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Chapter One m Ca m e r a s ar e ro l l i n g “Cut!” That single syllable, amplified through the director’s megaphone, was always the greatest sound in the world to a kid like me. The filmed scene was now “in the can,” finished, done. We could take a break from all the hard work of memorizing lines, standing in the right place, entering the room on cue, making sure to look happy or confused or angry—whatever the director wanted. I looked over at Alfalfa, who was the undisputed star of Our Gang. His trademark cowlick drooped to one side, even though the unruly lock of hair had been firmly greased into place early that morning by Junie, the hard-boiled makeup lady. He and his chubby sidekick, Spanky, were shooting a quick scene on a bench in our clubhouse, with some of the rest of us just filling in the corners as extras. Alfalfa had a self-satisfied look on his face, knowing that he had nailed the performance. Everyone on the set admitted that young Carl Switzer, a.k.a. Alfalfa, had natural-born talent. “Good job, Alfie!” Our director, Fred Newmeyer, walked into the shot, stepping care- fully over some lighting cables. “You, too, Spanky. That’s a keeper for 9 10 / Finding Waldo sure.” He glanced over to where Tommy, Joe “Corky,” and I were still standing on our marks. None of us had been given any dialogue in this particular scene, so our task was basically to plop ourselves down where we were told and try to blend into the scenery. “Waldo, guys, you all were fine. Take ten, kids.” A lot of days, “fine” was all the positive reinforcement we got on Hal Roach’s movie set. The core troop consisted mostly of Alfalfa, Spanky, “Buckwheat” Thomas, Butch, and Darla. They were the elite generation in Roach’s long-running franchise of amusing neighbor- hood kids. I got an occasional line here and there; so did a chunky little guy known as Porky. But sometimes, a whole week of shooting would go by during which the rest of us did little more than lurk in the shadows, hoping for a crumb of attention. Alfalfa sauntered over, traces of pancake makeup beginning to streak down his cheek as he perspired under the hot klieg lights. He was wearing a brown suit that had a stain on the left sleeve, the kind of casual blotch that didn’t really show up in black-and-white reels, plus his trademark bow tie. His face was covered with freckles, and he had an endearing gap between his two front teeth. “Hey, Dagwood,” he said to me without any trace of animosity. “Fetch me a doughnut, would ya?” I flushed with resentment. The doughnut cart was clear over on the adjacent soundstage; it was a good five-minute hike there and back. More irritating was the fact that Alfalfa enjoyed flustering me by purposely butchering my name. My parents, George and Donna Smith, had confounded all of their friends in Colorado by naming their firstborn son Darwood. Where they got the unique name, I have no idea. Even as a toddler, I remem- ber hating it. In the movie biz, though, it actually worked nicely. My publicity head shot listed me as “Darwood Kaye, child star,” and showed a thoughtful-looking kid with a gorgeous head of curly dark hair and a Cameras Are Rolling / 11 wistful half smile. It wasn’t official, of course, but I wasn’t going to get anywhere in Tinseltown with a last name like Smith. So “Darwood Kaye” was fine. (Thinking about it years later, I wondered whether studio agents thought I was a precocious nephew of movie star Danny Kaye—except that he didn’t really break through until the early 1940s, and those of us in Our Gang were already working hard here in 1937.) I was getting regular work in various movie projects as word got around that Darwood Kaye was a compliant and decently talented child actor. But Alfalfa took perverse delight in calling me Dagwood, after the inept sleep-deprived husband in the Blondie cartoon strip Chic Young had begun drawing seven years earlier. Now in 1937, “Dagwood” was the butt of a lot of jokes, and Alfalfa never tired of the gag. “Hey, Dagwood, what did you and Blondie do last weekend?” “Hey, Dag, did the old lady make you practice the piano all day Sunday?” I sighed and began the hike to the doughnut cart. Part of me wished I had the guts to punch Alfalfa right in his freckled nose; the smarter part of me realized that getting along with Hal Roach’s pet might earn me some meatier roles in upcoming shows they called “two-reelers.” I grabbed two fresh doughnuts from Mags, a woman so hugely obese that the grip and lighting assistants openly joked that she must be Spanky’s aunt. Mags oversaw the pastries and other re- freshments that the cast and crew enjoyed during their long, and usu- ally tedious, workdays. “How ya doin’, hon?” She gave me a cheerful wink. “That Alfalfa behaving himself?” “He’s being OK.” She emitted a short, sarcastic laugh, raspy from cigarette smoke. “That’d be the first time.” She glanced down at her blouse, stained with a dribble of strawberry filling from one of the jelly doughnuts. “What a scamp! I don’t know how the rest of you kids put up with him.” She reached for a cup. “Want a Coke, too, sugar?” Our Gang 12 / Finding Waldo kids consumed free Coca-Cola like it was water. I accepted the soda and juggled the snacks on my way back to the Our Gang set. Alfalfa and Spanky were both sitting on the rungs of a ladder leading to a loft where extra sets were stored. Shrugging, Al- falfa accepted the sugary pastry without a “Thank you,” as if the honor of waiting on him should be reward enough. He took one big chomp on the confection and then jumped to his feet. “Hey, fat guy, watch this.” Spanky, who was as round as he was tall, didn’t seem to mind the insult at all. He was a seasoned pro in the moving pictures, having occupied a central role on Our Gang for six years already. Talent scouts had found the roly-poly wonder at the tender age of three, and Spanky had an endearing beatific smile that lit up the screen and belied his impish pranks. Kids all around North America were spending their nickels every Saturday morning to watch Our Gang two-reel episodes, in which Spanky dreamed up comical adventures and tormented the adults in the stories. Grown- ups were even picking up and using his trademark expression, “Okey- dokey,” at the office and corner drugstore. Alfalfa carefully set his partially eaten doughnut on the bottom rung of the ladder and held both hands up, waist high. “A one, a two, a one-two-three,” he muttered in his cracking soprano voice. With a dip, he did a tap dance move, his scruffy shoes making sharp little pops on the concrete floor of the stage. “Ack! I busted it!” he spat out, as his feet got tangled on the last part of the routine. “Here; watch.” Taking another quick bite of the doughnut, he flawlessly ran through the thirty-second dance move. “I can do that too.” I was surprised to hear my own voice but knew this was my chance to get noticed. In the shadows, I could see some of the stagehands pausing to watch. “Let’s see it, Dags.” Surprisingly, Alfalfa willingly gave up the spot- light. “Break a leg.” Cameras Are Rolling / 13 Mom and Dad had been taking me to tap lessons every Thursday evening for the last eight months, so I took a deep breath and jumped into the routine Mr. Goldstein had showed me just the week before. It was two to the left, two to the right, then a shuffle dip—one, two, repeat—and a drop to one knee after a flurry of clicks with both hands aloft. “Whoo, baby!” One of the sound guys, hauling a mike stand across the stage, paused and gave me a one-man standing ovation. “Good show, Waldo.” “Yeah.” Alfalfa nodded agreeably. “You and me, Dags, we oughta go on the road.” Spanky let himself down gingerly. “Dancing’s for sissies.” He laughed, helped himself to the last two bites of Alfalfa’s doughnut, and waddled over to the restroom. “Three minutes!” Mr. Newmeyer began circling around the huge studio, rounding up the Our Gang kids. “Come on, little ladies and gents. Time’s a-wastin’ around here. It’s showtime!” There was just one more scene to be shot, this one in our usual Our Gang clubhouse. We were filming a howlingly funny script enti- tled Mail and Female, and the opening scenes have Spanky and his pals sputtering because the MacGillicudy sisters have organized a lavish party and deliberately left out all of the gentlemen in the neighbor- hood. Bent on getting even, he’s trying to reconvene the long-running He-Man Woman Haters Club. My only assignment is to sit with the other guys and look appropriately vengeful as Spanky whips up the troops with a campaign speech. The gag in the story is that Spanky designates Alfalfa as club presi- dent despite his many chronicled romantic lapses. In fact, the cow- licked hero isn’t even in the room while the nominating and second- ing speeches are underway; he’s out under a tree, composing a love letter to Darla.

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