Harlan Ellison - Ellison Wonderland

The arrival in Hollywood was something less than auspicious. It was February, 1962, and I had broken freeof the human monster for whom Id been editing in Chicago. It was one of the worst times in my life. The one timeId ever felt the need to go to a psychiatrist, that time in Chicago. I had remarried in haste after the four-year anguishof Charlotte and the Army and the hand-to-mouth days in Greenwich Village; now I was living to repent in agonizingleisure.

I had been crazed for two years and hadnt realized it. Now I was responsible for one of the nicest women inthe world, and her son, a winner by any standards, and I found I had messed their lives by entwining them with mine.There was need for me to run, but I could not. Nice Jewish boys from Ohio dont cut and abandon. So I began doingberserk things. I committed personal acts of a demeaning and reprehensible nature, involved myself in liaisons thatwere doomed and purposeless, went steadily more insane as the days wound tighter than a mainspring.

Part of it was money. Not really, but I thought it was the major part of the solution to the situation. And Idbanked on selling a book of stories to the very man for whom I was working. He took considerable pleasure inwaiting till we were at a business lunch, with several other people, to announce he was not buying the book. (Thedepth of his sadism is obvious when one learns he subsequently did buy and publish the book.)But at that moment, it was as though someone had split the earth under me and left me hanging by theragged edge, by my fingertips. I went back to the tiny, empty office he had set up in a downtown Evanston officebuilding, and I sat at my desk staring at the wall. There was a clock on the wall in front of me. When I sat down afterthat terrible lunch, it was 1:00.

When I looked at the clock a moment later, it was 3:15.

The next time I looked, a moment later, it was 4:45.

Then 5:45

Then 6:15

7:008:30

Somehow, I dont know how, even today, I laid my head on the desk, and when I opened my eyes again Ihad taken the phone off the hook. It was lying beside my mouth. A long time later, and again I dont remember doingit, I dialed a friend, Frank M. Robinson, a dear writer friend of many years.

I heard Franks voice saying, Hellohellois someone there?

Frankhelp me

And when my head was lifted off the desk, it was an hour later, the phone was whistling with a disconnecttone, and Frank had made it all the way across from Chicago to Evanston to find me. He held me like a child, and Icried.

Soon after, I left Evanston and Chicago and the human monster, and with my wife and her son began thelong trek to the West Coast. We had agreed to divorce, but she had said to me, with a very special wisdom that Inever perceived till much later, when I was whole again, As long as youre going to leave me, at least take me towhere its warm.

But we had no money. So We had to go to Los Angeles by way of New York from Chicago. If I could sell abook. I would have the means to go West, young man, go West. (And that was the core of the problem, not money: Iwas a young man. I was twenty-eight, but I had never become an adult.)

In a broken-down 1957 Ford we limped across to New York during the worst snowstorms in thirty years.

My wife and her son stayed with a friend Id known in the Village, and I slept on the sofa at the home of Leo &Diane Dillon, the two finest artists I know. Leo & Diane slept on the floor. They are more than merely friends.It was December of 1961, and amid the tensions and horrors of that eight-week stay in New York, twothings happened that brought momentary light, and helped me keep hold:

The first was a review by Dorothy Parker in Esquire of a small-printing paperback collection of my stories.How she had obtained it I do not know. (When I met her, later, in Hollywood, she was unable to remember where thebook had come from.) But she raved about it, and said I had talent, and it was the first really substantial affirmativenotice from a major critic. It altered the course of my writing career, and provided my egowhich had beennourishing itself cannibalistically on itselfwith reason for feeling I could write.

The second happening of light was, the sale of this book. Gerry Gross bought it for short money, mostlybecause he knew I was in a bad way. But it provided the funds to start out for Los Angeles.

We traveled a bard road down through the Southwest, and in Fort Worth we were staved in by a drunkencowboy in a pickup. Rear-ended. He had a carhop on one arm, and a fifth of Teachers in the free band. Rammed uson an icy bridge, smashed the car, crushed the rear-end trunk containing our luggage and my typewriter, and Isuppose it was that typewriter that saved our lives. The typewriter has paid the rent and put food on the table manytimes, but that time it physically gave up its life to save me.

We were laid up in Fort Worth for a week, with our money running out. Had it not been for the help of thethen-police chief, a man whose name Ill never forgetCato Hightowerwe would never have gotten out of Texas.He got me a new typewriter, had the car repaired for a fraction of what the garage would have stiffed a tourist justPassing through and be paid off the motel.

I arrived in Los Angeles in January of 1962 with exactly ten cents in my pocket. For the last three hundredmiles we had not eaten. There wasnt enough money for gas and food. All wed had to keep us alive was a box ofpecan pralines wed bought before the accident and had in the rear seat.The arrival in Hollywood was something less than auspicious.

My almost-ex-wife and her son moved into an apartment, and I took up residence in a fourteen-dollar-a-week room in a bungalow complex that is now an empty lot on Wilshire Boulevard. I tried to get work in television,got some assignments that paid the various rents, and bombed out on all of them. Nobody had bothered to show mehow to write a script. And when it looked as though Id hit the very bottom, ELLISON WONDERLAND waspublished in June of 1962, the publisher sent me a copy, and the check for the balance of monies due on publication.It was enough to pull me through till I got another assignmentwriting Burkes Law for the Four Star Studios andABC. It was the very moment my luck changed.

I remember the morning the mail arrived, with the book in its little manila envelope. I ripped open thepackage, and out fell the check. But I didnt even look at it. I sat in that room smelling of mildew and stared at thecover of Ellison Wonderland. The artist, Sandy Kossin, had taken a photo of me, and hed drawn me in sitting cross-legged atop a giant mushroom, while all around me danced and capered the characters from the stories in this book.Skidoop and Ithk and Helgorth Labbula and the crocodile-headed woman from The Silver Corridor and that littlejazzbo gnome with the patois now long-outdated and so unhip.

There I was. And Hollywood became, for the first time since Id arrived, not a grungy, lonely, frustratingtown whose tinsel could strangle youbut a magic town whose sidewalks were paved with gold; a yellow brick roadleading to a giant mushroom where I could perch if I simply hung in there.