then, who is?”
    Mr. Sanders’ handsome and witty face suddenly looked at me,