Los Angeles, 1948

"Aaaaand...CUT!"

The sharp, shrill voice of director Raoul J Raoul echoed through the studio, rivalling that of the end-of-shoot safety bell. "That's a wrap for today, folks!"

The clamour and rush of the crew for the next Baby Herman picture could be heard throughout the studio. Supervisors folded and tucked their scripts neatly under their arm and marched off to find the nearest pot of coffee. Cameramen wheeled their dollies out of the way and mopped their brows, pleased that the shoot had gone smoothly and that their boss wouldn't have their heads. Tired assistants busied about dismantling equipment and shutting off huge spotlights, eagerly gathering with their colleagues to hit the buffet table.

"Here's your coat Mr Raoul."

"Thanks. Where's Roger?"

In the centre of the room, Roger Rabbit sat upright in a wooden barrel, wringing the water from his ears as though they were giant towels, humming and waving goodbye to the tweeting birds that had appeared above his head. The joke had been a killer; a slapstick routine in which Roger and Baby Herman had gone to the circus and become acrobats which featured Roger swan-diving into a paddling pool, only to have the ringmaster replace it with a glass of water at the last minute. It was a great script that the new writers had thought up in an effort to distract from...recent events.

"Hiya Raoul!"

The balding director for once, gave the toon rabbit a genuine smile. "That was excellent work today Roge, ya've really bucked your ideas up since our last picture."

"Oh, I couldn't let ya down Mister Raoul, Sir," gushed Roger, "I've been p-p-p-practicing the whole week. Every barrel and jug was a golden opportunity! I may have made a few enemies in the ToonTown Tavern, but I'd say it was worth it!"

"Easy for you ta say Rogah," came the gruff voice of Baby Herman at Raoul's feet, gesturing to his ridiculous outfit, "Ya ever tried crawlin' 'cross a high-wiyah at a thousan' feet wearin' nothin' but a jestah's hat and a diaper. Ya lucky I like ya so much Raoul, cuz you don't pay me enough for this!"

"You were dazzling Herman, as always!" Raoul praised, almost reassuringly. "Well with the shoot done, whaddaya say you boys join us for a couple of martinis downtown? My treat!"

"Jeepers, that's awful kind of ya Raoul but, I promised Jessie I'd be home early."

"Ya sure?"

"Ehh, let 'im go Raoul, if I had a broad as half a dish as his, I'd wanna get home early too!" cackled Baby Herman, "See ya at the premier Roge!"

"Wait-" Roger began.

A small crowd of assistant directors in smart attire began to form around Raoul and Herman as they exited the set. "We should go to Leroy's," one of them was saying, "I hear they serve drinks till 11."

"Does Leroys allow toons?" another asked.

"Guys…" Roger struggled.

"If we get stopped, just tell 'em he's with me," Raoul said, a little too proudly, "Trust me, guys from hollywood? We'll be treated like kings."

"They better have good scotch," grumbled Baby Herman following his new posse out the door.

"Excellent work today Roger!" Raoul called over his shoulder.

"But, Raoul WAIT!"

The crowd dispersed and the set began to empty.

"...I'm stuck..."

Roger put each of his gloved hands at either side of the barrel. Okay, this shouldn't be too hard, he thought, just a little twist and shake…

"Uh, let's see...righty tighty, lefty loosey, righty tighty, lefty loosey…" He managed to lift his big feet from the bottom the barrel and press them against the wood. "Just...one...more…YOW!"

Roger shot straight from the container like a cork from a bottle, scattering splinters and leaving a miniature river in his wake. The water pouring through the holes in the barrel trickled into the light fixture, which crackled with bright sparks and caused the bulb of the above spotlight to explode. Roger had landed near a group of bewildered camera operators, desperately pulling at a light box that had gotten stuck on his head during the carnage.

"Hello? Is anybody there?"

As the two operators took turns trying to pull the box off of the poor toon, they failed to notice just how hard they were pulling. Roger became longer, his body stretching like a piece of taffy until he flew backwards with a yell into the cameras.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I can fix it, I'll pay for it, I promise!" Roger was saying as the horrified operators salvaged the equipment. In a corner of the room, two set designers sighed and pulled away the number 102 from a sign which now read: "0 days without a major incident."

In another corner near the gallery, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a tight bun put a hand to her forehead. "I swear that rabbit is becoming a liability." She turned to her two managers. "Are you sure we should release the picture in the next three months?"

"What's your point?" said one scoffing down his cupcake.

"Use a napkin," she scoffed, "Look, we're already in enough trouble as it is from last year's patty-cake scandal. It might be a wise idea to hold off the publicity until this whole Cloverleaf thing is behind us."

"You worry too much Susan," the other said, sipping coffee and waving his hand, "Another firm is already looking to buy the RedCar off them. They're practically doing our job for us."

"Even so, there's not much we will be able to do once the papers get their hands on the news that we've wrapped," Susan replied pacing in her black heels, "We might have to fix some leaks…" she turned to one of her colleagues, "Avery, where did you put those on set photos?"

Avery turned to a cabinet behind him and started rifling through the drawers until he produced a neat beige folder, and flipped through the lamninated photographs of Roger and Baby Herman posing with the director and producers. "They were meant to go to the studio but I was on my lunch break."

Susan looked in confusion as he tried to subtly force them into her hands. "Well, I'm on mine now, I can't take them!"

"What about that apprentice of yours? Doesn't she work for Maroon Cartoons?"

"She's not my apprentice she's more of a...shadow." She motioned for him to follow her towards the gallery while her other colleague grabbed his coat, hat and remnants of his cupcake and exited the set. "She follows along with whatever you throw at her, never speaks and you barely know she's there."

"She sounds perfect," Avery commented, "she can drop off the pictures and then get back to work at her own place."

"I highly doubt her own place pays much," said Susan dropping her voice to almost a low whisper. "She's an Inker."

"An Inker? You mean she gave the rabbit those ridiculous yellow gloves?"

Susan nodded. She pushed open the glass door of the gallery and knocked twice. "Hey honey, we have a small job for you!"

A small, willowy girl of about sixteen looked up from her notes. She aligned them with great care and slipped them into a small yellow satchel at her feet and picked up her pale blue sunhat before straightening out herself, smoothing the folds of her navy victory suit.

"Margaret, this is Mr Avery Cotton," Susan said gesturing to him, "He's one of the studio's top distributors."

Avery offered his hand. "Nice to meet you young lady."

Margaret took his hand and practically curtsied with nerves. "Y-Yes, you too Sir. I've heard of Cotton Productions. You own the rights to most of RK Maroon's work don't you?"

"You're a very bright girl! We struck a deal with him back in '29. Maroon, God rest his soul, would only trust us with his creations if he signed and approved every little piece of paper we threw at him. Anyway, Mrs Stubbs here tells me you work in the Ink and Paint department."

"Oh. Yes."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It's...a living," Margaret shrugged with a soft smile.

"Well, since you've worked hard today, I'll let you go early," Susan interrupted, "I just need to ask that for one last task, you take these down to the animation studio and deliver them to the archive room." She handed the beige folder which she took gingerly, opening up the pages slightly. Susan instantly grabbed her pale wrist with her polished nails.

"Don't open it! It's all highly confidential information!"

Margaret looked taken aback. "I-"

"Look, just hurry it along and the sooner you drop them off, the sooner you can get home and get some rest." Before Margaret could object, her superior pushed her towards the door and into the direction of the stage exit. "Remember! The archive room!" she called after her before slamming the glass door so hard it practically rattled.

"Don't you think you were a little hard on her?" Avery inquired as he watched her go.

"She'll be fine," Susan replied nonchalantly, "the kid looks fragile but if you start her up, she works like a brand new Buick. Coffee?"


Margaret Ishmael was a unassuming young woman. Modest and soft spoken, she had been born and raised in Santa Monica by her parents and grandparents, all Irish and German immigrants. She didn't look much like a local, thanks to her ivory skin and circles of stress under her dark brown eyes. She clutched the folder to her chest and stepped into the bright L.A sunshine. It was a scorching day, the tarmac of the lot practically burning her through her cork wedge shoes. She adjusted her hat and walked with her head down across the busy street to catch the trolley downtown to the animation studio. She nodded to the security guards as she passed, paying no heed to the wolf whistles that followed.

A few toons made their way out of the various stages: Michigan J Frog hopped down the stairs of one, passing Pepe Le Pew with his arm around Penelope Pussycat. A crowd of anthropomorphised female hippos hobbled down the stairs of another, mingling with their crocodilian co-stars at the bottom. A few non-animal toons were roaming about too, notably a tiny locomotive. Margaret lifted her feet for it as it tried to get around her. She was fond of toons, she had been ever since her first Felix the Cat cartoon as a child. Her uncle had paid for her movie ticket and much later, her scholarship.

She saw the RedCar draw to a halt around the first block behind the studio and she quickened her pace. As she ran, waving a gloved hand to the driver, one of her wedge shoes came off, causing her to trip and tumble over the curb and into a puddle. The folder she was carrying opened and fell flat, its pages scattering onto the sidewalk. She gasped and began gathering them up as fast as she could.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no!" she half-sobbed, trying as best she could to keep them away from the puddle.

As she carefully picked each of them up and stuffed them into place, her eyes couldn't help but wander to a black and white picture of Roger Rabbit with Raoul. The director's arm was around the rabbit, who was putting two toon fingers up behind him to give him bunny ears. This didn't look confidential, she thought, just a few publicity shots. She looked at Roger's other hand...there was a blank space on one of his knuckles - a small one, but one nonetheless. Holding it close to her, she squinted, making sure it wasn't a printing error...no, the rabbit definitely had a blank smudge where the knuckles of his gloves should be.

"Hey Miss!"

Margaret looked up. The conductor was standing at the doors of the trolley frowning. "You gettin' on or what?"

"Oh! Yes, I-" she fumbled in her satchel for her purse and stood counting the right change.

"Come on lady, I don't got all day!"

"I'm sorry! Just let me…"

The conductor stepped inside the vehicle and whispered to the driver to drive on.

"W-W-Wait!" cried Margaret, holding the exact change, "Please, I have to get across town!"

"Sorry sweetheart, but I'm on a tight schedule here, you'll have to take the bus."

"No, please, you don't understand I have to get back to my job-"

"And I gotta get back to mine Ma'am, have a good day-"

Margaret persisted. "Please…" Although she knew she was breaking the rules, she took out the picture of Roger and Raoul, "I work for Maroon Cartoons, I just need to get to the animation studio."

"Hey, I know that guy. Roger Rabbit right?"

"Yes."

"You ever met him?"

"Yes," she lied.

"What's he like?"

"Uh, taller in person."

The conductor raised his eyebrows, but sighed. "Alright, get on."

Margaret thanked him profusely, paid her fair and stood in the packed trolley trying not to meet the glaring eyes of the passengers.

The trolley trundled on down the boulevard, passing the local businesses, theatres, markets and restaurants. A group of ragamuffin children played soccer with a can of baked beans and played with one of the local shaggy dogs. Two homeless men sat lounging under the enormous palm trees, exchanging stories. Women in knee-high floral dresses congregated for lunch at the sandwich stands, chatting. All the delis were opening for lunch, reminding Margaret she hadn't eaten yet. She'd find something.

The infamous Cloverleaf building came into view; abandoned and left to rot, the only workers left were the ants that crawled in and out of the woodwork. Opposite, another automobile firm was just opening. LA had changed when they moved in, and change wasn't going away when they moved out.

The RedCar stopped just a minute or so from the animation studio. Margaret stepped off and gave one last thank you to both the conductor and driver and some apologetic glances to the passengers before it set off again down the rails. Margaret made her way through the many lots of the studio, silently making sure she had all the photos together. As she neared her building, she heard a bright cheery voice chirp: "Hiya Maggie!"

"Oh, good afternoon Jiminy!"

The little cricket put out his cigar and floated down from where he was sitting on his umbrella. "Aren't ya a little late in today?"

"Oh no, I had a morning placement at the set with the producer. Just a temporary thing at the moment, but hopefully I'll get my foot in the door again."

"One toe at a time!" Jiminy encouraged. "What's your plan this afternoon?"

"You know the drill Jim, an Inker's job is never done."

"Yep, those gloves and hats ain't gonna paint themselves. By the way," he tugged at his gloves and hat thanks for the swell duds!"

"You're welcome," she giggled.

"Well, I best be going now. Oh and Margaret, remember what I told you: Don't fret about work too much, always let your conscience be your guide!"

"I will Jim, thank you." Her smile faded a little as she entered the building. The cricket meant well, but if only he understood.

She asked one of the janitors for the keys to the archive room and managed to drop the pictures off in the safe marked for Roger. She wondered if she should check on one of her special projects, but she was tardy enough as it was and headed straight for the laboratory. Her friend Lottie was already there.

"Where have you been, you're late! What happened to you Mags? Why are you all wet?"

"I had a little accident," Margaret replied, dabbing at her wet coat with a handkerchief and sitting down at her desk, "but I'm fine now." She looked around the empty studio. "Where are the others?"

"Still not back from lunch. Please tell me you got something?" There was silence. "Maggie, you can't keep doing this, it's not healthy."

"I need to get back to work. Mrs Stubbs said I needed to do a job for her, and said I should rest…but, I have to work, I just have to."

"Me and Retta could take your shift for you."

"That's very kind of you, but I found out today that I accidentally left a patch of white on our star rabbit's gloves. If I recolour it now, it should show up in about 3 days or so."

"You'd think they would notice their colour fading," Lottie muttered, drawing up her own chair and slipping on a pair of plastic gloves, "I should transfer to Disney. I bet they don't have any problem with unfinished cels. And I hear they treat their ink girls much better too!" The girls painted in silence until the room filled up again.

The ink and paint girls of the department were a special breed of artists. Every day they would come in, slip on the thumbless gloves and dip their brushes in any colour under the sun. Whether it was sewing on a shiny gold button for Popeye or tailoring a new pair of spruce slacks for Goofy, the women would colour every character sent to them by Maroon, Disney or Warner Bros. It was a painstaking process, each cel individually crafted with love - and blood, sweat and tears.

At 5:00am the girls would file into the lab, plant themselves at their desks and work their nibs like magic wands on celluloid under bright goose-necked lamps. Sometimes the men from the animation department would come to visit them and congratulate their work. That was a welcome occurrence. Other times, their boss would come in to lean his head on them or rub their shoulders while they were trying to work. That was less welcome. Margaret kept her head down and worked as best as she could. Lottie would sometimes marvel at her willingness to stay overtime. The issue with Roger's glove only proved that further.

But that was Margaret Ishmael.


Los Angeles, 1964

Maroon Cartoons continued to flourish in their productions. Since toons were immortal (with a few exceptions,) Roger Rabbit only grew in popularity, even making appearances next to another famous rabbit, Bugs Bunny in his new Looney Tunes half hour special.

Television had proved a great gig for toons of every kind. No longer did people have to walk five blocks to the nearest cinema to watch a toon's antics, but they could do so from the comfort of their own home.

Life had been treating Margaret Ishmael well. She gained a reputation at the studio as an eager worker, only stopping her work to go to the restroom and cool her burning joints under the faucet. She had also attracted the attention of a handsome animator named Glen Hawkins. A sweet young, blonde, man had approached her at the window of the ink and paint department one day and had complimented her drawings. He told her he was one of the lead animators on a new patriotic cartoon short, Hawks and Doves. He'd punctuated "patriotic" with sarcastic quotations. She had laughed and the two began seeing each other often.

The trend of dating animators in the ink and paint department had caught on faster than the miniskirt. C.B Maroon, the studio's new owner, hated it. They would often joke about how he wanted the department to remain "a nunnery." It was on one afternoon, the women were diligently painting the intricate lines of dove wings, that they heard it.

"Attention! Could I have everyone out in the lobby please?"

The booming voice of C.B. Maroon shouted through every door in the studio. He was sticking his head through the windows of the animator's rooms, wheezing slightly. From their desks, the ink and paint girls looked up and prepared to leave, knowing they would be called next.

"What's going on?" whispered Retta.

"It's Maroon," Lottie whispered back, "He's ticked off about somethin'."

"What's hacked him?" cut in Becky.

"There was a strike at DeGreasy Studios last week," June explained, "It was in the papers, apparently they had some communists working for them. He's probably going to ask about our politics."

"Anybody here a Commie?" Lottie joked.

"Ssh! Here he comes!" hissed Retta.

C.B. Maroon entered the lab. The spitting image of his brother, hulking and grouchy. He always wore dark shades, even indoors. The girls could never truly decipher his expression, so any attempt to try and impress him too much seemed pointless.

"Girls! The lobby please!"

The women left their stations and followed their platoon into a line outside. It looked as though half the art department was here, all facing the same direction. Maroon had set up what appeared to be a portable Acme stage in the centre of the lobby, standing like a king of his castle addressing his subjects.

"Alright, listen up everybody! I am sure you've heard the news about the strikes at DeGreasy and the protest from the local university about our new cartoon short "Hawks vs Doves." But I want to assure you all that the rumors are false: we will not be lowering your pay grades, so any attempt at a strike is most unneeded."

A few of the male animators exhaled in relief and some even clapped.

"It's not like they pay us a lot anyway," muttered Lottie to Margaret.

"In fact today is a historic day: one that will change the domain of Maroon Cartoons forever. We are investing in the latest technology sent to us by Walt Disney himself. I am here to tell you all today that from now on, animators will no longer have to draw and trace every frame of their creation. The days of rotoscope are over here at the studio! From now on, each animator will create his character easier using all our newest installations."

There was a cheer from the art department. Maroon continued; "Furthermore, all the creators will have the chance to test the new tech today. And in typical Maroon Cartoon fashion, I have each hidden the machine in every animating room, and as my hardworking and talented staff, you are invited to search for them. It's like one big treasure hunt, all we need are parrots and eye-patches!" The crew laughed. "On your marks, get set, GO!"

Everyone was jostled around as every artist ran to the rooms. The ink and paint team excitedly clambered over each other to get their share of the new equipment. Maroon noticed three of his best inkers, Lottie, Retta and Maggie struggle to get to the front of the crowd and slowly guided them away.

"Hey! You ladies shouldn't be left behind! You come to my office, I'll show it to ya in person."

The women followed him to his swanky office on the third floor of the management complex. He ushered them inside with all the excitement of a child. In the middle of the room was a large object covered with a red curtain.

"Okay, are you girls ready to see something amazing?"

"Certainly!" said Retta, "We're ready!"

"Okay…TADAAA!"

Maroon lifted the curtain to reveal a chunky piece of machinery, pearl white in colour, with a dashboard of different buttons and a glass sheet over its counter. The women stared at it in confusion.

"What do you think?"

"It's a photocopier?" questioned Lottie.

"Not just any photocopier Lottie my dear, this is the new Xerox 9000. It's here to make the lives of us artists a lot better. We'll be able to produce characters with this puppy faster and cheaper than ever before!"

"That's amazing! How does it work?" asked Retta.

"It's simple. A cel is painted and completed right? Then it is fed through this machine which takes the cel and creates multiple copies of it. Disney have used it to finish their new Dalmations picture. They take the ink and Voila, printed puppies!"

"This will definitely make our jobs easier," mused Retta. "When do we start?"

Maroon's smile faded and he took off his dark glasses to look them in the eyes. "That's uh...kinda what I wanted to talk to ya about girls. Since the delivery, the company has decided to make...cutbacks. It seems that with the rate this thing goes at, hand inking everything will be a thing of the past."

The women were stunned into silence. It surprised them all when it was Margaret who spoke up.

"So, what happens to us?"

C.B Maroon looked at her with what she hoped was genuine pity. "I'm sorry Maggie. It's not my decision, it's the boys upstairs -"

Lottie snapped. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? What about all the girls in the department, you still need inkers!"

Maroon held up his hands, "Oh we'll still have the department, we'll just have a smaller staff! Lottie, honey -"

"Don't pull that 'honey' crap with me! Now listen here! We've worked our asses off for you for fifteen years!" She stabbed her finger at Margaret. "This one was just a baby herself when she came to work for you! This is how you repay us?"

"Lottie, I can have you fired on the spot for that tirade," Maroon growled.

Lottie scoffed. "You won't have the satisfaction Rooney. I quit!" She stormed out of the office, slamming the door on her way out. Like a worried father, Maroon put his head in his hands.

Margaret approached him. "Mr Maroon Sir? I understand that the Xerox can paint faster than we can, but I think I have a solution to this problem." Maroon raised his eyebrows. She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I've...been working on a few shorts of my own. I thought if I could maybe present it to the guys next door, I could show you that I'm still -"

"Wait, you mean you've been...animating? You used the equipment?"

Retta held her breath, only looking on in horror as her friend wilted under the steely glare of her boss.

"Margaret. You know what our policies are."

"Yes."

"So you know where I stand on inkers slacking off?"

"Yes, but I didn't-"

"I will ask you this once. What did you do with the results?"

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. "I locked them away in a safe."

"Which. Safe?"

"I can't remember."

C.B. Maroon rose to his feet, and spoke clearly and calmly.

"Margaret. You've been a great worker all these years and you're one of the most talented inkers I've ever known. I understand it's...tough out there. But you must leave the animating to the trained professionals. I had considered having you on the team that kept their place here at Maroon. But, rules are rules. I'm sorry."


"I can't believe it…" Retta kept saying over and over, "we got laid off." She looked back across the lot to the ink and paint lab, which would now feel barer to those still left inside. She put her arm around Margaret who seemed inconsolable, "It's okay Maggie, we'll find other jobs."

"No one is going to hire me now."

"So, you made one mistake. Just say you were curious about how the animation was done and it got the better of you-"

"It's not that." Margaret hugged her chest, tears forming, "I'm pregnant."

"You're WHAT?"

"ssh!"

"Pregnant? How, who's the father? It's Glen isn't it?"

Margaret nodded slowly.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Retta scolded, "Has he agreed to marry you?"

"That's just it Retta. He doesn't know."

"We can tell him now, his apartment isn't far from the lot. I'll come with you."

Margaret cried harder. "I can't write to him, not now."

Retta frowned. "Write to him? What do you…" her heart sank as the realisation hit her. "Wait. Do you mean he's...in Nam?"

"I haven't told anyone. I didn't want it to disrupt my work."

They stood in silence. Retta swooped her into a hug. "I don't know what to say Maggie. What will you do now?"

Margaret shrugged. "I don't know. I can't go home. But I'll think of something."

Margaret's decision to leave the cartoon business didn't come as a surprise to her peers. It didn't come as a surprise to her parents. It didn't even come as a surprise to herself. She raised that child, and treated it with more care than any piece of celluloid, tending to it with more love than any painted line.

But that was Margaret Ishmael.