We had a file room the length of a basketball court. It was lined with steel cabinets, the hard drives of the era, all packed with seventy years’ worth of manila folders. I viewed those files as an encyclopedia of entertainment, albeit a helter-skelter one, so I helped the woman who ran the file room, Mary, with her mimeographing. And I brought her little gifts—a box of candy, a scarf. One day I said, “You know, I’d love to read some of the files.” She told me to make myself at home. Within a week she was letting me stay on after she left. Then she gave me a key. While other trainees waited to
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