We here at Forever Saroyan are always reviewing our holdings as well as those in other collections. Every now and again, we'll come across a new piece of information that clears up the story of Saroyan's life and works. Sometimes, we come across a note or journal entry that gives us a new path for investigation. Once in a while, we'll come across a story we had never heard of or seen elsewhere. Rarely, we come across a story that is from his period between 1928, when his writing first appeared in The San Franciscan and the appearance of The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze in Story Magazine. A recent cataloguing project brought just such a story to our attention: "Escape by Steerage" which ran in The Frontier magazine in May, 1930.

The Frontier was founded as The Montanan in 1920, but changed its name for issue 2. It was intended to be a project Professor Harold G. Merriam put out with his University of Montana creative writing students. In November 1927, Merriam expanded that magazine's scope, adding a subtitle: “A Magazine of the Northwest” with the goal of fostering regional literature. The magazine continued through the 1930s, becoming The Frontier and Midland in 1933. It published its final issue in 1939 when Merriam left Montana to teach at University of Oregon. 

The story entered the Public Domain on January 1st, 2026, and is likely the final entry to be added before 2030 when his first collection, The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze and other stories, enters the Public Domain. We'll keep looking, but for now, this may well be the last published Saroyan story of that era to surface!

ESCAPE BY STEERAGE
By William Saroyan

The place was warm with smoke, and thick with the smell of men who perspired much and bathed little. At the card-tables sat seamen, stevedores, waterfront truck drivers, and ordinary bums. There were old men who played to pass away the time, and young men who played because they liked to gamble or wanted to forget. There were one-armed, one-eyed, crippled, and diseased men who played to occupy their troubled minds. There were strangers in town who played to make friends. The homeless and homesick played to drown their longings for another place.

Surrounding each of the dozen tables were three or four spittoons, full, almost to the brim, of a slime of cigar and cigarette butts, and spittle. The house cat, a magnificent animal of jet black, serene, well-fed and well-adjusted to his environment, strolled about leisurely, rubbing against the legs of a few chosen men. About the bright, pale-white lights buzzed a group of moths.

At the eating-tables sat the usual crowd of homeless men, some very old, with bleary and blood-shot eyes, and some very young. In another two hours these homeless creatures would be turned out into the streets to seek shelter in a dark corner; at eight in the morning they would come drifting in again to sit immovable as Buddhas with their visions fixed in space.

Once a Salvation Army lassie with clean face and healthy eyes moved from table to table, poking the War Cry before the players, but not saying a word. She did not smile or look into anyone’s eyes.

Outside, rival street evangelists pounded drums, blew trumpets, gave testimony, and prayed. Once the high-soprano, hysterical voice of a young woman giving testimony was heard, and someone called out, “Why doesn’t she find herself a husband?”

At the bar a fat, round man with a great, red moustache, badly kept, rolled poker dice with the bartender for drinks. Alternately he cursed and rejoiced, according to his luck. When he had lost all his money he staggered away with a pathetic gesture. He was very sad and drunk, and his gesture caught the futility of all things. Another person took his place a moment after he was gone.

At one of the tables sat Marcotti, aged twenty, typist and clerk. As he lifted the cards that were dealt him, he seemed bored and disgusted and troubled. A melody from an opera repeated itself in his brain so many times that he finally commenced humming it softly, wondering why he did so. From time to time he ordered a coca cola, sipping each slowly, in an effort to change the bitter taste of the cigarettes he had smoked. His throat was hot, his head muddled, and his cheeks flushed from the heat of the place.

A rather pleasant fellow, given to speaking incoherently, sat beside him. He was perhaps forty or more and yet boyish in appearance. He had been drunk, he kept repeating, for more than a week. He had entered the game with only a quarter, which he placed before him, admitting frankly it was all the money he had in the world. In spite of the fact that he was drunk he managed to win a number of games, and this, for some reason, pleased Marcotti.

Once the fellow said, “She asked me for five and I gave her ten.”

Marcotti asked, “Why?”

“Why?” repeated the man, surprised. “I loved her. I gave her ten. She asked for five. If you love a woman you give her everything you’ve got. Yes, and you spoil her.”

At this Marcotti laughed for the first time that evening, and he thought of her whom he had loved. Looking at his cards, he saw her, and unconsciously he hummed the tune he associated with her. This they had heard at a movie. It was an Italian love song, a serenade, whispering that true love belonged to music only. He remembered how he had asked the girl, “Isn’t it beautiful?” And how foolish and inadequate the words had seemed immediately after. She had replied curtly, “I don’t like classics!”

When they walked home that night Marcotti was displeased. Her talking bored him and he wanted to get away from her. As they walked she said: “Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened today. It’s too funny to believe. This morning when I got on the street car it was terribly crowded—you know how the cars are in the mornings—so I had to stand. I didn’t do it on purpose or anything, but I happened to stand by a man who had a seat. He was reading the paper but he looked up to see me, and then he got up and offered me his seat. I had to take it. I didn’t smile or anything—I don’t think I even looked in his eyes; but he thought I was flirting and he commenced touching my back. I really didn’t know what to do, so I got off the car. The funny part of it was that he got off, too, right behind me and followed me. I could hardly walk and I wanted to call a policeman. But what could I tell a policeman? I passed one, but I didn’t say anything. At last I reached the door of the building where I work, and when I was inside I turned to take a last look at the brute. And do you know what he did? He winked!”

Marcotti was disgusted with her. She was utterly disappointing. “You are so pretty,” he said, “that even the men in the streets cannot help following you. Girls like you must be very careful.”

A little quarrel followed and he left her in the middle of the block with an impolite “good-night, my dear.” She was just an ordinary person. But that he loved her he could not deny. He tried to feel amused with the affair and he thought it was a case of necessity. One had to be in love with someone.

Now he sat at a table in a rummy house playing cards, trying to forget all the things he would be thinking about if he were not playing. Of course that was the reason he played. So many things were the matter that he had to sit at a table with a lot of dull fools and play cards.

He had quit his job that very evening at six. He had asked for the increase in salary which had been promised him, was refused, and he had calmly demanded his pay-check. He was so depressed, and cared so little to talk with anyone about what he had done, that he hurried to the rummy house to get into a game, and since six o’clock he had sat there, almost silent, dreaming and humming and forgetting.

At two in the morning, a few minutes before the place closed, he roused himself from his trance, got up from his chair and walked out of the house. On the street, Embarcadero, the thick fog rolled in from the bay. He walked across the street to the Ferry Building and waited for a street car. Now and then a taxi scurried along, carrying phantoms of men and women, its lights glaring ahead in the mist. Solemnly a departing ferry booed and from the distance a fog-horn replied with a weird scream. Two old men who sold morning papers stood together smoking cigarettes and talking softly.

After some time his car arrived, he got aboard, and it rattled up Market Street with its half-dozen sleepy passengers. He lit another cigarette, drew the smoke deep into his chest, and was suddenly amazed at what he had done.

Why had he quit his job? Work was scarce and he was in debt.

Why had he gone to the rummy house? It was a cowardly thing to do. He could have read a novel.

What would happen to him when he got home? Two o’clock. His mother would be frantic with worry.

The car stopped at his corner and he got off, ran across the street into his doorway, opened the door and went upstairs; rather slowly, since he was very tired and did not know what to tell his mother.

When she heard his footsteps on the stairs she arose silently from her bed and went into the hall, followed by his elder sister. Both were in nightgowns.

“Where have you been?” his mother asked.

Before he could answer his sister cried, “Are you going to disgrace us?”

The taste of nicotine was bitter in his mouth, but his helplessness in face of his mother and sister made his heart even more bitter.

Everything was so futile, so worthless, it seemed so useless for him to try to explain, that he cried out, “Oh, go to hell!” The words escaped him involuntarily, and he listened to them as if another had spoken. He was angry with himself and he thought: “What am I saying? Why am I talking this way?”

They stood by waiting for him to say something more. He could only add, “Do you think a man must always be home at six and in bed by nine? I’m sick of this life.”

Without another word they went back to bed.

Before undressing he counted what was left of his money to see how much he had lost. It had cost him eleven dollars to forget himself for a few hours. Disgusted with himself, he reflected that it took him three tortured days to earn eleven dollars, and but a single night to lose it. He knew better than to grow remorseful. It would not help matters, and he was too tired. Tired of doing things he was not made to do. A typist in a hardware store. Hardware—pots, pans, nails, screws, door knobs, linoleum, hammers, chains.

He undressed slowly and slipped into bed, but he could not sleep immediately. He went over all the occurrences of his life to try to find a reason for what he was doing. Another young man of his age, he believed, would not have quit his job. Would not have been bored with a pretty girl. Would not have gone into a rummy house and squandered his money. Would not have told his mother and sister to go to hell.

But he was exhausted and finally fell into a sound sleep which seemed to last but a few minutes. When he was conscious that it was morning, and that he was awake, he heard his mother and sister moving about in the kitchen. He heard them putting on the coffee, smelt the toast as it began to burn, and listened to what they were saying about him.

“He is no good,” said his sister.

“He is becoming worse and worse as the years go by,” said his mother. “He used to be different.”

“God only knows where he spent his time last night,” said his sister.

He arose and dressed. In the kitchen he was met with scowls. He said, “Good-morning, Ma,” but his mother would not speak. He put some hot water in a pan and lit the gas beneath it on the range. When it boiled he poured some of the water into his shaving mug and lathered his face. Then he stropped his razor and commenced shaving. His eyes, he noticed, had dark rings beneath them. He had not slept enough. Silently he shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, put on his shirt, tie, and coat.

He filled his own cup of coffee and sat down to breakfast. His mother did not fry two eggs for him. She got up from the table when he sat down. His sister also arose. Perhaps they imagined he had been to a brothel. He might tell the truth, but he did not want to let them know he had quit his job. If they knew, there would be no end to their reproaches. They would tell him he had not given a cent toward the family expenses in a year. They would grow sick.

The sun came through the little kitchen window and fell across his face, but he was in no mood for it. The day was bright and he reminded himself that it was the first of July. It was the best time of the year for happiness. The summer symphony concerts were commencing. In another month or two the opera season would begin. Tennis could be played on Sunday mornings. He could go swimming Sunday afternoons, and get tanned. Life was at its best now. But he was in no mood for it.

He felt he might never again be in a mood to enjoy life. He believed existence would always be a struggle for him.

With only half his coffee sipped and one bit of dry toast swallowed, he arose and adjusted his hat on his head. When he was near the stairway his sister came to him and asked maliciously, “Where were you last night?” She had no sympathy. She did not mean to understand him. He was annoyed, angry, and again he said, “Oh, go to hell, will you!”

From the kitchen his mother flew at him enraged.

“How dare you tell your sister such a thing!” she screamed. “You dog!” Almost insane, she was on him, hitting and scratching his face. His sister pulled her away.

“The neighbors will hear, Ma,” she said. “Let him be. Let him ruin himself!”

Swearing, he hurried from the house, hurt and startled. What a family! What a mother and sister! What stupid lies the world had created about mothers and sisters. With his handkerchief he wiped the blood from the scratch on his neck. “They are barbarians,” he thought. “Uncivilized barbarians.”

Instead of taking a street-car he walked. He did not have to be at work at eight-thirty. He took his money from his pocket and counted it, although he knew how much he had. Thirty-four dollars. He put the money away and lit a cigarette. His mouth was still bitter, his eyes glassy, and his vision blurred. At Fillmore Street he bought an Examiner and turned to the want ads. There was nothing doing except at the employment agencies. He decided to try them.

At one of the agencies he found over two dozen men waiting to be interviewed by a man in a little private room surrounded by a glass wall. He filled an application blank.

Name: John Marcotti.
Address: 2378 Sutter Street.
Age: He decided to make it Twenty-two.
Nationality: Italian.
Religion: What should it be? He felt he should say Mohammedan, but decided it would only endanger his chances of getting work, so he put down Catholic.

One after another he wrote in his answers to the questions. He furnished names for references and gave a list of places where he had worked. He gave his weight, height, color of hair, of eyes, and of body. There were no scars on him, he had no bad habits, did not drink or gamble, and never was a insanity in his family. Not much, anyway.

When his turn came he was interviewed by the man in the glass cage. This person was most happy with his job. He was very proud to see so many men younger than himself out of work. He smoked one cigarette after another, as if his work required strenuous thinking, and he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils with a peculiarly annoying air of superiority.

Marcotti said, “Good-morning, sir. My name is Marcotti. I noticed you advertised for a typist this morning.”

The man took his application card and examined it.

“Hmmmm,” he said, “just quit a job, I see.”

“Yes.”

“And why?”

“I have a job at twenty-five per week in a stock and bond house,” said the man, “but they want a man of about twenty-five.”

“Tell them I’m twenty-five,” said Marcotti.

“Yes,” said the man, “you look older than your age. Will you be able to pay your fee in cash?”

“No,” said Marcotti, “I’ll pay you in full when I get my first pay-check.”

He signed a contract to that effect and was given a slip of introduction to a firm on Bush Street.

The man who was to interview him was busy, so Marcotti sat down to wait. He lit one cigarette from the butt of another and with each one he decided he ought to quit smoking. It was doing him no good.

Downstairs in the stock and bond house the men stood about in groups discussing the stocks they had purchased. From where he sat on the mezzanine floor Marcotti could observe their expressions of worry. A few seemed happy, but most of them were distressed, just like the rummy house gamblers, except for their clothes and baths. The board-markers ran back and forth putting down new figures, and erasing old. The market rose and fell, and as it did so the men became happy or sad. Just like the man who rolled poker dice for drinks.

After some time Marcotti was shown a door to an office marked Private, and he entered. The man at the desk was talking over a telephone. He was bald, middle-aged, had a lipless mouth, and was dressed immaculately. Marcotti waited until his conversation was over and then handed the man his slip of introduction. A few questions were asked in regard to experience in the stock and bond game, dependents, speed at the typewriter, and intention to advance. Marcotti made suitable replies in each case and was asked to leave his telephone number.

“I have no phone,” he said.

“Your address then?” asked the man; and when it was given he added evasively, “I will drop you a line.”

Marcotti was familiar with the term. Politely it meant “nothing doing.” Without another word he left the office.

Why he had been refused work he did not know, unless it was because of the rings beneath his eyes. But it actually made no difference whether he got a job or not. He did not feel that he was actually looking for work. He believed he was about to do something he had never before done. He could not tell what it would be.

From one employment agency to another he went, however, filling in application forms, taking tests on the typewriter, answering questions, and going where he was sent. He did not succeed in landing a job. His failure might have been due to his manner. He probably made it apparent that it really did not matter whether he got a job or not. He did not know whether he did really want a job.

When there were no more places to go to he did not know what he should do next. He stopped before a second-hand book shop on Third Street, and glanced at the old books on the shelves. He was in no mood to read, however, or he would go to the public library and bury himself in something deep and sad by Dreiser or Maxim Gorky. There were times when one could not read; and times, he believed, when one lived literature.

He left the book shop and moved automatically towards one of the many rummy houses on the street, not certain if he should go in and play. Finally he entered one, as if against his own will, stood about trying to compose himself for a few moments, and then walked out. The dull players repulsed him with their petty worrying and weeping over losses.

He passed a moving-picture theatre, and stood idly looking at the photographs of the chief players.

He moved on. He felt ashamed of himself for thinking he might have gone to a theatre at such an hour of the day.

He was still very tired and wanted to go to sleep. If he went home he would find no peace. There would be hitting, swearing, and afterwards weeping and praying. Home was such an undesirable, such an uninviting place for him that he felt he should never want to return to it.

A sign invited him to join the Navy and see the world. He smiled at the thought.

He debated seriously if it wasn’t time for him to set out in life for himself. Perhaps he was doing what was only natural in men of his kind and age. It would be best for him to clear out, he thought; to leave his mother and sister alone in their security. He would always jar and disturb them. They did not need his help, such as it was, as much as they imagined. His sister worked. His mother owned a little property. They would be happier without him.

He continued walking about town aimlessly, stopping before the windows of book shops and art stores, all the time trying to make up his mind what he should do. If he left home he would live alone in a tiny room, and he wondered if he would like that. He would eat in restaurants food he was not accustomed to. He would sleep in beds that were strange to his body. Life would be difficult.

He was tired of walking when he reached Union Square park, and sat down on a bench in the sun. He remained on the bench for an hour, half-asleep, half-awake. The sun was warm and comfortable, and a shaft of bright light seemed to enter his mind, illuminating it, warming it, and cleaning it of ancient dust. He felt refreshed in his dream.

There was nothing for him to do in all the world but to sit in the sun. He dozed happily until the sun disappeared behind a cloud. He became conscious of the sudden loss of a comforting warmth, and roused himself to movement.

He left the park bench abruptly, as if his mind had been quite definitely made up, and hurried to Market Street. He entered a steamship ticket-office.

“How much to Los Angeles?” he asked. He was very sleepy and wanted to reach some place where he could go on dreaming.

“Fourteen dollars, first class,” said the ticket agent.

“What’s the cheapest rate?”

“Steerage,” said the ticket agent, “eight dollars.”

“That’s what I want,” said Marcotti. He purchased his ticket and was informed he could get aboard the boat immediately. It was nearly three o’clock and the boat sailed at six.

With his ticket in his pocket he asked himself if he should go home and get his personal belongings, his shaving set, his few books, his few letters, and his clothes and shoes. For some time he thought he should go home and pack his suitcase, but he finally decided, “I am going to escape from all that. I don’t want to have any memories. I don’t want to see my mother again. Nor my other shoes, nor my other suits, nor my letters. This is good-bye to everything for me. This is good-bye to John Marcotti. In Los Angeles I will begin all over. This is better than suicide.”

When he reached the waterfront he realized his mother did not know what he was doing, and he hurried to the nearest telegraph office where he wrote her a short note, asking her not to worry about him. “After all,” he thought, “she’s my mother. She loves me. She means well.”

He got aboard the ship three hours before it sailed, was shown his bunk, and, still tired and sleepy, he fell into it and went to sleep.

When he awoke the ship was passing through the Golden Gate, and he hurried to the upper deck to take a last look at his city. The night was soft and peaceful. The sun was just sinking in the ocean, and as he looked at the vanishing hills of his home town a sweet sadness, more pleasant than painful, came over him. It was a good thing not to be dead. It was a good thing to be leaving home.

He was almost in sobs when he whispered to himself, “Good-bye San Francisco! Good-bye John Marcotti. Good-bye!”

Variety Shows were a favorite of early television networks. Shows like Cavalcade of Stars and The Original Amateur Hour were popular and tended to focus on skits, songs, and other light entertainments. This format was simple to stage, making it ideal for the early days of television. Many saw these shows as lightweight, pandering to shorter attention spans. This led producers to look for ways to add more high-brow work. One major proponent of that idea was ad man James Webb Young, who hired a producer to make the show happen: Robert Saudek.

Saudek had been the Vice-President of Public Programming at ABC, but had left to take a job as the Director of the Radio-Television Workshop of The Ford Foundation. The Ford Foundation, founded in 1936, was the charitable branch created by Henry and Edsel Ford in 1936. After World War II, the Foundation funded many programs in Europe, but increasingly funded more programs for Americans in the Arts as the 1950s dawned. With Saudek on-board as Director, they began funding television and radio initiatives, including National Educational Television, NET, which launched in 1952. Saudek believed that there was high potential for cultural dissemination through the medium of television.

Now, there had been other attempts at bringing traditionally ‘high culture’ to television, even the insanely popular Toast of the Town (The Ed Sullivan Show) featured classical music and opera singers from time-to-time. The idea of a show whose goal was to advance those sorts of presentations as a rule might have been a break-through at the time, but it was also an experiment that a group like the Ford Foundation could afford to undertake. Saudek perfectly encapsulated the idea in a piece that ran in Jack Gaver’s entertainment column: “In this hour and a half we are going to try and present all that is best in all of the various fields of entertainment as well as certain educational and public service features. There will be no rigid format that is followed every week. For example, our features will be of a length required for their best presentation. If a drama needs twenty minutes, that’s what we will give it, instead of trying to cut it to 15 minutes or stretch it to 30. There will even be five-minute items at times.”

Saudek brought together a fascinating team of producers. Fred Rickey was a producer known for his work on television specials for CBS, including the initial meetings of the United Nations Human Rights Commission and Premiere, the first color television program for CBS in 1951. William Spier was a writer and producer who had worked on The Clock on both radio and television. Director Alex Segal had won a Peabody Award for his work on The Celanese Theatre. Mary Ahearn had worked as a script supervisor and worked her way up to producer. A pioneering woman in television production, her role in the project would become vital.

William Saroyan himself had a long history of interactions with Ford Motor Company. He regularly wrote for The Ford Times, the official magazine of Ford. In fact, he had exchanged writing for the magazine for a new car. By 1952, he had ten pre-written plays, each thirty minutes, that he had created for the William Saroyan Theatre project. He had shopped them around and they came to the attention of producers at CBS.

The gathering of personnel was a major undertaking, and the selection of a host was seen as crucial consideration, because the material was going to be of a particularly high-art nature. The choice was Alistair Cooke. Cooke had made his name as a radio presenter, first in the UK, but came to the US in the 1930s. He became well-known in America for his dispatches covering the Abdication of Edward VIII for Americans. He was also well-known as an author and for serving as editor of the long-running magazine Granta. He was a widely-known cultural figure in the US, and thus perfect for the most significant television arts program yet attempted

Omnibus debuted on November 9, 1952. Host Cooke opened the episode with a portion of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado. It was a light-hearted way to start the first episode, and it was followed by The Trial of Anne Boleyn, based on Maxwell Anderson’s play, starring Rex Harrison and Lilli Palmer. This was incredibly well-received, with columnist Harry MacArthur saying:

“To Mr. Anderson, Miss Palmer, Mr. Harrison, Mr. Segal and “Omnibus,” a special vote of thanks for demonstrating what can be done with adult drama on television. A most exciting work, this “Trial of Anne Boleyn.” A most exciting woman is this Lilli Palmer, too, for that matter.”

The rest of the 90-minute episode included a look at x-rays, a short film about a Haitian ‘witch doctor’ and an Armistice Day tribute, along with William Saroyan’s The Bad Men.

The Bad Men was the first piece he completed for the William Saroyan Theatre project, although he had it written well before that project came to form. As would become typical of Saroyan’s plays shown on Omnibus, the author himself appeared as narrator and provided an introduction where he talked with a little girl. The story is described by Greensboro Daily News  “Today’s premiere performance marks the first time that a dramatic work has been written specially for television by the distinguished American playwright, William Saroyan. It will be a one-act play called “The Bad Men.”

In typical Saroyan introspective fashion, “The Bad Men” concerns an odd assortment of characters who come and go in a small railroad station in the Southwest. There is wistful contemplation as each of the itinerants gives his own views, by word or deed, on what really constitutes a “bad man.”

The characters move in and out, delivering dialogue and interactions that employ Saroyan’s legendary outlook on the world. None of them are truly ‘bad men’ but all of them are at least somewhat outside what would be considered ‘regular’ society.

The reaction to the Saroyan play was typical of all Saroyan’s works.

Swing magazine said, "The Bad Men," which probably took the individual honors of the afternoon, had Mr. Saroyan's fingerprints all over it. It dealt lovingly on a couple of vaguely intoxicated Indians who were the bad men of the title but actually the good men of life. The theme, I gather, was that all men should love one another, a theme with which Mr. Saroyan has toyed before and finds inexhaustible. It was marked by that childlike grace and manic charm which is Mr. Saroyan's specialty.”

Billboard was slightly less enthusiastic about the program, saying, “The Saroyan piece was Saroyan all over again, full of the cock-eyed. wonderful people that delighted so many readers and playgoers 15 or so years ago.”

The New Yorker’s reviewer Philip Hamburger said that the comedy morphed into forced whimsy, while The New York Times only briefly touched on it while heaping praise on the Anderson historical piece. The Staten Island Advance said it “wasn’t one of the Armenian authors better works.”

The overall reviews for the first episode were exceptionally positive, with the New York Times saying “Bravo!” as the open of their positive review. Every major news group seemed to give acclaim to the first episode, including The New Yorker, Billboard, and The Los Angeles Times. Entertainment columnist Sherley Uhl called on CBS to move it into their regular prime time schedule.

Omnibus was clearly about to make a splash on the kind of programming that television could present, but it also wasn’t a significant mover of ratings. The ratings were steady but did not approach those garnered by more traditional variety programs like The Philco Television Playhouse or the powerhouse that was Milton Berle on Texaco Star Theatre. Ratings, though, may not have been the primary goal. Saudek and the Ford Foundation were far more interested in innovating within the world of content. Opera, ballet, classical music, and even silent films were featured. Of course, educational fare was a regular feature, and Leonard Bernstein would not only present classical music, but explanatory pieces on theory and history of orchestral music. The show certainly did change what television could do and would continue to do so on various networks and at various times through 1961. The format would influence much of what would be presented on NET, and later PBS.

Saroyan’s plays, and the author himself, would appear several times across the entire run. Some were highly regarded, and some not so much. The next two episodes will look at a few of the individual plays Saroyan presented, starting next time with The California Boyhood of William Saroyan and The Best Year in History. So stay tuned.

Saroyan’s transition from stage to big screen did not work out as he would have liked. The two films based on his work in the 1940s, The Human Comedy and The Time of Your Life, were strong films, neither of which earned as much as the original properties.

Saroyan also hated the results of both adaptations. 

As television was still finding its footing in the 1950s, Saroyan saw a great opportunity to gain an arena where he could have more control over his output. By 1951, he had already written several scripts or allowed his works to be adapted by others. In some cases, it’s unclear who actually wrote the teleplay for the screen, though letters seem to indicate that he was usually involved, if not fully producing the scripts himself. 

Saroyan produced his own plays from 1939 through his draft into the Army three years later. He had produced and directed a single short film. He had never ceased churning out plays and other scripts and had written for the radio more than once. The idea of creating his own television series seems to have come to him fairly early, about 1951 or 1952. The idea was that Saroyan would write 13 plays and produce and direct them. 

One reason for wanting to do it himself may have been discussions in 1951 and early 1952 to produce his play Jim Dandy for television with Warren Wade Productions. Saroyan had known Capt. Warren Wade during his time as a part of the Army Pictorial Unit in Astoria, Queens. Now, Wade was a television producer working to bring plays to the first season of Broadway Television Theatre, and Saroyan had been contacted about potentially bringing Jim Dandy, one of Saroyan’sfavorites, to television. In one letter to Wade, Saroyan said “I have always worked with too many little groups, letting them do my stuff, and they simply aren't ready for it, they do it badly, and the poor critics make me take the rap. Jim Dandy is one of the greatest plays of our time: way ahead, for instance, of The Cocktail Party, much more authentically theatrical, dramatic, amusing, wise, and meaningful; and far ahead of the other fellow from England, Christopher Fry.”

The series had yet to debut, but both plays were hot properties, and Saroyan likely assumed that Wade had been in talks for the Fry piece, The Lady’s Not for Burning and The Cocktail Party, though neither ended up being produced for the first season. Oddly The Lady’s Not For Burning was later produced for a show with which Saroyan would later be deeply associated.

He had pitched Jim Dandy previously for cinematic adaptation to both RKO and Warner Brothers, though producers had found it lacked enough story to carry a film. Wade seemed in favor of presenting it, but by May of 1952, had informed William that he was passing on it. At that point, he had already begun the work on a new project to do what he often did; cut out the middleman. Here, he had proposed that he would create 13 original plays and present them on television. At some point, he referred to the program as The Wonderful World of William Saroyan, though it’s not usually referred to as such. 

To make it happen, he needed access to backers and executive producers who could negotiate with the networks. While he had connections, particularly with CBS. Saroyan often knew what he didn’t know. That was what led him to partnerships like the one with Ben Medford and Ned Brown during the Time of Your Life shopping around period. Saroyan was living in Hollywood, and as was often the case in the 1950s, he needed money, especially to keep up with payments to his ex-wife Carol, and with various creditors. To manage those issues, he hired a business manager, Bill Stern. Stern seemed to act more broadly than someone Saroyan described as being hired to “fill out and file taxes” for him. It seemed that Saroyan had acquired something of another de facto agent.

Saroyan had various semi-official agents over the years, notably Stanley Rose, but seldom with much formality. In the 1930s, he was represented by New York agent Ann Watkins. Though their association was brief, with it likely over by 1939. Through Watkins, he first encountered Hal Matson, who he would work with, and frequently be supported by for years to come. While short in tenure, Watkins would get enquiries about Saroyan’s work through at least the 1960s. He often associated with agents in short term, deal-specific agreements, such the work Medford and Brown did to land The Time of Your Life deal. Ross Bagdasarian even seemed to play an agent-like role at times. 

He also had something of a relationship with William Morris, arguably the most important agency of the time. He had several interactions with James Geller in the 1930s, including Geller asking if Saroyan would consider taking screenwriting work in Hollywood as early as 1934.  William Morris became a major player in bringing theatre work to television, and Saroyan again became acquainted with the agency. Apparently, it was through Stern that he was introduced to the three primary Hollywood figures that would make Saroyan’s series happen: Rodney Armateu, John Beck, and Arthur Desser.

According to The Ross Report from early May 1952, the deal was set - 

“A new corporation, William Saroyan TV Playhouse, Inc., has been set up by Arthur Desser, a member of the law firm handling the playwright's legal matters, to produce a series of 26 half-hour films for television. Rodney Amateau, who recently finished directing "Monsoon” in India, will co-produce and co-direct the color films with Saroyan. Each of the films will be different plays, all written by Saroyan, with production scheduled to start in mid-July.”

Amateau was a director, and had just come off helming The Bushwhackers, a film where his directing talent was specifically seen as lacking. His next film, Monsoon, wasshot at the start of 1952, and was better received. He was a young director brought on to help Saroyan with the directing duties. He would have a long career, though is often cited for his final film: The Garbage Pail Kids Movie, widely seen as one of the worst of all-time. 

John Leggett’s The Daring Young Man, notes that John Beck was the third partner. Beck was a William Morris executive who had previously been a producer, notably on the Jimmy Stewart classic Harvey. He would spend most of the 1950s at the agency or working for RKO or helping to negotiate the deal that merged Universal Pictures and International pictures in what was the largest Hollywood merger of the day. He was brought on to serve as an advisor and producer, and he would certainly have had the adequate connections to land major stars for the series. His role in the scenario is slightly complicated.

Arthur Desser was a lawyer. His firm, Desser, Rau and Christensen, had been handling Saroyan’s legal affairs, at least partially according to Variety. Arising from his debts to a Beverly Hills landlord, Saroyan was embroiled in a case – Sechy vs. Saroyan, in which Desser’s firm represented him. Desser appears to have been the money man on the deal. As a part of the deal to create the corporation, William Saroyan Television Playhouse, Inc., Desser would front the 4,000-dollar loan to Saroyan to help him settle his debts. He was also noted in Variety to be assigned to finding financing. 

The idea that Saroyan had pitched was to create 13 plays for the series, though at least one of the scripts originally pitched as a part of the project was My Heart’s in the Highlands, which he had written teleplays for more than once. 

The plays would be registered through William Morris, and Saroyan started writing them even before the initial announcement of the series in May. According to Variety, he had already written five of the plays, starting with The Bad Men. This was a play he had been working on since at least 1950, as noted on the earliest dated draft in the Green Library’s William Saroyan collection. It should be noted that on a 1952 version of the script, it was noted as for “The Wonderful World of William Saroyan.”

The deal that was signed between all the parties, and apparently overseen by William Morris, was fairly strict on Saroyan’s time and output:

WHEREAS, First Party is about to engage in the business of producing one (1) or more series consisting of thirteen (13) one-half (1/2) hour motion picture photoplays based on stories written and to be written by Second Party, for distribution and release through the medium of television and otherwise; and

WHEREAS, Second Party is a person having worldwide renown and acclaim as a writer; and

WHEREAS, the parties desire to enter into an agreement whereby Second Party shall render his services to First Party.

NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the premises, it is agreed and understood as follows:

(1) Second Party agrees to devote his efforts exclusively to the creation of at least thirteen (13) stories and shooting scripts based thereon and deliver the same to First Party within a period of six (6) months from the date of the execution of this agreement, provided, however, that said time shall be extended until said stories and shooting scripts have been completed and delivered.

The key portion there was that Saroyan “was to devote his efforts exclusively to the creation of the 13 plays. He always saw writing as the means to maintain his lifestyle, and it was a major problem he had with his time in the army. He always thought that he should be writing and that it was through writing that he would always find the money to lead his way out. It was likely the loan from Desser that led Saroyan to even consider the deal in the first place. 

Through William Morris, though in the name of Saroyan Television Playhouse, ten total plays were registered: The Bad Men, The Oyster and The Pearl, The Man in the Cool Cooll Moon, A Picture for the Family Album, The Survivors, A Spring Day at the Marriage License Bureau, An Everyday Family Miracle, Scalawag’s Heaven, The Christmas Tie, and The Abracadabra Kid. Several of these may have been around for years, notably The Christmas Tie which he mentioned in a journal entry in 1949. Most exist in undated typescripts in the Saroyan collection, mostly appearing to have been revised into the 1952 script forms. 

There was tension, it seems, between Desser, the money, and Saroyan, the writer. 

With Saroyan’s traditional reliance on writing to get him out of every hole, the demands of creating more plays weighed on him, especially as it precluded other writing and publishing gigs. Eagle-eyed readers will remember the announcement of the series being 26 half-hour episodes, while all the agreements were for a series of 13 episodes. This may simply mean that Saroyan had not been consulted in the announcement phase, or it may have been that having had him sign the contract with the “devote his efforts exclusively” they felt that they could push him for much more. 

Either way, it was clear there was a discrepancy between the views of the two parties. 

But these were not the only problems. There was also confusion. 

First, there was Stern. Saroyan sent a letter to John Beck spelling out issues with the deal. 

“I have your letters of July 29th and 30th, and you and I met on the evening of July 29th. Because of the overall confusion still in operation it is necessary for me to make a few facts known to you.

1. I hired William Stern early this year to act as business manager on my behalf, to fill out and file income tax reports for last year, and to attend to other tax and business matters as they arose. His fee was 5% of my gross income. At the end of June when his failure to keep a proper accounting of my affairs and to file tax reports made it necessary for me to dispense with his services my gross income was around $10,000, not counting the $4,000 loan by Arthur Desser. Several days ago I finally received from Mr. Stern a check in the sum of $1,634.27 which is supposed to represent the balance in my account, but so far I have not received an accounting from Mr. Stern. He has neither filed income tax reports or returned to me papers and figures by which I might be guided in filling out and filing the forms myself. And I keep getting letters from creditors who plan legal action; it was Mr. Stern’s specific job to make payments to these creditors out of the $10,000 I placed at his disposal. Several of these letters are from creditors who were supposed to have been paid in full according to Mr. Stern himself.

2. I became interested in a TV program and put aside other work from which the income could very well be substantial and prolonged in order to write plays for this program. You brought in Arthur Des[s]er who drew up papers covering this project, and as of July 29th you had not read these papers. I long ago pointed out in a letter to Arthur Des[s]er that these papers are meaningless, and I suggested that I return to him the $1,000 he loaned to me and which I in turn handed over to Mr. Stern, who in turn has not yet accounted for the $100.00, monies or less, from my own income, and this $1,000 loan.

3. I have never gyped anybody in my life, but have gotten a number of raw leaves from big antiquity and from prosperous business men. The TV field has always been open to me. I never before had an opportunity to enter it. I went into this project on good faith, I worked very hard, I put aside other work, I received $1,000 in loans—for work delivered. I am ready to pay back this loan immediately. Before I can do so, however, I must have a full accounting from Mr. Stern. And if Mr. Desser wants to proceed with this project I am advised that before new papers can be even considered you, as the agent, must have that you are familiar with the present papers—for it is presumed that you are also my agent, as well as Mr. Desser’s, and that it is in order for you to look after my interests. With kindest personal regards: William Saroyan”

It appears that at that point, Stern was not performing his duties, and Saroyan’s continued troubles with creditors would attest to that. It is highly likely that the ten thousand he provided to Stern was insufficient to cover the debts, though it’s also possible that Stern had actually covered everything and just hadn’t kept the proper records. It’s also notable that Desser loaned Saroyan 4000 dollars and not one thousand as he stated later in the letter.

When Stern did provide the records, it was clear that things were worse than he had expected. His founding the corporation had actually increased his debt by more than 5,000, though in The Daring Young Man by John Leggett claims that it was near ten thousand. the later accounting found in Saroyan’s papers contradicts that. He may have conflated the ten thousand mentioned in the letter to Beck as given to Stern as having been used on the show and not towards total debt repayment.

The letter itself asks a few questions about the role of John Beck. Saroyan refers to him as a primary mover of the project, that he had brought on Desser, and was acting as Saroyan’s agent. Whether or not this was as a general agent or just within the scope of the project is unclear. It’s more likely that Beck was representing the project as a whole, and that’s where the most interesting possibility of conflict arises; who was the first director?

Saroyan was always interested in being the primary mover on any project he took on. It would appear that Saroyan wanted to be the first director of the corporation, but he felt as if he were simply an employee giving over his labor for other’s benefit. Leggett noted that Saroyan would get 60% of the proceeds from the Corporation, though it’s less clear what percentage of ownership  he would maintain within it. There would be a board, and there would be stockholders, as the issuance of stocks had been applied for.

Desser seemed to be the one who he had the most issues with, though there was clearly more going on. In the August 18, 1952 letter that indicated the dissolution of the project and Saroyan’s association with William Morris, it is mentioned that Desser and Jack Rau, one of the partners in Desser’s firm, were resigning as directors. This is the first mention of Rau as a director for the corporation. Saroyan was having difficulty writing the 11th play, and no additional investors for producing the show had been discovered. This would have meant one of two things: Saroyan putting the money up himself, which he simply did not have, or Desser & co. fronting the money, putting him again out of the first director of the corporation post. Saroyan sent Stern off to deal with Desser and tell him that he wouldn’t be writing any more plays for the series and would rather dissolve the project than keep working. Desser did not want to let Saroyan out of the project, but at the same time, it was called “Saroyan Television Theatre” and that meant William Saroyan needed to be involved. They were at a standstill until Saroyan wrote the letter to Beck, and then another to William Morris Agency head Abe Lastfogel, that arranged for the dissolution at last. 

 The papers also mention that Saroyan was going to bear all responsibility to re-pay Desser and all costs associated with the establishment of the corporation and the work he undertook for it, though since Saroyan wasn’t able to cover the entire cost, they settled for 1,100 dollars, cancelling the debt.  

This, though, may have let Saroyan leave the project with his tail between his legs, but he also left with at least some of his salvation under his arm; the manuscripts and copyrights for the plays he had created.

That meant that Saroyan had ten teleplays to shop around to television networks, and with the explosion in programming that was coming, he was well-positioned to take advantage of the moment, and less than a year later, he began his association with the group that would be his longest-lasting television presentation space: Omnibus, which is what we’ll look at on our next three episodes.