My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht

don’t fit into anything less.”
    I laughed for the first time in months. Johnny Hyde didn’t laugh with me. He kept looking at me, and looking.
    â€œYes,” he said, “it’s there. I can feel it. I see a hundred actresses a week. They haven’t got what you have. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I used to feel it myself once. When I was a kid, when I first started. But I haven’t felt it for some time now. I’ve been too busy having troubles.”
    â€œLove trouble?” he said.
    I said, “Yes.”
    â€œCome around tomorrow, and we’ll talk again,” said Johnny Hyde.
    I had made another friend, a woman who was the head of M.G.M. talent scout department. Her name was Lucille Ryman.
    Miss Ryman had not only been kind to me and loaned me money and things to wear, but she had also assured me I was going to be a star.
    One day Miss Ryman called me up.
    â€œThere’s a part for you in John Huston’s picture
The Asphalt Jungle
that’s perfect for you,” she said. “It’s not a big part, but you’ll be bound to make a big hit in it. Tell your agent to get in touch with Mr. Huston. I’ve already discussed you with him.”
    Johnny Hyde brought me to Mr. Huston’s office. Arthur Hornblow, the producer of the picture, was also present.
    Mr. Huston was an exciting looking man. He was tall, long-faced, and his hair was mussed. He interrupted everybody with outbursts of laughter as if he were drunk. But he wasn’t drunk. He was just happy for some mysterious reason, and he was also a genius—the first I had ever met.
    I had met Mr. Zanuck, of course, who was also widely regarded as a genius. But he was a different type of genius—the genius of being in a position to give orders to everybody in a studio. In Hollywood this type of genius is the most highly esteemed and makes the most money. But, in a way, it is not genius at all. It’s more having the best job—and the best people working for you.

    Mr. Huston gave me a copy of the script. Unlike Mr. Zanuck, he did not believe that actresses shouldn’t be allowed to know what they were going to act in. I took it home and my friend Natasha Lytess agreed to coach me.
    â€œDo you think you can do it?” Johnny Hyde asked me. “You have to break up in it and cry and sob.”
    â€œI thought you thought I was a star,” I said to him, “and I could do anything.”
    â€œYou can,” he said, “but I can’t help worrying.”
    At first I felt that Johnny had lost faith in me. Then I realized he was just being “too close” to me and that he was worrying with my nerves and fears.
    I studied the part for several days and then returned to Mr. Huston’s office to read for him. Several other men were present, including Mr. Hornblow who was the only bald-headed man I had ever seen who looked more elegant than men with hair. In fact he seemed more like some cultured foreign diplomat than a mere movie producer.
    They were all friendly and made jokes, but I couldn’t smile. I felt, also, that I would never be able to recite a line. A pulse was pounding in my stomach. I couldn’t have been more frightened if I were about to step in front of a locomotive to get run over.
    â€œWell,” said Mr. Huston, “do you like the part?”
    I nodded. My mouth was too dry to try talking.
    â€œDo you think you can do it?”
    I nodded again.
    I felt sick. I had told myself a million times that I was an actress. I had practiced acting for years. Here, finally, was my first chance at a real acting part with a great director to direct me. And all I could do is stand with quivering knees and a quivering stomach and nod my head like a wooden toy.
    Luckily the men fell to making more jokes and seemed to forget about me. They laughed and kidded as if nothing important was involved. But I could