Joe Hyams - James Dean: Little Boy Lost

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

To

Ortense and Marcus Winslow

and to Marcus Winslow, Jr.,

the keeper of the flame

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012

http://archive.org/details/jamesdeanlittlebOOhyam

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night; But, ah, my foes, and oh, my friends

It gives a lovely light!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

INTRODUCTION

is visits began with the distant sound of a motorcy-J- JL cle, and as the sound grew louder my son Jay would grow increasingly excited. When the roar of the motorcycle came down our street and then stopped in front of our house, Jay would shriek, "Jimmy's here! Jimmy's here!" Booted feet would stamp up the front steps, and then the door would burst open. James Dean never knocked or came in the way anybody else did: he always made an entrance. Most often he was carrying a paper bag full of ice cream containers.

He came to our house often because, he said, he missed Markie, the young cousin he had grown up with in Indiana, and Jay, then five, was about Markie's age. Jimmy had a remarkable ability to communicate with children, the younger the better. He listened attentively to Jay's stories about his school friends and asked the questions one youngster asks another: Why do you like so and so? Is he stronger than you? Are you afraid of the dark? He paid close attention to the answers and to the body language. I sometimes felt he knew more about my son than I myself did.

He and Jay would often break up with laughter, their sentences left unfinished, interrupted by conspiratorial giggles. My wife, Elly, watched with an indulgent smile: Jimmy was a favorite of hers, which was convenient for me because it meant she didn't object when I went out in the evening with him, something I did fairly

JAMES DEAN

often. She got along famously with Jimmy because he showed a simple, direct interest in her life, looked intently into her eyes, and seemed able to relate to her with effortless ease.

Jimmy occupied a special space in our family, seemed to truly yearn for that space, but sometimes as I watched him I wondered just who the real Jimmy was. I knew that before the night was out, after he'd finished a mixed pint of coffee and raspberry ice cream and helped Jay put his toy cars away, after he'd pecked Elly good night and hopped back on his motorcycle, he would probably prowl the town until the wee hours and would most likely end up having sex with someone, somewhere. Usually a starlet or a waitress, sometimes in his car or against his car or in her apartment or in someone else's apartmenthe never went to his own home, as far as anyone knew.

I knew what he told me about women, and I had heard the rumors about Jimmy. But I knew the difference between rumor and fact, and I really didn't care what Jimmy did or who he did it with. Even had the rumors been true it wouldn't have mattered. What Jimmy did with his private life was his secret, and keeping secrets was my stock-in-trade as a columnist for The New York Herald Tribune. I was well aware of leading men, macho heroes of adventure films, who spent their afternoons admiring the tanned bodies of the boys who cleaned their pools, and the others who went out in the evening dressed in women's clothes. I also knew about the female sex bombs, the women all American men wanted to undressor so their press agents claimedwho spent their evenings alone because most men were certain they were too popular to ask out, and the others who went out alone at night and picked up young men and paid for motel rooms. That was part of Hollywood then as well as now. I knew many of the secrets of the sun-washed community that was my beat, and I also guessed that the folks in Hollywood were no better or worse than the people in any other American city.

Jimmy was a friend. Not one I could ever depend on except possibly in a barroom brawl: he was gutsy and not afraid of getting hurt. He rarely picked up a tab. He didn't call when promised. Didn't give back what was borrowed, didn't do what he had said he would do. I never knew exactly what he wanted or hoped for

INTRODUCTION

from me, and I never knew what I wanted or hoped for from him.

In retrospect it seems to me that I felt by being around him something was about to happen or was already happening, but I just wasn't smart enough to get it. He was fascinating to be with and watch. There was the way he moved. He could lift a glass of water to his mouth with an intensity and grace that made it seem he had never before touched a glass, never carried that particular weight through the air. What he said wasn't especially smart or memorable: it was the way he said it that made it interesting, the delivery and the hand gestures. I never felt I was a disciple and should take notes because they would be valuable someday. Nor did I realize that I was lucky to be his friend until years later when he became a legend.

There was an afternoon, warm and sunny, and Jay was home from school and wasn't happy. "He's been like that all afternoon," said Elly. I realized my son was upset by something, but I had a column to write on deadline and left it to her to sort out. Then a few hours later there was the roar of the motorcycle, Jay's shrieks of joy, and Jimmy's arrival. Jimmy saw, even sooner than I had, that something was wrong with Jay, and he put aside the packages of ice cream, barely acknowledged my presence and that of Elly, and took Jay aside. I tried to listen to their conversation, not as a journalist but as a father, but I could make out little of it. Soon, Jay's smile was back, the packages of ice cream were opened, and we were all sitting on the floor, laughing at something.

Only a long time later did I learn that the mailman had been frightening Jay with stories about a boogeyman who came in the night and carried off children to eat them. That was how the mailman made it through his dayterrifying children. I don't know what James Dean said to Jay to do away with his fears, but he did so casually, effortlessly, and completely. What I do remember is what Jay said excitedly after he left. "Jimmy says he can go so fast on his motorcycle that no one can see him!"

On October 1, 1955, I was in Mexico City to interview the actor Cantinflas, who was filming a cameo role for Around the World in 80 Days. Bill Blowitz, press agent on the film, and I had just finished breakfast when we went by the hotel newsstand. I noticed a copy

JAMES DEAN

of the Saturday New York Herald Tribune on the rack, and glanced at the front page. In the lower right-hand corner was the headline:

FILM ACTOR JAMES DEAN, 24, KILLED IN SPORTS CAR CRASH.

I must have turned ashen because Bill asked me if I was all right. "Jimmy Dean's been killed," I said and handed the paper to him. "He asked me to go with him to the race in Salinas yesterday just before we left L.A."

As Bill read the story I had conflicting thoughts. I wanted to call home and tell Elly to be careful how she broke the news to Jay, who I knew would be devastated. Then I realized that the news was a day old. I felt strongly that there was something that I, a newsman and friend, should be doing about Jimmy's death. I wanted to add something human and personal to the wire service report that my paper had put on the front page.