Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (11 page)

Cleavon, not knowing what to do, looked at me and asked for more glasses. I brought him a hand full of flute glasses and Cleavon started offering everyone on the restaurant’s staff a glass of champagne.

Now, the wait-staff and I are sitting at the bar table, debating whether or not Dom was over-rated as the best champagne, when Tim and his table are leaving. Tim naturally has to come over and thank Cleavon and remind him that he bought the Dom Perignon that the restaurant’s wait-staff is now openly drinking. Cleavon was thanking Tim, and hoping he would leave soon, when one of Tim’s friends comes over to say good-bye to Cleavon, even mentioning what a great movie he thought Blazing Saddles was. Getting carried away, the friend grabs Tim from behind and sticks two fingers to Tim’s head, shouting, “I’m going to shoot the nigg…”

There was a very long, uncomfortable pause, as the whole wait-staff, me and almost everyone at the bar, waited breathlessly for him to finish the word -- would this knucklehead actually threaten to “shoot the nigger” in front of Cleavon Little (who was, I should inform those who haven’t seen the movie, an African American). The friend stopped in mid-word, realizing what he was about to say. Tim in horror, turned to Cleavon and shouted, “Nice to meet ya, Cleavon,” and pushed his friend out the door, followed by everyone else in his party.

Cleavon turned to us (we were all white and stunned, that the friend almost went that far) and he started laughing. We laughed too and helped Cleavon finish his champagne. Eventually Glenn showed up to find Cleavon and his wait-staff polishing off a bottle of Dom Perignon. Because it was Cleavon’s, Glenn let us finish our glasses before he chased everyone back to work.

Cleavon told Glenn about Tim and his friend. Even Glenn conceded that Tim was a knucklehead… but he was a knucklehead who threw his money around -- the best kind of knucklehead.

Lawrence Kasdan and the Award Show of Doom

F
or many years I would work as a stage manager for the Writers Guild Awards. Some years I would work on the stage and other years I would work as part of the crew that would pull the celebrity presenters and award winning writers out of the audience. This year I was a presenter puller (because we decided to use mostly a union crew -- strange, we had never used a union crew before, until we decided that we were going on strike, now we were a union -- the WGA is a union in only slimmest definition of a union -- to be honest, the Writers Guild are to unions to what the Washington Generals is to basketball).

Before the show, I would break down the script and schedule when to pull both presenters and the award recipients, such as Lawrence Kasdan; the writer of
The Empire
Strikes Back
,
Raiders of the Lost Ark
and writer-director of
The Big Chill
,
Silverado
and
Grand Canyon
. After I broke down the show I would then assign other crew members to pull certain celebrity presenters. I would usually pull just the writers (I knew most of them and most of the other celebrity-yankers wanted to get to the stars). Then I would stake out some quiet place back stage, to keep my script and run the wrangling of the guests from.

The show started and everything was running pretty smoothly. We were all on headsets and I coordinated with the (now union) stage managers. I would direct the other presenter wranglers on who and when they should be pulled. Some of the presenters would be pre-set before the show and the rest would be walked from their tables to the back stage area just a few awards before their turn. Once backstage, they would be able to go over what they were to say with the guys on the teleprompter or go to the green room and wait to be called on stage by the stage managers.

Everything was going smoothly when all of a sudden there was a big break in my script -- we had pulled everyone needed up to that point. I wouldn’t have to pull anyone else for a few categories. It seemed strange. I ran through the script a few times, we had everyone it seemed.... sometimes there are these moments -- it just seemed awfully long.

Suddenly the stage manager started asking me where was Lawrence Kasdan? I checked through my rundown and realized that I didn’t have anything on pulling Mr. Kasdan. I told him I couldn’t find him on the rundown. The stage manager ordered me to go out into the audience and get Kasdan, they were about to start his video package. Realizing that I was now under the gun, I hustled out to where Mr. Kasdan was sitting.

Mr. Kasdan was sitting down front, at a table close to the stage, watching clips from
Continental Divide, Body Heat, The Big Chill
and other great scripts that he had written or directed. I deftly made my way around the long, heavy cables (Oh, how I hate cables), trying not to trip or be swallowed up by them and headed into the throng of the writers lined up to present themselves to the Guild’s Executive Director, David Young, dressed in his finest, wearing a special bone through his nose for the ceremony. The writers hoping for a chance to kiss his ring and hopefully have a chance to rub a certain spot on the Guild’s Kabuki puppet, Patrick Verrone, for luck and positive arbitration decisions in the future.

After fighting my way through mobs of waiting writers I came to an abrupt stop by the sudden appearance of a voodoo skeleton, in a hideous dress. I quickly turned, and bolted away, realizing that it was just WGA board member, Joan Meyerson, probably searching for a fresh soul. I finally fought my way to Mr. Kasdan’s table.

I asked Mr. Kasdan to come with me and told him that we would have to rush. He calmly said, “I was wondering when you were going to get me.” I apologized and told him that we were going have to go directly back stage. Just as we turned to head back I realized that it was too late, the bars had closed and all the bored writers were now flooding back to their tables. We pushed our way through the aisles, trying to get to the back stage before his video introduction ended.

To the side of a screen, where Steven Spielberg was proclaiming Mr. Kasdan’s genius, I could see the head stage manager glaring at me, yelling over my head set, “Bill, I need him back here now.” “We’re coming,” I replied, weakly, trying to lead Mr. Kasdan past the inebriated, returning writers. When suddenly, I heard a gasp, over my headset, from the stage manager, who said, “You’re not going to make it.”

“Why? “ I asked, still trying to fight through drunken and disappointed writers. The stage manager could see better than I from where he was perched on the side of the stage, “There’s no way you guys can make it past that.” Ignoring him, we continued on. I clutched Mr. Kasdan’s arm when I recognized what the stage manager was warning me about. Up ahead, one of the Guilds’ Assistant Executive Directors, who was known as the Dessert Demon amongst the staff and resembled Jabba the Hut, from The Empire Strikes Back, was stuck between two railings leading up the ramp to the back stage. There was no way around.

Mr. Kasdan and myself waited, breathlessly, as some writers tried to squeeze the AED down the ramp. It looked like we were stuck, until a few writers grabbed the AED’s feet and flipped them upside down and let the WGA executive roll towards Mr. Kasdan and I on the hand-railings. “I’ve got it,” I said, as the AED picked up speed, rolling down the railing. It was our chance, I could tell. I thought I could hear the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark (actually, it was the theme, Mr. Kasdan’s video package was ending). Mr. Kasdan and I ducked, letting the AED roll over us and we quickly bolted to the stage. The Dessert Demon barreled into a group of writers genuflecting in front of Young and Verrone, like a bowling ball into ten pins.

Just before getting to the stage, my foot got trapped in some of heavy cables. I told Mr. Kasdan to go on without me. Mr. Kasdan, or “Larry” as I was calling him in my imagination, waved to me as he was met on the stage by the stage manager -- I think there was a tear in his eye... or maybe it was some saliva on his glasses (The spit was flying off the Dessert Demon). Eventually, a courageous PR girl got my foot free.

Later, I went back to my rundown, confused. How could I have missed him? Then I realized I was missing a page in my script. How could that be? I had gone over the whole rundown before the show and no one noticed that I didn’t have the page. No, I remember discussing where Lawrence Kasdan would be sitting, then where did the page with his pull on it go?

I checked around floor by where I left the rundown and even asked a grip who was working nearby. “You mean by that rundown?” he asked. “Yeah, this rundown over here,” I answered. The grip displayed my missing page, “Oh, sorry. I used it to write down what suite number the after-party was going to be.”

I didn’t go to the after party, my job was done here. I didn’t need a party, I had accomplished everything asked of me. After the show, I put on my old fedora, took my bullwhip and mounted my “83” Toyota Corolla. I knew other award shows lay ahead, so my job was never really over. There would always be celebrities to be pull, writers to avoid, asses to be kissed. I just tipped my hat and headed down Wilshire Boulevard into the bright, Hollywood night.

Ted Kennedy has Nervous Friends

T
he Billy Joel song goes; “
We ain’t too pretty -- we ain’t too proud...”
I would say that was a good description of the guys I hung out with when I was a teenager...we were also not too threatening. I mean, there was Hypo, Pokey, Mallard, Oopie and me, Casper. There was no one intimidating there, sure we had a friend named Rim-rider, but he was only threatening to anyone riding in the car that he was driving (and anyone else on the road), but I wouldn’t call any of them a national security threat.

The guy two house down from my parents house, Mr. Baldwin, was a big-shot builder in town. He was also a big shot in the Massachusetts Democratic party. This one day, he’s holding a very large shindig at his house. Pokey’s dad was also a big-shot builder in town. Pokey was assigned to wait in his pick-up truck at the end of our driveway and direct the guests to where to park. Being a good friend, I figured I would just go and hang with him as he did his civic duties, or maybe, I just wanted to get out the house.

As Pokey and I were kicking it in the back of his truck, he informed me that the esteemed senator from Massachusetts, his honorable, Edward M. Kennedy, would be attending this soiree. As cars pulled up, Pokey would stop them and direct to an available parking space. Eventually, Hypo, Oopie and Mallard showed up and parked in my driveway.

They too, joined Pokey and me in the back of the pick-up truck, as we waited for Teddy to arrive. I’m sure we had some deep in depth talk about some current affair or the pros or cons of a second shooter in JFK’s assassination -- or we probably were just ripping on each other, as most eighteen year-old guys do. I was usually the butt of most their jokes -- since I was the most sensitive (I had this deep feeling that I was).

When two Lincoln Continentals rolled down the street, it was pretty obvious that this was Teddy and his friends. Realizing that our guest of honor had showed up, we all jumped out of the back of the pick-up truck. Suddenly both cars stopped short, two large men in dark suits and sunglasses, sprung out of the both the backdoors to the first Lincoln. Their right hands reaching into their dark suit jackets, ready to pull heat.

Five guys dressed in jeans, t-shirts and shit-kicker boots suddenly jump out the back of a pick-up truck, okay -- maybe we could’ve looked a bit dangerous. After hitting the street, I looked up in time to see the dark suited guys glaring at us. One looked to have his weapon ready, the second was still trying to find it in the holster under his arm. Someone was yelling, “Don’t move, don’t move.” I couldn’t even think about moving, the way the guy said it made it seem like the only choice. Then another voice shouted, “Let’s see your hands.” We all raised our hands, looking like Billy Hayes at the Turkish Airport at the beginning of
Midnight Express
.

We stood there with our hands raised in the air as the (presumed) secret service agents surveyed the scene to confirm if there wasn’t some other impending threat. I was ready to stand there all day with my hands up if it was going to guarantee that I would not be shot at the foot of my driveway. I would like to think that if that happened my parents would be very upset but this was back in the seventies when most parents first thought was that you had it coming. You had work backwards from there (My dad coming out of the house with a crow bar to pummel my lifeless body like the store owner in
Taxi Driver
. “Who spends forty in the only bathroom in a house of seven people? What kind of animal are you?” Remember, I was sensitive)

Finally, the head Secret Service guy decided that we weren’t a threat and gave a confirming nod to the agent on the other side of the car. Two agents in the back car, were now also out but without guns drawn. Pokey pointed to where the party was and said, “Park wherever you want.” The head Secret Service Agent gave one more good scan of the territory and slipped back into the his seat, closing the door. The other agent glared at us with a “You were really close to getting shot” look and he finally got back into the car. The two cars started down John Street to the party, Ted Kennedy, somewhere inside one of them. As they passed, I could almost hear Teddy telling his agent friends, “You scared the shit out of those little assholes.”

I’ve always been a Kennedy man, even after my small brush with his body guards. I thought the guy was right more than he was wrong and most of the time his heart was in the right place (which is a lot to be said for anyone in government today). I was disappointed in his autobiography, okay you accepted what J. Edgar Hoover and the Warren Commission conclusions on the assassinations of your brothers but you’re really going to leave us with that bogus story of what happened at Chappaquiddick? Come on, you have a brain tumor -- level with us -- it’s your big chance. No way were you lost, no way did you think you were going to drive that car over the Dike Bridge. You may have been horny and drunk but you were not crazy -- Come on. Like the song says, “We might have laughed a bit too loud but that never hurt no one.”

This story is for Mallard; you left too early -- we miss ya.