The Bradbury Chronicles (11 page)

While in Denver, Colorado, at one of the scheduled stop-offs, Ray went into a restaurant to shave. “I didn't hear them call that the bus was leaving,” said Ray. “I ran out and the bus was gone with my typewriter on it and all my belongings.” Fortunately, another bus came shortly afterward and soon Ray was back on the road, albeit without his beloved typewriter and his luggage.

 

D
ESPITE THE
multitude of remarkable people Ray would meet and work with over the decades, it was often the average person he encountered who impacted him indelibly. One such person was on the Greyhound bus with Ray. Edwina Potter, a tall, slender blonde, was sitting across the aisle from him. She was a few years older than Ray, and was heading to upstate New York for a job as a swimming instructor. They talked as hundreds of miles of America rushed by outside the windows. Ray was never sure why this beautiful woman paid him any attention at all. Looking back on the journey, he described himself as “a pimply-faced eighteen-year-old boy … overeating on Cokes, pie, and Clark Bars, unwashed, my hair long—especially for 1939, and in no way worthy of attention except I talked too much, or yelled all the time, because I loved being alive.”

The Greyhound dieseled into gray and gloomy Elizabeth, New Jersey, after four days and four nights on the road. Ray disembarked, then turned and looked back at the bus as it pulled away with Edwina looking out the window at him. They waved to each other. Nearly seventy years later, ever the sentimentalist, he would often talk about this small, tender moment in his life and this woman he met briefly.

To Ray's relief, he discovered his luggage and his portable typewriter waiting for him in the bus terminal lost and found. Ray then met a friend he had been corresponding with, pulp editor Charlie Hornig, and after the sun had risen, the two boarded a ferry to Manhattan. It was Ray's first glimpse of New York, gleaming in the morning sunshine, and he thought of the immigrants who had arrived in the city and seen much the same view.

Ray checked into the Sloane House YMCA and on Sunday, July 2, headed over to the convention, held at Caravan Hall on East Fifty-ninth Street. In so many ways, the convention altered the science fiction landscape. Until that point, fans of the genre (mostly poor teenage boys) had corresponded chiefly by mail; a lucky few with enough money to travel during the Depression visited other science fiction clubs in various cities. On this steamy July weekend, nearly two thousand fans, editors, writers, artists, and agents converged for the First World Science Fiction Convention. WorldCon was the first of its kind, and it paved the way to the myriad Star Trek, comic book, fantasy, and horror conventions that sprouted in the decades to follow. And Ray's pal Forry Ackerman was at the forefront of the subculture of eccentric enthusiasts. When the doors to the convention hall opened, Ackerman and his girlfriend, Myrtle R. Jones (known as Morojo), appeared garbed head-to-toe in futuristic regalia, costumes based on the H. G. Wells story “Things to Come.” As science fiction author Frederik Pohl said, they were “stylishly dressed in the fashions of the 25th century.” Ackerman was surprised that he and Morojo were the only ones dressed in character. “I just kind of thought everybody was going to come as spacemen or vampires or one thing or another,” admitted Ackerman. “We walked through the streets of Manhattan with children crying and pointing, ‘It's Flash Gordon! It's Buck Rogers!'” Unbeknownst to Ackerman and Morojo, they had started a trend at conventions that continues to this day. By the time WorldCon took place in Chicago the following year, a dozen fans arrived in costume.

It was the dawn of the Golden Age of Science Fiction, and many giants of the field were in attendance. Julius “Julie” Schwartz, who would later become Ray's first literary agent and long-running editor at DC Comics, was there and recalled fans mobbing writers Jack Williamson and L. Sprague de Camp on the streets of New York, hounding them for autographs. The guest of honor at the convention was famed artist Frank R. Paul (it was Paul's illustration of “The World of Giant Ants,” on the cover of
Amazing Stories
in 1928, that had set Ray Bradbury's imagination afire). A young Isaac Asimov, just beginning his writing career, was in attendance, as well as renowned editor John W. Campbell. Well-known fans Jack Darrow and Milton A. Rothman were there, too. Darrow, Rothman, and Forry Ackerman were three of the most ardent fans of science fiction at that time, and it was this trio, Asimov noted in his book
Asimov on Science Fiction,
“whose letters had littered the [science fiction] magazines.” It was a veritable who's who of the science fiction Golden Age. “The number of young people who were attending who had the creative essence is remarkable,” said writer David A. Kyle, a convention attendee. “It was really, truly, a magical time.”

The disparate fans and creators of the genre who had gathered for the first time helped build momentum for the oft-maligned and misunderstood field of science fiction; the convention was even briefly mentioned in
Time
magazine. And Ray Bradbury, who had always felt himself an outsider—alone in his imaginative world—was not feeling so alone anymore. David A. Kyle recalled Ray Bradbury as “so typical of us all. He was young, enthusiastic, idealistic, and had great visions of the future.”

As part of the convention program, there was a banquet at the Wyndham restaurant, but that cost additional money that Ray did not have. And, unfortunately, Forry Ackerman had no more cash to lend him. As Ackerman recalled, only 28 of the 185 attendees made it to the dinner. “It was a dollar a plate. No food mind you, just a dollar a plate,” recalled Ackerman sarcastically. “On top of that, we were expected to be generous and leave a ten-cent tip!” But Ackerman did arrange for Ray to hear artist Frank R. Paul, the guest of honor, speak at the dinner. After the speech, Ray was able to meet Paul, one of his early heroes since his childhood in Waukegan.

Ray brought several short stories with him to New York, hoping to interest agent Julius Schwartz in representing him. Schwartz passed on Ray's material, saying his writing had not yet developed sufficiently. But the agent encouraged Ray to continue writing and to send his material to him in the months ahead. No matter how much it frustrated him, Ray was still far from achieving his first turning point as an author.

Ray did meet
Weird Tales
editor Farnsworth Wright while in New York, who, as Ray recalled, was suffering terribly from Parkinson's disease. He showed the oil paintings and illustrations of his friend Hans Bok to Wright, who fell in love with them. “I felt so great,” remembered Ray, “as if it were my career on the line.” The career of Hans Bok, who would later win the 1953 Hugo Award for Best Cover Artist, had been launched, thanks to Ray Bradbury.

Aside from attending the convention, Ray spent a good amount of time gallivanting around New York. He acted as scorekeeper in a softball game between the Queens Science Fiction Society and the Philadelphia S-F Society; he went with friends to Coney Island, and got badly sunburned; and, of course, he visited the 1939 World's Fair, which had launched that June in Flushing Meadows, New York. “I visited the fair with a group of my science fiction friends and I was entranced,” said Ray. “I never wanted to leave.”

That night, standing outside the Russian exhibit, Ray watched as fireworks shot up into the darkness. He stood for a long time taking in the display as explosions of light reflected in his tear-filled eyes. In his mind, he knew it was only a matter of time, three or four months, perhaps, before the United States would enter the war. Everyone knew it—the daily newspapers, radio reports, and film reel clips portended the worst. “The sky was full of fireworks exploding and the war in the future exploding,” said Ray. Tears streaked his cheeks. The scent of gunpowder hung in the heavy summer air. But Ray's fear of the future only reaffirmed his connection to the present moment and the joy and comfort the World's Fair brought him. “It made me love it that much more,” Ray said.

When I think of Ray Bradbury's writings, unlike some writers who would make you look at the world through rose-colored glasses, I would look at ordinary things and not just look at them, but look through them and beyond.

—
ACE FREHLEY
,
the Spaceman, lead guitarist for KISS

A
FTER THE
convention, Ray was back on the Greyhound, heading to Waukegan, where his mother was staying with her sister Signe. It was his first visit back since his family left five years earlier. While he was there, he walked his old stomping ground on Genesee Street, past the movie houses, the soda fountain, and the barbershop. Ray saw in the United Cigar Store's display window a copy of John Steinbeck's new book,
The Grapes of Wrath,
and bought it. Two weeks later, once he was aboard the Greyhound bus again, he read it cover to cover as the bus crossed the nation. It was the tail end of the Great Depression, and Ray was reading what would one day be recognized as the seminal Depression-era novel.

Back in Los Angeles, Ray returned to selling newspapers on the street corner. He also continued attending the Thursday-night meetings of the Science Fiction Society. One evening, an unknown writer, Robert Heinlein, and his wife dropped in on the society. Heinlein had just published his first short story in the August 1939 issue of
Astounding Science Fiction
magazine, and he was on the verge of becoming one of the most well-known science fiction writers the field has ever known. But when he walked into the Brown Room at Clifton's Cafeteria that Thursday night, he had just sold one story, “Lifeline,” though it had already caused a stir in the tight-knit science fiction community.

Robert Heinlein was an ex-military man, a naval officer who had left the service after he had been diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis and deemed medically unfit for duty. But since the age of three, when Halley's comet had blazed over Kansas City, where he lived, Heinlein had held a deep affinity for astronomy, and, as an offshoot, a love of science fiction. After a brief attempt at a career in Los Angeles politics, he began writing science fiction. While the majority of fandom comprised the postadolescent set who had gathered at the recent WorldCon, Heinlein was different; he was a wise thirty-two when his first story saw publication. There was a refined quality about him, an affectation of his years in the military. He was dashing with his dark hair and movie-hero mustache. Heinlein eventually befriended Ray and became an important mentor, reading Ray's work occasionally and lending gentle advice. “He mainly just told me to keep writing,” said Ray. “Heinlein taught me human beings. He had human beings in his stories and they were much more personal.” Heinlein's wife, Leslyn, wasn't a writer, but she accompanied her husband to the meeting, finding great interest in the Science Fiction Society and in Ray. While some of the older members were put off by Ray's juvenile antics, Leslyn was kind—though she was sometimes as annoyed with his behavior as the others—and paid him much attention and the two became friends.

Ray was writing every day, but he was young and, by all accounts, creating page after page of overwritten prose, what he later called “baroque.” He was still copying writers like Poe, Henry James, and H. P. Lovecraft. Though he was sure he wanted to be a writer, Ray was distracted by his acting bug. One day he spotted an item in a newspaper column about a new theater group, the Wilshire Players, led by a promising brunette actress named Laraine Day. Day, under the name Laraine Johnson, had parts in two 1938 westerns that starred George O'Brien. A year later, she signed with MGM and changed her name to Day. She would go on to star in the popular Dr. Kildare series—seven films beginning with 1939's
Calling Dr. Kildare
—and in Alfred Hitchcock's 1940 film
Foreign Correspondent
.

When Ray saw the newspaper blurb that mentioned Day's theater group, he immediately proclaimed to his science fiction pals that he would be part of the group. He said it as if he had already been accepted. Ray discovered that the Wilshire Players met a few blocks from his house, in a Mormon church. Wearing hand-me-down clothes and long hair, Ray walked over one evening, hauling all his manuscripts with him (“My lousy short stories and bits of plays and things,” remembered Ray) and introduced himself to Laraine Day. She looked at him skeptically, and he saw that she was ready to reject him, and pleaded, “Please, you've got to let me in your group because I've told all my friends that you did.”

Day was taken by him. “He asked very earnestly to be part of the group,” said Day. “He wanted to be in the play we were producing. We certainly weren't being crowded with people who wanted to be a part of the show and Ray was pushy. He hung around and he was very pushy.” He was also endearing, and Day allowed him to join the Wilshire Players. However, Ray faced a dilemma. The group gathered on Thursday evenings, the same night the Science Fiction Society convened. Ray was torn, but he chose the acting group. At first, he wrote publicity for the group and helped paint sets, but he soon auditioned for a play written by Day,
Lame Brains and Daffodils
. To his delight, he was cast in a small role. When rehearsals began, Ray presented Day with jokes and gags to add to the script. “Laraine Day would go crazy,” recalled Ray. “She'd say, ‘No, we don't want that, but, on the other hand, that's pretty good. Let's put that in.'” Day thought his writing was rather clever.

On those Thursday nights when the theater group didn't meet, Ray made certain to attend all Science Fiction Society gatherings. And this is where he met Grant Beach, who, like a lot of people who became members of the society, stopped in one night out of curiosity. Beach was not much of a writer, but he had dreams of writing; moreover, he was a science fiction fan. Ray and Grant struck up a friendship, one that was so influential that Ray would later dedicate his first book,
Dark Carnival,
to him.

On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, setting World War Two into motion. As a newspaper salesman of draft age, Ray was acutely aware of the turbulent global political situation. It frightened him terribly. Would his nightmare about the war taking his life come true? Would he be sent overseas? Ray tried not to dwell on these thoughts. He threw himself into work with the Wilshire Players and his writing.

That fall, the Bradburys moved again, to an apartment located at 30541/2 West Twelfth Street, not far from the old place on Manhattan. The new apartment was on the second floor of a two-story house that sat behind a larger home on Twelfth Street.

Shortly after they moved, Ray published the second installment of his 'zine,
Futuria Fantasia,
with Hans Bok's art on the cover. The mimeographed print run was again approximately one hundred copies. Like the first issue, much of the material was written by Ray under pseudonyms. He wrote a poem, “Satan's Mistress,” under the name Doug Rogers, a coupling of his middle name and the surname of his childhood hero, Buck Rogers; an article about writer Henry Kuttner, “Is It True What They Say About Kuttner?,” under the pseudonym Guy Amory; a short story, “Return from Death,” under the name Anthony Corvais. Additionally, Ray wrote a wrap-up of the New York WorldCon titled “Convention Notes”; another article, “Local Society Life”; and the opening editorial, all without giving himself a byline. Three Science Fiction Society members contributed to the second issue: Henry Hasse, Henry Kuttner, and Erick Freyor.

Though he was busy with the Wilshire Players, Ray was still active in the science fiction community. He often corresponded with other fans and wrote pulp magazine editors. In November 1939, he wrote a letter to Wisconsin-based publishers August Derleth and Donald Wandrei of Arkham House to praise their first book,
The Outsider and Others,
written by H. P. Lovecraft. “I, like many other fans, have known and loved H.P.L.'s work,” Ray wrote, but his interest in Lovecraft was short-lived once he stopped imitating writers. What is more interesting about the letter was that, for the first time, Ray had reached out to August Derleth, the man who would seven and a half years later, in the spring of 1947, publish Ray's first book,
Dark Carnival
.

Meanwhile, Robert and Leslyn Heinlein, who were regularly attending the Science Fiction Society meetings, launched the Mañana Literary Society, which convened on Saturday nights at their home in Laurel Canyon, in the Hollywood Hills. This new group included some of the older members of the Science Fiction Society and several current and future heavyweights of science fiction, fantasy, and mystery—Henry Kuttner, Edmund Hamilton, Leigh Brackett, Jack Williamson, and C. L. Moore. Other notable writers, such as Anthony Boucher and L. Ron Hubbard, showed up sporadically. While the group was a more mature version of the rowdier Clifton's Cafeteria crew, they did invite Ray on a few occasions. But even when they allowed him to visit, Ray was always asked to sit off to the side and drink Coca-Colas as the rest of the group sipped alcoholic beverages. Ray didn't join the group often because, as Jack Williamson recalled, he was “still so brash and noisy that Leslyn didn't always want him.” But they let him in, and a few of them—notably Robert Heinlein—went out of their way to nurture Ray.

Once, Ray visited Heinlein at his home and stood behind him and watched him type; Ray knew that just standing there as witness he was privileged. In the fall of 1940, Heinlein helped Ray publish a short story. When Heinlein read Ray's story, “It's Not the Heat, It's the Hu …,” about a man who couldn't bear hearing clichés, he told Ray, “I can sell that for you.” Since he knew editor Rob Wagner, Heinlein sent the story to Script, a Hollywood literary magazine with a sizable following and a good reputation in Los Angeles (to some, the magazine was a lesser, West Coast
New Yorker
).

Not long after submitting the story, Ray received a letter at the house on West Twelfth Street. He tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper in his hands. The story had been accepted. There was no money—payment was three copies of the magazine—but Ray had made his first professional sale. He yelled for his mother, and when Esther Bradbury came rushing he told her the news. Her round face lit up with joy and she grabbed her son's hands and they danced together on the soft grass in the front yard, waltzing back and forth in the sunshine. Ray remembered this moment as one of his proudest, if not
the
proudest, moment of his writing career. And he owed it to Robert Heinlein.

Having a story published in
Script
only fueled his ambition that much more. And he also learned the importance of friends and mentors. Jack Williamson, the elder statesman of the Los Angeles science fiction community, also critiqued Ray's work. Williamson, who had published his first short story in 1928 in
Amazing Stories,
was quite patient. “I would go over to his apartment and I'd take some of my dreadful short stories and show them to him,” recalled Ray. “He could hardly keep his gorge from rising they were so bad. But he was so sweet. We'd go to movies at night and he treated me as an equal even though I wasn't.”

Ray also counted on Henry Kuttner, a well-established pulp writer, to mentor him. Though Ray always felt that Kuttner was simply putting up with him, thinking him immature and crazy, the older man critiqued Ray's manuscripts with a meticulous editorial eye when Ray visited him in his Beverly Hills apartment. Those times Ray handed him an overwritten, overdescribed story, Kuttner said, “If you ever write another short story like this, I'll kill you.” Kuttner flat out told Ray his writing was bad, calling it “purple.” He had been trying to write like Poe and Lovecraft, using words he found in
Hartrampf's Vocabulary,
and his work sounded archaic and contrived. Kuttner also told Ray to “shut up.” Kuttner felt Ray was spoiling his stories by sharing his ideas before they were written. He warned Ray that by the time he wrote them down, the spontaneity and life would be completely exhausted. Ray listened and zipped up until after the story was done.

“The best thing I think I got out of my relationship with Henry Kuttner,” said Ray, “the thing that I discovered about myself, was that I could take advice and listen to my elders and keep my mouth shut.” In the years leading up to the publication of Ray's first book,
Dark Carnival,
Kuttner continued to be a conscientious critic. After he moved from Los Angeles to upstate New York, Kuttner still gave Ray advice, sending long critical letters.

Henry Kuttner was also well read, his interests ranging far outside the fields of horror and science fiction, and over the course of their relationship through the late 1930s to the mid-1940s, he introduced Ray to many writers who would become important influences—John Collier, Katherine Anne Porter, and Willa Cather. Kuttner also gave Ray a copy of Sherwood Anderson's
Winesburg, Ohio,
and, after Ray finished it, he made a note for a novel concept similar in structure to Anderson's book, with similar characters, but all set on Mars. It would be years before Ray would write it, but the idea eventually became 1950's
The Martian Chronicles
.

All the while, Ray was still publishing
Futuria Fantasia,
putting out the third issue in the winter of 1940, with the same print run—about one hundred copies—as the previous two. Bok once again handled the cover art, but this time the artist also wrote a short story under the byline “H.V.B.” The issue ran twenty pages cover to cover and included contributions from Science Fiction Society members Henry Hasse and Ross Rocklynne, who had gained notoriety primarily in the pages of
Astounding Science Fiction
. Again, Ray contributed short stories, verse, and commentary, this time without attribution.