Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (21 page)

Buggin’ Superman… or Christopher Reeve

I
really don’t bother celebrities (if you notice, most of my stories, I have to approach them -- I don’t interrupt them… it’s later that I annoy them). But there was one who I continued to annoy for a number of years; this celebrity was Christopher Reeve --The Superman of the seventies.

Even when I was bothering him, Mr. Reeve was always very nice and cordial. I mean, I wasn’t trying to bother him; it would just work out like that. The first time I ran into Mr. Reeve was in New York City. I was strolling to work one afternoon, when I spotted Christopher Reeve, hunched over, his head down and face shaded by the high collar of his coat. I was very proud of myself for recognizing him, because of the way he was walking; it was obvious that he was trying to blend into the pedestrians. Perking up, I said loudly, “Hi, Superman…”

Christopher Reeve anxiously glared at me, from behind his coat-collar. Then I heard it screech from behind me, “Superman!!! Superman!!!” What I hadn’t noticed, but Mr. Reeve had, was a class of kindergarten children (all of whom clutching a rope in one hand -- like a child-chain-gang being led up Amsterdam Avenue). The children broke ranks and jumped around their beloved Superman, their teachers tried to direct them back to their places, with their stinging bullwhips (alright, maybe they were just yelling at them to get back on the rope).

Mr. Reeve had taken on the persona of Clark Kent and shook hands with the kids, telling them, that he was indeed, Superman. I slipped away, but not before Superman gave me a stare that proved he wasn’t really the man of steel -- because if he was I would’ve been fried to a crisp from his x-ray vision glare.

I felt terrible about interfering with his walk, but I hadn’t noticed the kids behind me. I headed off to work, when I got about a block away, I turned to see if Superman had escaped his young captors… and I swear, he was standing over them, his long coat, blowing in the wind, his hands on his hips and his legs splayed. I suddenly felt very, very safe… from gangs of children, at least, which was the safest I ever felt in my time in New York.

Years later, while I was tending bar at the Sunset Marquis, who should walk in but Mister Christopher Reeve, looking like Superman on vacation, in a loud shirt, shorts and flip-flops, he ordered a cocktail. Recognizing my chance for redemption, I apologized to Mr. Reeve for my outing him on Amsterdam Avenue. Mr. Reeve just laughed and said, “There was a long time in the eighties where I avoided all grade schools.” Then my bar crowd (actually, my bar crowd was one fairly-well-known, usually drunk, director, who I had a mutual agreement with -- I would not ask to him read my screenplay and he would not tell me about his travels to Thailand trolling for little boys -- that’s right, he wasn’t Norm or Cliff -- this is L.A, baby) piped up, “You’re not goddamned Superman!” I turned to him and said, “Yes, he is. He’s Christopher Reeve.”

My bar crowd turn from his drink and announced, “Bullshit!” Christopher Reeve glared at me and reached for the bar tab that I had just printed. I had done it again -- unveiled him. My bar crowd growled, “Superman killed himself -- and he don’t look dead.” Chris smiled at me and said, “I have to leave... long day tomorrow.” Mr. Reeve backed out of the bar, as the drunken director shouted at him, “He’s a fraud -- Christopher Reeves killed himself -- with a shotgun -- right in the head.” I tried to calm my drunken deviate down. “That was George Reeves,” I said. “He’s Christopher Reeve, he was superman in the seventies -- Marlon Brando was his father.” “Ahhh!” railed my bar trash, “It’s always nepotism -- I tell you, boyo, if you can’t be born into this business you have to fuck your way in.” By now the Front Desk Manager was peeking into the lounge hoping it wasn’t who he thought it was yelling -- it was. I tried to tell my bar crowd that Christopher Reeve was not related to George Reeves, but all he kept saying was that Brando was fat… and refused to work with him (I can’t see why -- who wouldn’t want to work with a belligerently drunken pedophile?).

On another stay, while helping with room service, I volunteered to deliver Mr. Reeve’s breakfast. I got the tray together and walked to his room. Between the kitchen and Mr. Reeve’s suite, I ran into to Sonia Braga, the Brazilian actress from
Kiss of the Spider
Woman
and
The Milagro Beanfield War
. Ms. Braga was always hard to talk to but with her dressed in an open hotel robe, only wearing a thong bikini underneath, it was even harder. “What’s the dish, Beall?” she asked. Ms. Braga used to love to try to get me to disclose who was staying in the hotel and if there was any good gossip. I usually didn’t have any problems telling her but today I would rather do it after I served the Reeve’s their breakfast. She knew I was an easy touch, just the way she mispronounced my name used to make me dizzy. “I don’t have anything,” I said to her, her robe now hanging off her shoulders. “Yeess, you do, Beall,” she replied, “You know everything.” I tried -- God, I tried, but that bikini (is there a minimum amount of cloth to what makes a bikini?) Then she smiled at me… and I spilled my guts like Fredo in the boathouse with Michael, at Tahoe.

I told her everything while I stood in the hall, holding a tray for two, for Superman and Mrs. Superman. Everyone who was staying at the Marquis, people who had just left, the fights, a drug overdose that we had to call an ambulance for, the banning of my bar crowd for exposing himself when a woman asked for a stir stick, the big shot movie actor who passed out on the backstairs… I told her everything. I think I even told her the combination to my bike lock and my masturbation schedule (I hope I didn’t mention how often she was on that schedule). Finally, she was satisfied that I had nothing left and let me, mercifully, to go about serving the Reeves.

I scooted up the hall and knocked lightly on the Reeve’s door; knowing that Dana Reeve, Chris’s wife, was very pregnant. Of course, no one answered the door. I tried again, a bit louder -- still no answer. Suddenly, Sonia ran up beside me and said, “Hit it so they can hear you…” She then gave two hard kicks to the lower part of their door and zipped off, down the hall. Quickly, the door swung open. Mr. Reeve stood there, in a robe and a look of “WTF.” I said, with as much manliness as I could, “She did it.” I looked down the hall, where Ms. Braga had escaped -- all I could see was her robe disappearing down an adjacent hallway, sticking me with the blame. Christopher Reeve leaned over and looked down the hall -- that was empty. “It was Sonia Braga,” I confessed, “She kicked your door.”

I entered the room, where poor Dana Reeve was standing at the bedroom door, extremely close to having a baby. I brought the tray into the room and set up the table. One at a time, I set out each plate, while apologizing to the Reeves. Dana tasted one of the omelets, as Chris filled out the check. “This is cold,” she said. Now I apologized for the cold omelets (I had a lot to confess to Ms. Braga... it took a little while... eggs get cold quickly). I went back to the kitchen for two more omelets.

I think everyone knows of the tragedy that would strike the Reeves. In regards to being a nuisance, Christopher and Dana Reeve were always nice and patient. I was saddened by his death and then by hers. They were very good people and proved to be so courageous after his accident, doing so much for other victims of spinal trauma, they both will always be the real Mr. & Mrs. Superman to me.

Mickey Rourke and the Darryl

I
t was one of those nights; like so many others, I was just going to kick back and have a few drinks at my favorite Upper West Side bar, Rupperts. Rupperts had a pretty good scene back in the eighties, mostly working people, a lot of restaurant people (always the best kind of customers), everyone knew everyone or at least worked with someone that that you knew. I was very lucky to find an empty bar stool up at the bar and ordered a beer. After chatting with the bartender for a bit, a waiter I knew from my short time at The Tavern on the Green entered and took an empty bar stool beside me. Brian and I shook hands and Brian took his seat at the bar.

After the Tavern didn’t work out and I went back to a regular bartending job, I would still run into Brian in the neighborhood. Sometimes, he would drop in around lunch time and have lunch at Nanny Rose, with me. Other times, like tonight, I would meet him at Rupperts. Brain asked me what I was doing. I replied that since I found a seat at the bar, I had no plans of leaving. Brian told me he was going to a birthday party and asked me if I wanted to go. I thought about it, but who wants to go to a birthday party for someone they don’t know -- besides, I hope it isn’t some kid’s party that Brian wants adult company at. “It’s Mickey Rourke’s birthday,” he said. “I’ll go!” I snapped.

Brian had a friend, who was friends with Mickey, and had asked Brian if he wanted to go to the party, it was at the Mayflower Hotel. Brian and I had a few more beers before we headed down Central Park West. It was a beautiful September night and the beer was doing the trick, also the thought of getting into a big shot actor’s party. I was a fan of Mickey’s work; Boogie in
Diner,
Motorcycle Boy in
Rumble Fish
, and the guy who starts fires in
Body Heat
... who wouldn’t want to go to this guy’s birthday party.

When we got to the Mayflower Hotel, Brian spotted his friend standing outside. This is usually not a good sign; people waiting outside usually means they can’t get in. Brian stepped up to his friend. Brian introduced me to Stevo, in his twenties, eyes and hands going everywhere. “This is Bill,” Brian said, I shook hands with Stevo. Stevo looked over my shoulder, never making eye contact. It was obvious that Stevo’s mind was going a mile a minute, reeling on the Peruvian marching powder (as we used to call it then) “All right,” Stevo said, “anyone else coming?” Brian shook his head, “That’s it -- me and Bill.” “Come on,” said Stevo, turning quickly and heading into the hotel’s front door. I leaned over to Brian and whispered “I hope we can get in.” Brian said that Stevo was cool -- he would get us in. All right, I was ready for the big time.

We followed Stevo, who was practically in a Groucho Marx stride -- all he needed was the cigar, to a ballroom on the first floor of the hotel. Stevo grabbed the guy at the door by the shoulder and whispered to him. The plain-clothes guard turned and looked me and Brian over, coldly. Stevo motioned us into the doors. The guard just gave us a look that he was prepared for a long night.

When we entered the ballroom there was a lot of lights and loud disco music. Stevo moved through the crowd, pushing his way into the middle of the room. We followed him, trying to keep Stevo in sight as we made it through the crowd. Stevo stood at the top of six steps, descending into the middle of room. Brian and I stood beside Stevo, watching him stare over the dancing crowd. Brian said something to Stevo, who anxiously was still searching through the undulating gathering. Brian turned to me and said, “Stevo wants to introduce us to Mickey.” Cool.

It was kind of strange party; a weird mixture of the Studio Fifty-Four crowd, Mighty Mick’s Gym and drunken strippers. You can’t lose with that combination. I told Brian that I wanted to get a drink. He followed me and we went looking for the closest bar. I hate these places where there are large crowds, especially when it’s really hot and everyone is sweating all over you and bumping into everyone -- why did I leave my spacious barstool? Then we swam into a school of real sweaty strippers and I totally flip-flopped on my previous sentence. We finally made it to a bar, with Stevo following behind. Good news, it was a open bar -- I’ll have two, please. Brian and I ordered beers; Stevo said he didn’t want anything. He would just stand near us and bounce up and down on his heels, nervously searching for Mickey.

We made the rounds, checking out the women and some of the more punchy looking guys. We found some leftover food on a table in the back of the room. I had a few chips with Brian; Stevo was too busy grinding his teeth to eat. We still couldn’t find Mickey -- and it was really bugging Stevo. “Where can he be?” he asked, like Mickey had been kidnapped on his way home from school.

Suddenly, Stevo perked up -- reminding of me of our family dog, Scampy, when he spotted a squirrel in the yard. “There he is,” Stevo announced, his eyes bouncing around in his head. If Stevo had a tail it would be wagging happily, now. Stevo started fighting his way through the crowd, with Brian and me following him. Stevo made his way to Mickey and two women, who had just entered from a side door to the room. Mickey was looking cool, wearing a light scarf around his neck and a leather vest. Stevo cornered Mickey, like Scampy chasing the squirrel up a tree. “Mick, hey Mick…” Stevo yelled to Mickey. Mickey looked over at Stevo and gave a weak smile.

Brian and I slowed up -- I think we both noticed it at the same time. We were with the Darryl. Darryl was a kid I went to high school with. He was the kid who would go to the party and insult the parents, move on the pre-pubescent sister, get the dog drunk, leave a huge smelly crap in the toilet and then puke in the old man’s car, so that he wouldn’t find it until the next morning. Every party has a Darryl to some degree. The way that Mickey looked at Stevo gave me the feeling that maybe Stevo was more Darryl than even Darryl was.

Stevo ran up and gave Mickey an awkward hug. He turned to us and said, “Hey, Mick -- these are my friends.” He motioned us closer. “This is Brian and Bob.”

For once, I didn’t mind being called “Bob.” We shook hands with the birthday boy, who was trying to find any reason at all to leave us with Darryl… I’m mean Stevo.

At that moment Liza Minnelli appeared at the top of the stairs, in front of the door. She yelled birthday wishes to Mickey and two waiters pushed in a large birthday cake with a Harley Davidson motorcycle depicted on the top. Everyone started to sing “Happy Birthday” to Mickey -- who stood, looking pleased that he now had a good reason to leave Stevo. We all sang to Mickey.

After the singing stopped, two of the most boxer-like guys pushed a Harley Davidson motorcycle into the center of the ballroom, while everyone else applauded. Mickey went to the bike, as the rest of the guests surrounded it. Someone had placed a large, blue bow on the gas tank. Mickey sat on the bike, as some people shouted that he should start it up. Mickey didn’t think about it too long before he jumped on the kick-starter and bike roared to life.

Mickey sat on the idling hog, revving the engine every once and a while, admiring the sound, as it echoed through the ballroom. Mickey reached out and grabbed Liza by the arm and pulled her onto the seat, behind him. The bike lurched forward, people running to get out of the way, as Mickey and Liza started to roll through the crowd. The whole scene was surreal in a way -- Motorcycle Boy and Sally Bowles, cruising through a crowded ballroom on the Upper Westside -- Liza (
with a Z
) hanging on for dear life.

Mickey rolled the motorcycle to the stairs, and gassed it, trying to make the bike climb them. Just as Liza was trying to jump off, a figure leaped out of the retreating crowd and reached for one of Mickey’s handle bars, to help him push. Mickey turned to the figure, who by now I realized was Stevo, his feet digging into the carpet, trying to help “Mick” hill-climb the stairs. It looked like Mickey was about to punch him. Most people would realize that you can’t push just one side of a handle bar… because it will only throw the bike off balance… unless you are the Darryl.

Mickey dumped the bike, as the back tire ripped up the carpet on the stairs, spinning out of control. Liza had jumped off, just in time. The bike was bucking, in a pile on the stairs, poor Mickey didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help the bike but on the other hand I think he wanted to kill Stevo, who was making a desperate attempt to help Mick pick it up. Finally, Mickey and a few of the palookas lifted the dumped bike up and backed it down the stairs. The pugs pushed Darryl away and helped Mickey get the bike back into the middle of the ballroom.

Everything quieted down as Mickey and some other guys, who most-likely, were real Hells Angels, checked the bike over for damage. Everyone waited breathlessly to see if anything was broken. It was very quiet when a voice chirped, “What kind of stripper are you?” Everyone turned to Darryl, eh, Stevo, now talking to one of the women who had entered with Mickey.

“And now it’s time to leave,” whispered Brian. As the whole party turned on Stevo, Brian and I headed for the front door of the room, pretending that we had suddenly become deaf and didn’t want to get pounded into dust by The Wrestler and his Hells Angels friends. There was some yelling behind us, the guy at the door didn’t say anything, or even try to stop us, we quickly walked up Central Park West and never looked back.

Five hours later, I finally got my bar stool back at Rupperts. Brian and I never talked of the party or what happened to Darryl -- Stevo, after we left him. Years later, Stevo sat at my bar when I worked at Manhattan Chili Company in the Village. He asked if his take-out order was ready. I said no and asked him if wanted anything to drink while he waited. He said he would like a soda water. I asked him if he remembered me. He said he didn’t, he didn’t remember a lot from those days. I introduced myself -- he said his name was Steve now. Finally, his food came and Stevo (now Steve) turned to leave, “Good seeing you again, Bob,” he said and walked out the door -- once the Darryl, always the Darryl.

The Bad Show

E
veryone in Hollywood loves award shows. Every organization in Los Angeles has one (my daughter won the “Most Dramatic When People Refuse to Share with Her” award at her pre-school). So of course, the Writers Guild had to have one. I worked thirteen Writer Guild of America West Award Shows, some were better than others, many I’ve totally wiped clean from my memory, but one will stand out beyond all others -- the run-away-train of all award shows.

When I first started at the Guild, Ed Gustin, my boss in the Operations Department, was the producer of the show. Ed could put on a good show -- no matter how lame our presenter line-up was. Then Ed retired. The show then went into the hands of the WGA membership’s Media Relations Committee, a group of member/writers that would put the show together in Ed’s place. You would think a bunch of writers could put on an award show -- you would think -- I did, at least.

Since we worked for Ed, almost everyone in my department helped with the award show. I have been the stage manager, second stage manager, talent wrangler, talent-wrangler coordinator and the guy secretly assigned
to keep the host sober. For this show, I was going to be the main stage manager.

As soon as I sat down to the pre-show meal, I realized I was in trouble. This show seemed to have a strong line-up of celebrity presenters (usually we started with a strong line-up of celebrities and then they would drop out, one at time, until we had a line-up of a few celebrities and mostly high-profile writers presenting. I will miss those calls from Ed, on the morning of the show, asking me if I knew anyone famous, “No, Ed, I haven’t made any famous friends since last year.”) but still one of the MRC members was grousing about Bill Maher opening the show.

This was 2003; the country was divided as the Bush administration led the charge to war. “Bill Maher is going to come on and rip into Bush, dragging the whole show down,” complained the member, obviously not getting the “Hollywood is liberal” memo. I just smiled and finished my dinner, looking over my show rundown, checking to see if there was any hot women celebrities on the list (one year, Selma Hyak asked me to check out her butt and make sure it her underwear wasn’t showing -- ah, memories, it’s all I have left). It seemed like a good line-up and there were not any red cross-outs, yet.

I was impressed to see that we were giving Blake Edwards, the writer/director of the original Pink Panther films (with Peter Sellers),
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
,
10
,
S.O.B
. and
Victor Victoria
, a special Lifetime Achievement Award. This should be fun -- even if it was a bit light on sex-pots… and oh, Hal Holbrook would be presenting, also. I was informed that the members of MRC would be helping us backstage -- suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck started to rise.

I worked for writers for thirteen years and I even considered myself one, but when it came to actually working beside the WGA members there were not a lot of good experiences. I found most liked only giving orders, a few would actually help. I was hoping we got the helpers. Most of the Guild shows had either staff (people I worked with every day) or paid professionals -- this was the first one that had members working it. Gulp.

After dinner, I was introduced to the writers and MRC members that I would be working with. One writer, Jean, an attractive woman, in her 30s, wearing a long gown, heels and with her hair obviously done up special for the night, would be the presenters-escort. She would accompany the presenters and celebrities from the green room to the stage where they would be introduced to me. I felt that I had to point out to Jean that she was going to have to wear a headset all night and that it may be difficult with her new hairdo. Jean said it would be no problem, she could take it down if need be. Okay, as long as she can hear us well enough.

We were given our radios and headsets. Problem there; I was told by the Guild’s Communications Department, which had drafted me, they would get me a wireless radio to use. To save some money, they rented a radio that was on a cable. This wasn’t good. In my past experiences with radios, the cable anchored ones were heavier than the standard frequency radios. When I knew that I was going to be on a cable, I would always wear suspenders with my pants. You see, I am what you call “posterior-challenged,” I’ve been called an ass-less ass. Pants do not sit well on the small ripples, I call a butt. Pants that have a five pound channel box on them, sit very precariously. And that’s exactly how my pants were sitting. Jean got the wireless radio and headset, since she had to hike back and forth from the green room to the backstage, where I was set up. I stood in the right hand wing, in my rented tuxedo, waiting for the show to begin and already I was having a bad feeling -- a lot like my pants were going to fall down.

In a reflection of the times, while Bill Maher waited for the show to begin, the woman who hired the talent stepped up to him and whispered, “We’ve left you a little something in your car so that we wouldn’t forget.” Bill smiled, and replied in jest, “Should I be concerned…” I added, “Sure, we put a bomb in your car.” The talent woman gasped and squealed, “Bill” (meaning me) “That’s not funny!” I looked over at Maher, who rolled his eyes in disbelief, finally saying, “I’m sure the Writers Guild wouldn’t put a bomb in my car” (it was a gift bag). Before the crazy talent woman left, she made sure she admonished me, “Jokes like that aren’t funny in this world anymore.” I looked to Bill Maher and asked, “I thought Rudy Giuliani said we could be funny, again.” Maher prepared to step out on the stage, “I’m sure going to try.” Bill Maher went out and did a good set that was pretty easy on Bush and his junta. I’m sure the MRC member was pleased.