W. C. Fields

HIS SALARY IS FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY; YET HE CAN’T GET USED TO THE LUXURY OF SLEEPING BETWEEN SHEETS
 
One of the greatest movie stars in Hollywood today is a genial gentleman with a big, red nose, a bay window, and practically no hair on the top of his head. In fact he’s a little short on pulchritude — but Paramount studios wouldn’t swap him for the Apollo Belvedere.

This portly gentleman’s name is Claude William Dukenfield, and only two or three years ago he was wearing out the seat of his pants sitting in casting rooms and waiting to see directors. He had been a star for ten years in the Ziegfeld Follies, and he had been in and out of movies for the past twenty years. But he was so broke that he offered to write, act, and direct a picture for absolutely nothing, if only some producer would give him a chance to come back. He thundered, begged, and wheedled. But the answer was always the same: No. Absolutely no!
 
But when David Copperfield finished production, Claude William Dukenfield cashed a check for the rather imposing sum of $50,000. for only ten days’ work. Five thousand dollars a day, or ten dollars a minute. That means that he was being paid at the rate of twenty-five times as much per day for acting in Hollywood as the President gets for running the United States. Possibly you remember Mr. Dukenfield’s masterly interpretation of the impecunious Micawber — because Claude William Dukenfield is, of course, the one and only, absolutely inimitable, W. C. Fields.
 
Seeing his name in flashing white lights is no novelty to the greatest juggler in the world. But on the other hand, being down in the gutter is no novelty to him either. At one time in his life, he didn’t sleep in a bed for four whole years. He slept on park benches, in hallways, in packing boxes, and he slept even in holes in the ground with a strip of oilcloth for a blanket. He says that to this day, the greatest thrill life can offer him, is the luxury of stretching out at night between freshly laundered sheets.
 
When it comes to the precarious art of juggling, W. C. Fields has absolutely no equal anywhere in the world. He’s been tossing and catching ever since he was fourteen years old. He started out by juggling apples and tennis balls in barns and blacksmith shops. He practiced every day of his life, and sometimes for sixteen hours a day. He even practiced when he was so sick he could barely stand up.
 
His theory was that a juggler ought to be able to juggle anything he can lift, and today W. C. Fields can perform the most dazzling stunts with eggs, boards, hats, canes, frying pans, dishes, shoes, biscuits, cigars, bricks, candle-sticks, and even flatirons.
 
He has juggled his way all around this awe-struck planet. He was applauded by the citizens of Johannesburg way back in the days of the Boer War. He was hissed by the patriots of Madrid right after the Spanish- American War. He convinced the good people of India, Egypt, France, Germany, England and Australia that it’s a cinch to juggle — if you know how.
 
Many people have the absurd notion that Fields is an Englishman. But that’s not true. He was born in Pennsylvania, and he’s as native to that state as Philadelphia scrapple.
 
W. C. Fields has been bumming around the world ever since he was a tow-headed kid of eleven. He ran away from home because of a misunderstanding with his father. At least, that’s what he calls it today — a misunderstanding. His eyes light up and sparkle as he tells you about it. It all started rather suddenly over a shovel — a shovel that the boy had left lying on the ground. When Father Dukenfield stepped on the shovel, the shovel jumped up and barked his shins. He was hopping mad — but while he was hopping, he grabbed up the shovel and hit the boy a clip on the shoulder.
 
That blow was tempting fate. Young Claude felt he had been challenged.
 
So he got hold of a big box, dragged it into the house, climbed up on a chair, and balanced the box carefully on the top of the door. A few minutes later, when Father Dukenfield came in — Wham!! — down came the box and crowned him on the top of the head in the neatest slapstick tradition.
 
Then this astonishing brat did the most expedient thing possible — he took to his heels and ran as fast and as far as his skinny, long legs would carry him. He ran so fast and so far that he never went back again. And the next time he saw his father, little Claude Dukenfield was W. C. Fields, the greatest juggler on earth.
 
From the time he left home to the time he was sixteen, he was as homeless as a mongrel pup. He slept wherever he could find a corner to curl up, and he ate whatever food he could beg, borrow, or swipe. He snitched so many milk bottles from the porches of respectable houses that to this day, he shudders at the sight of a watch-dog. When you talk to W. C. Fields, you feel as though you were talking to someone who had truly stepped out of a Dickens’ novel.
 
Once he was a professional drowner. He used to wade out into the ocean, roar for help, and pretend to flounder. Naturally, a crowd would gather to watch the rescue. And while Fields was gasping and sputtering for breath, his pals did a lively business selling hot dogs and ice cream to the onlookers. Sometimes, when business was brisk, he drowned as often as four or five times a day.
 
He was arrested more times than he can possibly remember, and he admits that if he tried the same things today, he’d land in a reformatory quicker than you can pull an ace out of a marked deck.
 
For a while he worked on an ice-wagon, and got up every morning at four o’clock. But all the while he was juggling, juggling with little pieces of ice and juggling with the ears of corn that he fed his horse.
 
After he’d been practicing for two years, he answered a newspaper advertisement for a juggler, and got the job. The salary was five dollars a week, but he had to pay the greedy manager a dollar and a half a week as commission. So to save money, he slept in the dressing room and lived on pie at five cents a slice.
 
Then followed three whole seasons of work without pay. Of course, he was supposed to be paid, but something always went wrong. Either the show collapsed, or the manager ran off with the funds. But Fields took it philosophically — at least he ate three times a day, and slept in a real bed. After what he’d been through, that seemed like the life of Reilly.
 
Today, W. C. Fields has a fine house in Hollywood, and a private dressing room with fifty hats nailed to the ceiling. People stand in long lines outside of theatres all over the land to watch him go through those casual antics that it took him forty years to perfect. And he can sleep now every night between freshly laundered sheets.
 
For "To this day,” he says, "when I climb between sheets, I smile. And when I get into bed and stretch out — hot diggety, is that a sensation!”