Whoa!

In the big wide world there is an important phenomenon among social animals known as "Positioning." Apes do it to show one another which of them are the strongest. Lions in prides push the outcasts to the edges of their gathering places. Baby birds torture and kill the weakest sibling to ensure they will get the worm. I was about to get a lesson in "Positioning." Entertainment folk are not only entertaining; they are masters in the art of "Positioning." I received several phone calls over the next few days from Ursula who drilled me on various subjects pertaining to my future plans. What was my school schedule? Was I willing to travel? Would I throw myself into oncoming traffic if need be. Things like that. Ms. Davis listened not so covertly on the other line, cutting in with things like ask her this or tell her that. No one asked me if I was willing to stop crawling home from bars at three a.m. I'm not really sure what I would have answered. It never came up. I passed inspection and reported to work Wednesday morning as planned, in my new dress, and subdued hair.

Ms. Davis ushered me into the sitting room. She excused herself for a moment; so I sat. When she returned she looked at me with those famous eyes set on stun and barked at me to stand up.

"You are not to sit down in here! You are never to sit in here unless you are asked."

Oops. She showed me to a small guest room. There was a single bed, a sewing machine, and a desk.

"THIS is where you sit when I don't need you."

See what I mean? Positioning. Then she gave me instructions for answering the phone.

"When you answer the phone you say, "Yes? Then you find out who it is. Then you say hello. NEVER say hello first. Find out if I wish to speak with them. If not, take a message. If I wish to speak to them, you are to announce me and give me the phone."

This was all very heady stuff for me. Bette Davis was shorter than me by half a head, stick thin, and absolutely terrifying. I was enthralled.

"Now. Let's see if you can handle an iron."

She handed me a bright red dress, led me to the ironing board, and left the room. This was a test. The dress was stiff and modern-looking with angles and creases everywhere. I pulled it onto the board while the iron got hot, thinking nervously of my propensity for fire. The iron was an evil thing. It steamed viciously. I put it to the fabric and to my horror, the fabric turned dark. Perhaps it is wet from steam, I thought. No. It was scorched. I was on the edge of panic. Any second now that dangerous woman would return and reduce me to a pile of smoldering ash for the ruin of her dress. There was only one thing to do. I scorched the entire thing so it would match. She came back moments later to check my progress. I held the dress out to her, staring like a rabbit in the road. She inspected it and to my surprise, seemed pleased.

"Good work. We know that you can handle an iron at least." She left the room to step into the dress and came back to be zipped up. I didn't move.

"Right," she said. "Today I have an interview with a young man from the Times. You will sit in your room until I need you."