Hollywood High School, Circa 1936

My social life picked up nicely in 1936, when, as a senior at Hollywood High, I drove a ’34 Ford convertible with a rumble seat. My part-time job at the Coast Ice Cream Parlor on Sunset Boulevard provided enough cash for dates to movies or dancing to swing bands at the Palomar Ballroom. But there was one night that was utterly different.

It began after an evening meeting of a school service club, Hi-Y. The meeting ended early and I gathered up my three buddies, figuring we would stop for malts at Coast’s. But Nelson said he had a better idea involving a certain young woman from school. “Let’s go see if T.C.’s folks have gone to the movies like they usually do. And if they have, challenge her to a game of strip poker.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “She plays strip poker?”

“Well, she did last Friday night,” Nelson said. T.C. had had a girlfriend over when he and another male friend had dropped in. “We played till her folks came home. Of course T.C. had made up a rule that the game was over for anyone who lost his or her underpants. But it was some fun. Let’s give it a try.”

I didn’t hear any objections from Bill or Ken in the rumble seat so I turned the car around. T.C. was a rather plain-looking girl with a stick-like figure but the way she filled out a tight sweater got her the nickname of Treasure Chest.

So, in a few moments, there we were, ringing T.C.’s doorbell and she was letting us into the living room. We had checked the garage and knew her folks were out, so Nelson got right to the point. “We thought it would be neat to have a little game of strip poker,” he said. T.C. looked startled and eyed each of us slowly.

“I told them about the rules,” continued Nelson as a mischievous gleam came into T.C.’s eyes. “OK,” she said, “But only if you all promise not to talk about it at school.”

The next thing we knew we were sitting on the living room carpet playing poker and betting. T.C. was a little more conservative, betting her saddle shoes and bobby socks one at a time, but they lasted only 20 minutes. Then she bet her sweater, and as luck would have it, she won the next five hands. By then the rest of us were shoeless and Nelson and Ken had lost both their lettermen’s sweaters and their shirts. Finally, T.C. lost her sweater. The Treasure Chest was hidden now only by a lacy brassiere. Then we heard a car pull into the driveway, its headlights sweeping through the room.

“Oh, gawd! It’s mom and pop,” cried T.C. We all rushed to dress. Luckily, her dad had to get out of the car and open the garage door before driving in. By the time her folks came in, we were all dressed and talking about homework. We said, “Hi,” thanked T.C. for her homework help and left hurriedly.

When I started the car, Nelson turned toward me. “That was a bummer,” he said. “One more hand and she could have lost her bra.”

“Did she last week?” I asked. Nelson shrugged. “Nah. Her folks came home early then, too. I think they never stay for the double feature.”

“Oh, great,” I said. “Now you tell us.”

As we drove past the Sears store, Nelson stared at a building across the street where a bright red globe over the door signaled it was a well-known bordello. “Stop here a second,” Nelson said. “How about we go check it out? Like ask their prices, then say we’ll come back another day.”

I turned off the motor and we had a spirited conference. Nelson was outvoted 3 to 1.

A few minutes later, we were heading west on Sunset Boulevard and debating what flavor malts to order. But as we stopped at the signal at Sunset and Vine, a shiny new yellow Packard convertible pulled up on my left. It was probably the best looking of that year’s new models and I admired it. Then I recognized the passenger. There was no mistaking the platinum blond hair and the pert features of Jean Harlow, then the idol of all red-blooded American boys and men. She saw my double take and broke out in a huge smile as the Packard pulled away. I turned to Nelson. “Did you see her?”

“Yes,” Nelson said. “It’s Jean Harlow.” From the rumble seat, Bill called out, “We didn’t see her. Catch up with them.” And the chase was on.

Normally, you wouldn’t think that seeing a movie star in Hollywood was anything special. We were students at Hollywood High, where half the parents were in the movie business. Stars such as Alan Hale came to our football games because Alan Jr. was a classmate. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney came to our school dances, but we didn’t pay any attention because they were such young kids. We had classmates, including Alexis Smith and Nanette Fabray, who were getting bit parts in movies.

But Jean Harlow in a Packard, that was something else.

I caught up with the yellow car and kept pace. When it slowed, I did; when it went faster, I sped up. The man driving it seemed annoyed. I was enjoying the game, but the next time he raced away, he swerved into my lane and I had to hit the brakes to avoid rear-ending him. Then he sped off. I floored the gas pedal and pulled even with him, when suddenly the signal at the next corner changed and both of us skidded to a stop.

We were at Sunset and Highland. Hollywood High School occupied the next block. We could see Harlow burying herself deeper into the fur collar of her coat. Her date, a gray-haired man, got out of the Packard. He was dressed in a double-breasted gray flannel suit. His upper lip was decorated with a pencil-thin mustache, and his mouth was compressed in an angry line as he walked around to confront me. A torrent of words poured into my face.

“You young kids are a menace. You’ve been endangering our lives, and if I could find a cop I’d have you arrested.” He went on about how he was an important producer, and when he finally paused for breath, I said, “Hey, all we were doing was admiring the scenery.” At that, he lost his cool.

“Don’t give me any of your smart-alecky lip,” he said, and slapped me hard on the cheek. My glasses went flying. By the time I found them and got out of the car, my buddies were backing him into the middle of the intersection. Luckily, there was little traffic.

“Anyone lays a hand on me and I’ll have you jailed for assault and battery,” he said as I approached. I glanced down at his legs and couldn’t believe what I saw. Nelson had gotten behind him and was there, down on his hands and knees. I knew I had to go through with the set-up, or I’d never live it down. I started pointing my finger at him like a teacher lecturing a pupil.

“You hit me first,” I said. “If anyone should be arrested, it’s you.” He was already starting to move backward when I gave him a shove, and he tumbled over Nelson, rolling onto the street. As he scrambled to his feet, he shouted: “That does it! I’m going to get the police and have you all thrown in jail.”

“I’ve got three witnesses that’ll say you started it,” I shouted as he got into his car. The Packard roared past. I saw Harlow’s profile. She was no longer smiling.

We drove a block down Sunset to Coast’s. It was full of the usual noisy high school crowd pouring coins into the jukebox for such tunes as Benny Goodman’s latest hit, “One O’Clock Jump.” Ken found the cap on the nutmeg shaker had been loosened as a prank and he tightened it. “Kid stuff,” he said, and we became strangely quiet.

I spent the rest of the night and many other nights thinking of other things I might have said to the man in the gray flannel suit and the platinum blond in the yellow Packard convertible.