My Trip Down the Pink Carpet (8 page)

I was aghast.

Against my better judgment I informed the head of security for the Hotel Lebada that the young man was a guest of mine and I trusted him implicitly and he would be spending a lot of time with me during my stay in Bucharest and we would both be down shortly to register him. What was I thinking? Had I lost my marbles? I barely knew this boy.

The head of security stared at me for a long time.

“I doubt he has any identification. Gypsies never do. If he is to remain on the premises he must have identification. We are expecting the Israeli junior soccer team next week and we are on high security alert. You must understand that this is all for your own protection as well.”

When I informed my young man of the developments, he was livid.

“I am
not
a Gypsy! Who says I am a Gypsy?” He stomped indignantly around the hotel room. His green eyes flashed and he kept throwing his long hair out of his face. I tried my best to calm him down.

“Julian, this all means nothing to me,” I said, “but for you to stay you must be registered. Do you have any identification?”

He would not look at me, and spoke in the tiny voice of a child. “No. It was stolen. I need to take the train to my hometown of Sibiu to replace my identification.”

“Then I’ll send you to Sibiu. I will buy you a train ticket. This is really no big deal. Please calm down.”

He barely acknowledged me. I could tell his feelings were still hurt, so I thought it best to leave him alone. I was expected shortly in the makeup room. We were shooting a scene outside in the gardens that involved mental patients kicking a soccer ball around. After I was made up and ready to go before the cameras, I stopped by the room to check on my young man.

“Julian?”

He was gone.

And so was my passport, cash totaling almost a thousand dollars, my leather bag, my wallet, my favorite Versace shirt, and all of my credit cards. I flew out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the garden screaming like a drunken banshee.

“That thieving Gypsy has wiped me out!”

As I sputtered and stomped about, Billy Butler pulled me aside, pinched my arm, and whispered violently, “Stop it right now and I mean it. The scene we are about to shoot is really important, and I don’t need your drama.”

“Billy, I was warned, but I didn’t listen, and now my heart is broken. I can’t possibly work!” I cried.

“Oh, cut the crap, Mary,” Billy snorted. “You just met him last night! Now, get your gay ass over there in front of that camera before I smack you a good one like I did that night at La Poubelle.”

I started to inform Billy that I would smack him right back, but I do not think my nerves could have stood another gay smackdown. I could tell that he meant business, so I acquiesced and we all went to work.

I was so wrapped up in the scene we were shooting I almost forgot about the terrible pickle I was in. At one point, Billy pulled me aside.

“He’s behind the tree.”

“What?”

“Your hustler is behind the tree.”

“What are you talking about? What hustler?”

“The Gypsy who ripped you off is sitting over there behind that big tree.”

I was stunned. I walked over and, sure enough, Julian sat cross-legged behind a tree. In his lap he held my leather bag, my wallet, and my Versace shirt. Nearby on the ground were my credit cards and money, neatly stacked.

“Julian?”

He looked up. There were tears streaming down his face. “I could not do it.”

“But why would you? I was good to you.”

“Because,” he said, “it’s all I know.”

I sat beside him and stared out over the rambling, overgrown garden. He seemed genuinely remorseful. I could see the Gypsy camps off in the distance. What had I gotten myself into?

The next day, I sent him to his hometown on a train. He triumphantly returned with his identification and we presented it to the management at the hotel. The way they treated him was inexcusable. They would not look at him and when they did, they did so with disdain.

He was embraced, however, by the movie crew from America, and he blossomed under their attentions. He even cut his long, beautiful hair to look more presentable. While I worked all day getting my head chopped off and such, Julian played in the swimming pool. In the evenings, after a long siesta, we dressed for dinner. What an odd pair we made as we paraded into the finest restaurants in Bucharest. I bought Julian a new wardrobe at the Romanian Kmart. He seemed to favor the look of a 1980s rock star. I wanted to place emphasis upon his patrician looks and dress him up like a beautiful Brooks Brothers doll, but he liked things that were ripped up and held together with safety pins—a Romanian Rick Springfield.

There was always a moment as we walked into a fancy restaurant. People would notice us and everything would stop. Julian always defiantly stood his ground and proudly moved closer to me. I felt as if we were an interracial couple in the Deep South in the 1950s. These situations brought us closer and closer, and I began to feel incredibly protective toward him as well.

We stood united against the prejudice toward his Gypsy heritage.

Some crazy old broad I met in recovery once told me, “Honey, if you’ve got one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you are in the perfect position to just shit all over today.”

Julian truly lived in the moment, and it rubbed off on me. On my days off from shooting we took a delightful vacation to the Black Sea. We took the train to Constanta and checked into a beautiful hotel that spoke of the days of the Romanovs. We also rented a car and drove to Transylvania to see the hunting lodge of some king from days gone by and the castle of Count Dracula. It was magnificent. Surprisingly, Julian was an authority on the history of his country and loved regaling me with interesting tidbits.

The time for me to leave Romania came all too soon.

At the airport, he stood waving sadly as I walked away. In the car behind him was everything he owned, including his new rock star wardrobe carefully folded in a beautiful leather suitcase I had given him as a going-away present. He told me that he would treasure his new suitcase until the day he died. In the folds of the suitcase I had hidden a secret wad of cash he would find when he unpacked his clothes.

I think people who grow up with hard knocks learn to not expect much from life. So when life presents them with unanticipated treats, they are grateful but careful not to expect too much. I lived with this young man for five weeks, yet I knew nothing about his life. I had no idea where he came from, or where he went after he left me.

We got off to a rocky start, but he made up for it. He gained my trust. He showed me his country and he tried to keep me safe and sound. He never once asked to be taken to America. He never once asked for any money for his services. Come to think of it, he asked for very little.

And he gave quite a lot.

Even though I gave him a cell phone with six months of free unlimited calling, I never heard from him again. I did not really expect to. I think we both knew there was nothing else to be said. But here’s to my young man Julian wherever he may be—for putting a little gypsy in my soul.

M
ISS
F
AYE
Dunaway paid me the best compliment I have ever received. I was hired to do a few episodes of
It Had to Be You,
a situation comedy she was starring in with dear, sweet, beautiful Robert Urich, who later tragically died of cancer. What a crush I had on Robert Urich! But we’ve been down that road before.

I was in awe of Faye Dunaway. I remember sitting alone in a darkened movie theatre in the throes of teenage angst, staring at her amazing cheekbones in
Bonnie and Clyde
(but lusting after Warren Beatty, of course). She was a legend.

The entire week of rehearsals she had been somewhat aloof, as she is very serious about her work and had many reservations about working in situation comedy. She wasn’t available for chitchat, and any encounters up to that point had been strictly business. She had also been dressed very casually all week, with her hair pulled back and very little makeup. But after almost four hours in the makeup trailer, she paraded out in all her glory.

Faye Fucking Dunaway! She was bigger than life! And that is how a diva should be. Finally, we sat face-to-face in the greenroom, waiting to take our places onstage. Out of the blue, she leaned in and whispered in that smoky voice, “You remind me a lot of my dear friend Tennessee Williams.”

I almost fell on the floor.

I think the biggest diva crush I’ve ever had was on Beverly D’Angelo. Having been a huge Patsy Cline fan my whole life, I thought Beverly’s portrayal of Patsy Cline in
Coal Miner’s Daughter
was breathtaking. I must have seen that movie a hundred times.

Years later, my friend Del Shores wrote and produced a movie called
Daddy’s Dyin’: Who’s Got the Will?
with our manager, Bobbie Edrick. When I heard they had cast Beverly D’Angelo in one of the lead roles, I almost fainted. I plotted and planned how I could finagle my way onto the set to meet her. The movie was shooting in Drop, Texas. I kid you not. There’s Dallas, and then as you head out of town there is Denton, then Ponder, then Krum, and then there is Drop. How in the hell was I going to get out to Drop, Texas?

Crawl on my hands and knees if I had to!

I had recently been in the enviable position of having been offered
two
television series in the same season. One was an offer to play a part on the second season of
ALF,
a hit series that starred a puppet from outer space. The other was a brand-new series,
The People Next Door,
starring Jeffrey Jones. At the time, Jeffrey Jones was enjoying huge success from his role as the principal in the blockbuster hit movie
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

My manager pooh-poohed the series offer from
ALF.

“A series starring a puppet from outer space?” She laughed. “Oh, please, spare me! Plus, honey, you already kind of look like a little puppet from outer space.”

Oh, well.

When the Jeffery Jones series was cancelled, I saw my opportunity to meet Beverly D’Angelo. I called Bobbie, who was already in Texas doing preproduction work on the movie, and told her I was so depressed I felt like jumping off a bridge. As I sniveled on, she grabbed at the bait.

“Well, honey, how about I fly you out here to godforsaken Drop, Texas, and we can hang out on the set. Would that cheer you up?”

“Yes, ma’am. Will I get to meet Beverly D’Angelo?”

“Of course, and you’ll also get to meet Judge Reinhold and Beau Bridges and Keith Carradine and Tess Harper—remember her from
Tender Mercies
?—oh, and Sissy Spacek’s going to be visiting because her husband Jack Fisk is directing!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…but will Beverly D’Angelo be around much?”

“She got in yesterday and she’s a lovely girl, you two will really hit it off.”

I screamed and locked myself in the bathroom.

When I got to Texas, the movie was shooting in an old ranch house out in the middle of nowhere. I stood around watching the rehearsal in the living room with my eyes glued to Beverly D’Angelo. She was really small. She has terrific boobs, a tiny waist, tons and tons of blond hair, and a real husky voice.

When we were introduced she was sweet, but she dismissed me immediately, as she was concentrating on the rehearsal. Not to be daunted, I spoke up and addressed the whole cast when they were on a break: “Listen, y’all, I’m driving into the Galleria in Dallas this afternoon if anyone needs anything.”

Sure enough, Beverly came running over. “Sweetie, do you think you could buy me some panties? I packed so quickly I forgot my underwear. Can you believe it?”

She was digging in her bag for some money. I was dumbfounded. I supposed she thought I was one of the production assistants for the movie. Why else would she ask someone she barely knew to buy her something so personal? I later learned that was just the way she was. Very free-spirited! I had almost forgotten that she was in
Hair
running around practically naked with a young Treat Williams.

I said, “I certainly don’t mind buying you…panties. But I have to tell you I have no earthly idea what kind or size or anything about women’s…panties.”

“I’m easy to please. Size four and they have got to be cotton crotch. Wait a minute, come in here with me.”

She paraded into the makeup room lugging her bag and I followed, sheepishly. She shut the door behind us and whispered as she continued to dig around in her enormous catchall, “I really wear a size six. I did
not
want any of the women overhearing my panty size. You know how women are.”

“Size six,” I replied.

“Cotton crotch,” she repeated. “Don’t forget that. Here’s a hundred dollars. Just see what you can come up with.”

I set off for Dallas like a man on a mission from God. In my hot little hand I held the crumpled hundred-dollar bill Beverly D’Angelo had given me. Scared to death I would forget, I whispered her instructions over and over on the drive to Dallas.

“Size six, cotton crotch. Size six, cotton crotch.”

This was many years ago, before Victoria’s Secret was so well known. When I saw the front of the store in the mall I thought,
Well,
this
looks like the place to buy panties for a movie star!

The salesclerk was a rail-thin, impossibly chic older woman. She looked me up and down. She had on those half-moon reading glasses on a gold chain, and she peered over them like a whooping crane.

“May I help you?” She spoke like all those actresses from the 1940s.

I was so nervous my voice cracked. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to buy some underpants…uh…for my wife.”

“I see.” She gave me a sly smile like she knew what was up. I swear she thought I was buying panties for myself! “Yes. Well, dear, what size panties does your…wife…wear?”

I blurted out my instructions. “Size six, cotton crotch.”

“Well, dear, all our panties are cotton crotch. Follow me and I’ll show you our vast selection.”

She pulled out drawer after drawer. The selection was overwhelming. This was in the days before girls started wearing those little bitty butt-floss panties, but there were still some teeny-tiny pairs. I had no idea what kind of panties to buy for Beverly D’Angelo.

Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina tried to steer me to some of the panties in bright, trashy colors, but I was raised in a home where four things were
always
white: bedsheets, bath towels, toilet paper, and paper towels for the kitchen. I naturally assumed that panties should always be white as well. I finally selected some nice panties—size six, cotton crotch, bikini cut—and called it a day. I was shocked that I could buy only four pairs with a hundred dollars, but I left the store swinging my bright pink shopping bag.

Mission complete.

On the way back I envisioned Beverly and me bonding over her new panties and becoming the best of friends. When I reached the set, she was still deep into rehearsal. I stood outside the crowd of crew members waving the Victoria’s Secret bag, trying to get her attention.

She finally noticed me and waved a dismissive hand. “Put them over there with my things.”

I was devastated. My feelings were so hurt. She didn’t even say thank you! But I found out later from watching all the proceedings that when Beverly is working she is all business.

Beverly D’Angelo has a dear friend named Mela who travels with her everywhere. It was through Mela that Beverly and I finally bonded and became fast friends. I told Beverly all about my trip to Dallas and Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina. We laughed and laughed.

Mela and I both used the laundromat down the street from the hotel as opposed to paying the exorbitant prices that the hotel charged for laundry. One time I noticed Mela loading the panties I had bought for Beverly into the washer.

“You do her laundry?” I asked, and pointed out the panties.

“Oh, those. Did you buy those for Beverly? You must have bought the wrong size. She gave them to me because they were waaaay too small.”

That afternoon I cornered Beverly and told her if I ever got famous I had my Johnny Carson story ready. It was going to be about the time I bought panties for Beverly D’Angelo and she told me one size in front of everyone, then pulled me aside and told me a larger size, which I bought. But then even
those
turned out to be way too small for her fat ass.

“You know how women are about their panty sizes,” I reminded her.

“You better not tell that story, and I mean it. I’ll never speak to you again!”

Later on that day, Beverly pulled me aside. She was dead serious. “I’ve thought long and hard about your little panty story. I am giving you permission to use it, but listen—I want you to start at a size two. Then I pull you into the makeup room and tell you a size four. Then you buy a size four but they are just a little too snug. Got it? That’s the story that goes on Carson.”

Now, that is how a diva should be!