It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (49 page)

On one day in particular I was crossing the floor and happened to see a woman standing at the service counter. She was African American and with her was a very light skinned, blonde child. I took one look at her and instantly recognized Eartha Kitt.  She was standing there in the midst of this melee of women, very calmly waiting her turn as some loud mouth bimbo from Queens was screaming about a return not being handled fast enough. I quietly watched as this legend stood motionless in the crowd not demanding attention, just waiting for her turn in line.

I had a great deal of admiration for this woman. She alone had stood up at the White House and denounced the Viet Nam war. Her career had been gutted because of it. She was box office poison and no one would hire her. And yet she held her dignity and continued on with her life, despite the injustice of the retribution. 

I was very shy back then but I needed to thank her for speaking out. I needed to tell her that her pain meant something to someone. I wanted her spirit to be acknowledged and encouraged. And she said, in her most Eartha Kitt manner... "And whom might you be? Do you work in this establishment?" I showed her my badge and she smiled and then asked some inane question that I have long since forgotten. I helped her and she was on her way.  And all these years later I wonder if she knew that I was saying "Thank You. Thank you for trying to help."  I can't imagine she did... but I did.  And it felt good.

Years later I would see a documentary on Eartha Kitt and her daughter was interviewed. This six-year-old blonde child had become a 30-year-old woman.  And Eartha was having a revival of her career. It made me very happy. But how can time go by so quickly? How is Gary dead twenty-five years? How?

These celebrity sightings happen to me a lot. I thought they happened to everyone but, no, it's just me. I'm so special. NOT.

Again, my memory is as clear as a bell on these details, yet I can't remember the name of my agent. Nice, huh?  I was working in the sweater department on the main floor of Alexanders. We had just gotten in a shipment of cable knit knitted pants suits. $5.99. I couldn't keep them in stock. I would put out six hundred of them and three hours later there would be six left.

Well, one day I am standing at the counter and a woman approaches me. I recognize her immediately. It's Hermione Gingold. She was a regular on the talk shows of the 60's and had starred in the film Gigi.  She comes up to me like the cat who has just eaten the canary and says, " Young man, can you reassure me that the price I am seeing on this charming little ticket is what I shall be paying in this fine emporium?" Emporium? It was a bargain basement.  I take the ticket from her and say, "It's $5.99." And she says with this smirking glee on her face, "For the total ensemble?" But you had to hear how she said "ensemble", it was coming right through her nose and she held the "amble" for four beats. She made the word sound like she was reading from Shakespeare.  And taking her comedy challenge I said to her, in a put-on Brooklyn accent, "That's the price, honey, don't wear it out in rain unless ya need a hankie."  And she burst out laughing. "Touché darhling...Touché."  She bought three suits.

NOVEMBER 21, 2006 -
SHARON TATE'S HOUSE PARTY

Many, many, many years ago, when I was just starting out in the business, I got a phone call from Liz Torres, "Do you want to go to a party at Rudy Altabelli's house?" Rudy was a very famous manager in Los Angeles and he was courting Liz as a client. Not being one to miss a good party I said, "Sure, I'd love to come!" It was all arranged, Liz would pick me up and I'd be rubbing elbows with Rudy and all his powerful friends.

The day of the party was all about excitement and preparation. This was a big deal, this party, and I wanted everything to be right. Liz picks me up, took one look at me and told me I looked like an accountant. I had to go back upstairs and change into something more casual, more pool, less nerd.  I change and we drive up into the hills. We approach Rudy's house, the gate is closed but I notice there is a ton of security...cameras, lights, iron fence. It's very strange.  Liz buzzes in and gives the code, as the gates swing open she smiles at me, also very strange but I think nothing of it.  The valet takes our car and Liz and I head for the front door. She pushes the buzzer and turns to me and says, "Whatever you do, don't say a word about the murders." "What murders?" "This is the Tate house!", Liz tells me.  And the doors swing open as Rudy greets us!   "Liz! Darling. How are you?"  Steve is in a coma; she's brought me to Sharon Tate's house twelve months after the murders. 

Ok, so now I'm shaking hands with Rudy and my blood is running cold. Rudy says, "Steve, are you OK? Your hands are like ice." Liz's eyes are the size of footballs as she stares at me. "Nope! My whole family has cold hands, my mother's are like a corpse." Open mouth, insert foot.

The back story is the murders were about a year prior. It appears that Rudy had rented the house to Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate and after the murders no one would rent it again, so he moved into it.  Once inside, Liz and I were never alone and I could not press her for answers to my questions like "A murder scene! You bring me to a effing murder scene? What's the matter the Prom at Auschwitz  was cancelled?"

We are ushered into the living room and my eyes gaze upward to the rafters where reports were one of the bodies was hung. I have never been so creeped out in my life. This was the most notorious crime scene of the time and I was standing right in the middle of it.  But I wasn't alone... Sally Kellerman was sitting in the kitchen in her bathing suit. Valerie Harper was by the pool. Robert Blake and his wife were in the living room. John Savage, his wife and two young kids were running around. All I could think of was, "Manson is locked up, right? 

The day progresses and I forget about the murders. However I did keep looking for where "helter skeleter" was written in blood on the walls. As darkness approached Rudy started the barbecue and people gathered around the piano to sing. Sally Kellerman sang, Valerie Harper sang...it was like 50 thousand dollars worth of entertainment... free! I couldn't help but think if this is what it was like the night of the murders... just a group of friends sitting around having fun until a pack of lunatics crashes the party and kills the host.  Robert Blake was very much to himself during the fun part of the evening and the talk was how strange he was and how he beat his wife. HELLO! His last wife would be have been happy with a beating.

We stayed late into the night and I must tell you it was one of the most magnificent parties I have ever been to. Why? Because it was stars being people not stars. They didn't have their "image" on they were just Valerie and Sally and John. But here's the strange thing. Talk about six degrees of separation. One of my very close friends is Stephen M. Schwartz, the songwriter. Stephen married Wendy Shaal, the actress. Wendy's father is Dick Shaal, the actor and HE married Valerie Harper. So years after the party, Valerie became like family to me (for a short time period) and what we had in common was that night in the hills at Rudy Altabelli's house in the shadow of Sharon Tate's murder.

And that's the funniest thing I could think of today. If this depression doesn't lift soon, I'm going to post the report of my last colonoscopy.                                                                                                 

NOVEMBER 30, 2006 -
NARRATIVE FROM HELL

Steve sits at his computer strumming his fingers. His eyes look up at the new light fixture he replaced after the mudslide. Nothing. He looks over at the new sofa. Nothing. His eyes roll back in his head, searching, searching, searching. Nothing. An audible hum is heard in his head. He opens his resume. Wrote about that. Told them about this. Don't remember all the details of that. Not enough information for this. Too disgusting to tell. He goes back one year in his calendar to see what he was doing on this date one year ago. It's blank. Two years ago... blank.  Three years ago...blank. Four years... blank. Historically, not a good day for writing.

The French houseguest comes into Steve's office with laundry. Oh yes, Steve still has a houseguest. Leaving Dec. 15th. Seriously. He's leaving. Oh yes. Steve booked him his ticket. Back to France he goes. NEVER TO RETURN!  Houseguests and fish...he's having it tattooed on his ass.

Steve prints out yet another script to send to yet another producer for yet another meeting. The printer looks up at him and says, "Why?" and Steve gives it the finger. "Because there is always hope."  Steve realizes he's having hallucinations and has another glass of orange juice.

The script prints on and on like some mechanical bulimic spewing page after page of created brilliance ... then the phone rings. At last something to write about.  It's the French kid... He wants Steve to wash his blanket. Tick-tick-tick......

Steve checks his calendar for today. He has a 1:00 p.m. lunch date with Anita Storm. Steve likes Anita and is looking forward to their lunch. A lunch with bread sticks and rolls... pats of butter by the yard... little French pastries and pasta, lots and lots of pasta. Steve's pants are one notch larger than they were a week ago. He will not be eating at lunch today. "No, just water and mustard, thank you."

His eyes gaze around the room, he desperately needs something to write about today. The family stories have served their purpose... he's been disowned. The mother stories are boring and he's learning to "effing get over it." as his friend Sandy told him. The show business stories have all been told. What to write about? What to write about?

He wonders, "Did I tell them I got all my Christmas shopping done two weeks ago? Did I tell them my cards are written and stamped? Did I happen to mention that the wrapping paper and bows are in my closet and they're screaming for me to start wrapping? Have I told you I am totally insane and need to be put in a place with a padded day room?" Yes, he remembers, he's told them all that.

From his office he hears the buzzer on the dryer.  The clothes are done. He can fold laundry. My God what a life this guy leads. And when the colors are done... he can do THE WHITES.  There's so much fun when he does THE WHITES... there's bleach! Oh if they only knew what a glorious, wonderful life he leads in show business.... Laundry, rejections, Kosher Chinese Food.

The last script has finished printing and he puts the brass brads in the holes. He slips the script into the envelope and .... it fits. Three scripts in one envelope meant for two. He can do nothing wrong today. His life has totally turned around. It's all good and wonderful. But its good and wonderful like those people in the subway who are smiling and you don't know why. You know the ones, the ones you're afraid to let sit next to you because they may have a brick in their plastic bag and who might whack you on the side of the head with it.  That kind of happy.

The laundry is all put away and it's time to brush his teeth, shower and get ready for the lunch date. He wonders if he should wait till he gets back to finish writing. Yes, he'll finish when he gets back. Oh lord what a glorious day for him... more to come later.

LATER

He's back from the lunch with Anita. It went well. He didn't eat too much. He had wonderful talks and great laughs. He walked over to the post office in Beverly Hills and mailed yet another set of scripts to yet another producer that will do nothing with them and waste the cost of postage.  Is that a cloud forming on the horizon?

The confirmation letter for the "gig" arrived. He read it out loud to himself and it hit him what he's done. He could not say no again to a gig he did not want to do because he was afraid "they wouldn't like him."

"This will confirm that you are booked for Sunday, December 24, 2006 for a show at (name) Synagogue, (address). The show will run from approximately 8:15 to 10:00.”

“You will be paid $300 for a 30-35 minute set. You will be billed as a co-headliner, and we will let you know your show position as soon as we hire a fourth act.  You'll be paid by check from the synagogue the night of the show. You and a guest are invited to partake in our Kosher Chinese Buffet before the show, from 7 pm to 8 pm.

We look forward to seeing you there.  Thank you for the promotional information. Best,"

He begins looking for the case that holds his gun the one he doesn't own. Then he remembers Monica Johnson has promised she will accompany him to this fabulous gig so she can use it as material for one of her movies. She wrote THE MUSE, MOTHER, LOST IN AMERICA and more. Steve decides the gun will be too messy... he looks for pills.

The dark clouds begin to multiply and rumble. His career has gone from opening for major stars to working after the Kosher Chinese Buffet... not even a sit down dinner... a buffet.

The bell rings. An email has arrived.  Ah! Perfect it's from the New York Producer who is pissed the contracts are taking so long to be processed. He sees his play begin to crumble in his very hands. He forgets about the pills and goes back to the gun.