Frank took Bessie to a bar. Bessie didn’t drink, but Frank did. He began to talk a bit about his past. Not too much—just enough to let her know that he was a man who had led an interesting life.
Apparently he had grown up around show business and had worked as a performer himself. In 1910—before Bessie had even been born— Frank had been a clown and tightrope walker in the Barnum & Bailey Circus, and he had gone by the name of Laffo the Clown. He would wobble his way across the tightrope humorously, like a drunk. Other times, Laffo would build a tower of precariously balanced chairs and then, in his drunken manner, scale the chairs to the top, where he’d do a handstand. One night, the real Laffo was really drunk. He got to the top of the chair pyramid and one of the chairs at the bottom slipped. Frank had taken many falls over the years and knew how to land and roll so as to avoid injury. But this night the liquor slowed his reflexes and he came down on his left leg and ruined his ankle. By the time the fracture had healed, the circus had found a new aerialist clown and Frank’s tightrope days were over. So he tried a new stint: lion tamer. He liked working with the big cats, he liked rubbing their fur and feeling their taut muscles. But when one nasty-tempered leopard took a swipe at him and left a scar across his cheek and forehead, Frank decided that the cats were undependable partners, and he left the circus.
A few years later, Frank told Bessie, he moved to Los Angeles, where he worked in silent movies as a stuntman. He had been a stand-in for Harry Carey and Francis X. Bushman (“They were both sons-of-bitches,” Frank said), and he had also done some work for Hollywood’s first big cowboy hero, Tom Mix. He and Mix became good friends, Frank said, and good drinking pals. One night Frank was driving and Mix was drinking—or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, whoever was driving piled the car into a pole in the Hollywood Hills. Mix escaped injury, but Frank ended up in the hospital. When he came to, he found his leg hurt again, and he also found he only had half his teeth left—the ones on the right side of his face. After that, Frank decided he had seen enough of Hollywood. He went on to other places and other things.
If Bessie had been thinking about the stories Frank Gilmore told about himself, she might have noted a few things. For one, most of his tales ended in disaster, often brought on by drunkenness. She also might have noted that, since Frank was now about forty-seven, his tales only accounted for a small portion of his life, and they seemed to zigzag clear across the map of America. There was still a lot of Frank Gilmore’s past she knew nothing about, and that he seemed in no rush to fill in. Even at his most drunk, he only told so much about himself, and when he was sober, he told almost nothing. Or maybe Bessie
did
note his vagueness and felt relieved by it. After all those years of Mormon genealogy—all the family legends memorializing pioneer ancestors who probably, behind all the inflated and pious myths, were really hard-asses and sons-of-bitches— maybe Frank Gilmore’s reticence about his own history came as a welcome contrast.
In any event, Frank was utterly unlike any other man Bessie had ever known. Clearly, he was an older man, but in some ways Bessie thought he was younger in spirit than she was. He had seen plenty of life—he was experienced and worldly—but at the same time, Bessie felt that Frank Gilmore was still searching the world to find his place in it. More than anything, she felt like searching the world with him.
One night when they were coming out of a movie, Frank turned to Bessie and said: “Why don’t we go out to Sacramento? You can meet my mother and we can get married while we’re out there.”
She noticed he didn’t exactly get down on his knees. Too vain a man for that. But she remembered the lesson of the candy pan. “Okay,” Bessie
Apparently he had grown up around show business and had worked as a performer himself. In 1910—before Bessie had even been born— Frank had been a clown and tightrope walker in the Barnum & Bailey Circus, and he had gone by the name of Laffo the Clown. He would wobble his way across the tightrope humorously, like a drunk. Other times, Laffo would build a tower of precariously balanced chairs and then, in his drunken manner, scale the chairs to the top, where he’d do a handstand. One night, the real Laffo was really drunk. He got to the top of the chair pyramid and one of the chairs at the bottom slipped. Frank had taken many falls over the years and knew how to land and roll so as to avoid injury. But this night the liquor slowed his reflexes and he came down on his left leg and ruined his ankle. By the time the fracture had healed, the circus had found a new aerialist clown and Frank’s tightrope days were over. So he tried a new stint: lion tamer. He liked working with the big cats, he liked rubbing their fur and feeling their taut muscles. But when one nasty-tempered leopard took a swipe at him and left a scar across his cheek and forehead, Frank decided that the cats were undependable partners, and he left the circus.
A few years later, Frank told Bessie, he moved to Los Angeles, where he worked in silent movies as a stuntman. He had been a stand-in for Harry Carey and Francis X. Bushman (“They were both sons-of-bitches,” Frank said), and he had also done some work for Hollywood’s first big cowboy hero, Tom Mix. He and Mix became good friends, Frank said, and good drinking pals. One night Frank was driving and Mix was drinking—or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, whoever was driving piled the car into a pole in the Hollywood Hills. Mix escaped injury, but Frank ended up in the hospital. When he came to, he found his leg hurt again, and he also found he only had half his teeth left—the ones on the right side of his face. After that, Frank decided he had seen enough of Hollywood. He went on to other places and other things.
If Bessie had been thinking about the stories Frank Gilmore told about himself, she might have noted a few things. For one, most of his tales ended in disaster, often brought on by drunkenness. She also might have noted that, since Frank was now about forty-seven, his tales only accounted for a small portion of his life, and they seemed to zigzag clear across the map of America. There was still a lot of Frank Gilmore’s past she knew nothing about, and that he seemed in no rush to fill in. Even at his most drunk, he only told so much about himself, and when he was sober, he told almost nothing. Or maybe Bessie
did
note his vagueness and felt relieved by it. After all those years of Mormon genealogy—all the family legends memorializing pioneer ancestors who probably, behind all the inflated and pious myths, were really hard-asses and sons-of-bitches— maybe Frank Gilmore’s reticence about his own history came as a welcome contrast.
In any event, Frank was utterly unlike any other man Bessie had ever known. Clearly, he was an older man, but in some ways Bessie thought he was younger in spirit than she was. He had seen plenty of life—he was experienced and worldly—but at the same time, Bessie felt that Frank Gilmore was still searching the world to find his place in it. More than anything, she felt like searching the world with him.
One night when they were coming out of a movie, Frank turned to Bessie and said: “Why don’t we go out to Sacramento? You can meet my mother and we can get married while we’re out there.”
She noticed he didn’t exactly get down on his knees. Too vain a man for that. But she remembered the lesson of the candy pan. “Okay,” Bessie
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