Crane (28 page)

As far as I was concerned, I had passed the job audition. I had been responsible for John Candy for two weeks on two coasts in two countries
and he was none the worse for it.
Armed and Dangerous
was launched to a mediocre box office tally and lukewarm reviews. Columbia Pictures was on to its next wave of releases, and I was but a dimly remembered nuisance.

John’s number one publicist, Paul Flaherty, was soon knocking at the door. He wasn’t giving up a television and possible movie star account to some young nobody without a fight. John Candy, like many savvy businesses, often worked both sides from the middle. He always had a plan B, and in terms of publicity the B stood for Bob. Boss Candy would observe who did the best, fastest, and most complete work for the right price, and who presented the image most aligned to the company—him. And, maybe most important, who was the most fun to hang with. Flaherty would show up at the Frostbacks office on his way back from the golf course and swap golf stories with John over a cocktail. I don’t play golf, but Flaherty always watched me out of the corner of his eye because he felt the breeze of a well-struck Titleist heading in his general direction.

27

Despite Kari’s protestations, I continued to write for
Playboy.
At least I could count on a semiregular paycheck (I was competing with at least a half dozen other Q&A monkeys jockeying for the twelve “20Q” slots a year). From her workroom, Kari could hear me lowering the volume on my phone voice as I pitched names to Rezek. The giveaway was when I periodically exploded into hysterical laughter as John weighed in on my proposals. Anything even remotely related to scantily clad Playmates always brought a frown to Kari’s otherwise wrinkleless face.

“How about Jamie Lee Curtis?” was my first fastball to Rezek.

“[David] Rensin did her already.”

“Sigourney Weaver has two big films coming out.”

“She’s in the works.”

“Chevy?” I waited. “Chase?” There was a deafening silence.

“Tom Hanks? He did
Splash
and has a few films coming out.”

“Too soon,” Rezek countered. “Let’s see what develops.”

“How about Kathleen Turner from
Body Heat
and
Prizzi’s Honor?
”

“[David] Sheff did her for an upcoming interview.”

“Martin Short?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“Late of
SCTV
and now a regular on
Saturday Night Live.
”

“Let’s wait.”

“George Harrison? His company is producing films now with the Monty Python guys, among others.”

“We did Lennon and McCartney already.”

“Tommy Lasorda? Outspoken manager of the Dodgers.”

I could hear the wheels grinding. “No.”

“Tom Cruise? A bunch of movies coming out.”

“In next month’s issue.”

“Julia Louis-Dreyfus? Very cute, funny performer from
Saturday Night Live.
”

“What does she have coming up?”

“Making the transition from television to movies,” I said, trying to make that transition sound irresistible.

“Let’s wait,” Rezek resisted.

“Well,” I sighed, figuring next month’s rent would be late, “how about Koko?”

“Who?”

“Koko, the cat-cradling, American Sign Language–communicating gorilla.”

This time the wheels were whirring. “Look into that one. Let me know what you find out.”

“Thanks, John.”

“We’ll talk soon.”

Like most people who had read Dian Fossey’s courageous and moving memoir,
Gorillas in the Mist,
the closest I’d ever been to a real gorilla was sitting in a movie theater watching Sigourney Weaver’s inspired performance in the film of Fossey’s life in the Virunga Mountains. But now I was proposing a sit-down, face-to-face interview with a gorilla for the world’s leading men’s magazine. How would Hefner react to having an ape,
gorilla gorilla graueri,
grace the pages of
Playboy?
Rezek, shockingly, gave me the go-ahead. He was clearly taking a chance, but a successful roll of the dice could pay off big in terms of publicity for
Playboy.

Dr. Penny Patterson was the director of the Gorilla Foundation in Woodside, California, and it sounded like she dropped the phone when I requested an interview with Koko, not for
Scientific American
but for the legendary publication with a bunny for a logo. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” I answered. “This piece will introduce Koko to a whole new audience. An audience with lots of disposable income for donations to research foundations.”

“You know we’re located in the mountains west of Palo Alto.”

“I do. In fact, I think one of your neighbors is Neil Young,” I said, showing my fondness for research.

“Yes,” said the slightly befuddled Patterson. “How much time would you need? We’re trying to mate Koko with Michael and it’s not going well, so I don’t want to bother her for too long.”

“An hour and half, tops,” I said, adding, “Koko will enjoy the challenge
of the questions. We’ll need an original photo of her, but nothing too racy.”

“Let me run this by my partner.” Dr. Patterson sounded both surprised and intrigued by my proposal. She would discuss the matter with fellow gorilla researcher Dr. Ron Cohn, who, it turned out, also happened to be her mate.

The mountainous terrain and heavy forest of Woodside made me feel as though I’d somehow crossed into equatorial Africa as I approached an unmarked chain-link gate. I rolled down the window of my rental car and was immediately assaulted by a pungent odor, neither aromatic nor foul, just a unique smell of animal. I remembered my friends Chris and Desly Fryer, who had been to Rwanda a couple of times, telling me how they could smell the mountain gorillas long before they could see them. A Gorilla Foundation staffer opened the gate, and I drove very slowly down a dirt road toward a small cluster of temporary-looking structures. Dr. Patterson, a handsome woman reminiscent of a young Jane Goodall, greeted me cordially and took me on a brief tour of the foundation’s offices, introducing other staff and Dr. Ron Cohn, her co-everything. Ron also happened to be a skillful photographer who had recorded innumerable images of Koko over the years. I kept that in mind since
Playboy
would need an original image of our subject to accompany the interview, and it was unlikely Koko would be traveling to Hollywood any time soon to pose for Randee St. Nicholas, Antoine Verglas, or Peggy Sirota.

Penny Patterson was Koko’s teacher and interpreter in American Sign Language, and that aspect of the study was going quite well. Koko was the most celebrated gorilla in the world because she was the first to use any kind of human language. The interview would go like this: I would ask a question, and Dr. Patterson, using ASL, would sign it to Koko, who would then ponder the question for a bit and sign an answer back to the doctor, who would translate it for me.

In my introduction to the piece in the magazine I described the scene: “Koko, 15 years old and 230 pounds, sat poised and ready in her open-air living area. She looked me in the eye and, using American Sign Language, commanded, ‘Show me your teeth,’ which I respectfully did. She was delighted by the enormous amount of gold and silver in my mouth. Her mate, Michael, 13 and 350 pounds, who shares quarters with her, never looked me in the eye—something to do with the fact that I was a stranger and a male.” During the questioning, I would occasionally glance at
Michael, who would instantly look away. At other times, when I looked away, I could feel Michael’s stare boring a hole in me. I asked Koko about her boyfriend.

“Koko, do you think Michael is cute?”

Koko responded, signing with both hands for emphasis. “Cute, sweet good.”

“What’s the difference between boys and girls?” I asked.

“Corn there good,” Koko replied, meaning she gets a corn treat because her floor is clean, whereas Michael doesn’t because his is dirty. She added, “Girl people,” since she thought of herself as a person and Michael as an animal.

“Girl girl” was Koko’s retort to “Which sex smells better?” I was sure
Playboy
readers would agree with that.

“Koko, what do you want for your birthday?”

“Earrings. Cookie.”

My time with Koko flew by. I asked her about being interviewed. “What do you say when you’re tired of being asked questions?”

“Gorilla teeth. Finished.”

The interview was over. I thanked Koko for her well-thought-out responses and for her time. I looked at Michael once more, and he quickly turned away.

It was a wonderful experience: a brilliant day in that mountain community, replete with new smells, serious behavioral researchers, and a delightful ape who thought enough of our kind to give us a glimpse into the mind of a gorilla. On my flight back to Los Angeles, I smiled with amazement and elation as I relived having been in such close proximity to such an intelligent and majestic animal. At the same time it was all a bit melancholy knowing that Koko, as pampered as her world was, would never spend two minutes in her wild, natural habitat.

Weeks later, Dr. Cohn shot a glamorous Koko against a red background for the interview’s accompanying full-page illustration. Oh, and for those with a more prurient interest in gorilla hookups, Koko and Michael never did successfully get together.

Sometimes the questions Rezek and I devised were more outrageous than the responses they elicited. When I interviewed the sexy golf pro Jan Stephenson at her home in Ft. Worth, I asked, “Do your breasts ever get in the way of your swing?” and her response was, “No, I never notice them at all.” And when I asked
Star Wars
icon Carrie Fisher at her log
cabin in Laurel Canyon, “With whom would you want to spend your life, Yoda or E.T.?” Fisher responded, “E.T., because he’s so much more popular, though I like Yoda because he’s smaller than I am.” When I asked actress Marg Helgenberger to describe the Marg Helgen “Burger,” she playfully offered, “Cheeseburger, pickles and ketchup. On a toasted sesame seed bun. Rare to medium rare. I don’t like it to be dry. It’s got to be moist inside. Moist and juicy.”

I interviewed beautiful and talented women like Lucy Liu, Carol Alt, and Sela Ward; funny people like Ben Stiller, Phil Hartman, and Jimmy Kimmel; sexiness personified with Traci Lords, Catherine Bell, and Tori Spelling; and quirky or weird subjects like Nicolas Cage, Juliette Lewis, and Milla Jovovich. Taking silver and gold, respectively, in the peculiar division were Amanda Peet and Teri Garr. I met Peet at the Coffee House on Sunset Boulevard across from Chateau Marmont. I asked her about her Quaker education, maintaining firearm safety while topless (
The Whole Nine Yards
), and speaking while belching. I thought I had her attention and she was enjoying our exercise, but she suddenly laid her upper body across the table next to my tape recorder. She closed her eyes and I think took a short nap. This interview was obviously a commitment to a publicist for promotion of her new film, and she wanted to make it very clear she didn’t want to be there. My instinct was to be a wiseass and ask, “Am I keeping you awake?” but I didn’t. I wanted to finish the job, type it up, turn it in, and get paid. Peet’s terse answers meant the “20Q” would take up only a page and a half in the magazine. At least there would be a stunning Firooz Zahedi photograph of her accompanying the piece.

The Teri Garr episode was both odder and more nerve-wracking. She was a big comedy star from several Mel Brooks films, including
Young Frankenstein,
and multiple appearances on David Letterman’s program, and was also a fine actress, as she showed in one of my favorite films, Francis Ford Coppola’s
The Conversation.
We met at her office in Hollywood with no representation of any kind present. The interview was going swimmingly. Here was Garr describing men (either “burger and fries” or “slow, nice gourmet food”); her chief neurosis (“relationships with men”); her dream guy (“Robert Redford is in my dreams a lot”); and David Letterman persuading her to take a shower on his show (“David Letterman browbeat me into doing it … must have been some kind of a sexual conquering”). Garr was funny, candid, playful, and sexy, and then just as suddenly as Amanda Peet’s bout of narcolepsy, Teri asked me to
turn off the tape recorder. I thought she needed a bathroom break or had to call her agent. It was much worse.

She faced me. “Why am I doing this?” asked Garr.

My eyes panned the room seeking a camera. Was this a gag for the
Letterman
show? “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why am I doing a
Playboy
interview?” Garr was all business. “I hate
Playboy.
I hate Hefner. I hate everything
Playboy
stands for.”

Oh, shit, I thought. There goes my pitch to Rezek, hours working on questions, research, and background. Not to mention my paycheck. Damn it. Channeling David Fryer, I looked Garr in the eyes. “Well, first of all, you’re doing a great job. Great answers.” I was being totally sincere. “Secondly, this interview is about you. The venue just happens to be
Playboy.
A lot of diverse people have been interviewed for
Playboy
—world leaders, politicians, athletes, actors, writers. Hell, Fidel Castro was in
Playboy.
Your interview is going to be great.”

There was a long moment while Garr processed my words. I still wasn’t sure if this was a put-on or a kind of Living Theatre exercise. “All right. Turn the machine on,” she instructed.

I pushed the record button on the Panasonic and asked the remaining dozens of Rezek/Crane queries. Garr finished in fine form, insecurities blazing, self-deprecating and cute. The session was a huge success. Garr was calm as we finished, and I thanked her for doing the interview. I slowly backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind me, then sprinted toward my car. At least my part of the job was finished. An original, full-page photograph of Teri would be needed by the editors (Shelley Long was the only subject who refused a photo) to accompany the Q&A. Good luck with that, I thought. Weeks later, the photo session was booked and I was secretly relieved. I chose to stay away so as not to conjure up any unpleasant memories for Ms. Garr. Rezek and company were well satisfied with my efforts, I received my check with Christie Hefner’s autograph, and I moved on, another “20Q” under my belt.