Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (22 page)

The show started and rumbled along, occasionally I would have to radio Jean to get the next few presenters to me but otherwise it was going well. For this show we had two podiums on either side of the stage. Our host this night was a third-rate comedian (I’m doing this guy a huge favor by not naming him); the third-rate comedian would have to bounce between the two podiums. I realized early that our host was having a hard time with the directions “left” and “right.” I would tell him that he had to go to the right podium and he would end up at the left, the spot-light having to find him. Or he was at the right podium, when he was supposed to be on the left, and so the microphone wasn’t on and he would be talking so no one could hear him. Every time he came to my side of the stage, I would tell him he had to go to the podium as instructed. He finally just stop coming over to my side of the stage. He would wait offstage in the opposite wing, as I impotently tried to point to which podium he was to be at next.

“Bill, is television hottie ready?” I heard over my headset. No, she wasn’t even backstage with me yet. “That’s a negative,” I replied to the director, stationed in back of the hotel’s grand ballroom. I radioed to Jean, desperately, “Jean, I need television hottie, now. Where are you, Jean? Come in, Jean, over.” I realized that the writer who had just received his award was about to end his speech. In a panic, I ran out from backstage and down the hall towards green room -- until I ran out of cable and was pulled to a sudden halt, my pants almost popping open.

Over my headset, I could hear the director yelling for Jean… and then I saw Jean and the television hottie, who had a show for about five minutes, making their way towards me. Jean was having a nice leisurely talk with Miss Hottie, having removed her headset. I tried not to look panicked, “Miss Hottie, we need to get you on stage now.” Television hottie started trotting to the stage, as they passed me; I leaned into Jean, the WGA member, and said, “You have to keep that headset on. We’ve been calling you.” “It’s really uncomfortable,” she answered. “Doesn’t matter,” I told her, “We need the next presenter.” I helped television hottie step over some cables and instructed her, “Just go to the podium on your left.” The show’s announcer said her name and television hottie stepped out into the spotlight and walked casually to the podium on the right. “Your other left,” I impatiently instructed. “She’s going to the wrong podium,” yelled the director over my headset. “I told her to go to the left,” I replied, in my defense.

Then it happened. Television hottie squinted at the teleprompter and said, “That’s not mine -- you need to roll it back.” I ran to the closest monitor and saw what she was looking at; the teleprompter had the introduction of another category of awards. “That’s not mine,” She repeated from the stage. The teleprompter rolled back, until they found the right intro. This wasn’t good. “Come on, teleprompter,” the director chided, over the radio.

I was still waiting for Jean and the next presenters when two old guys show up. One old guy walks up to me and says, “He wants to sit back here.” Okay, I guess I’ve have to say it, “Who is he?” “That’s Blake Edwards; you’re giving him an award tonight.” I went to my show-rundown and quickly thumbed through it until I found the Blake Edwards’ segment. “We’re a little behind,” I confessed. “Mr. Edwards isn’t going on for about two hours.” Both guys sat down in two chairs that we used for waiting presenters. “We’ll wait,” stated Blake’s friend. I smiled at Blake and said, “Love your work.” “That’s too kind,” replied Blake. I don’t know what scared me more, Blake Edwards getting in my way or Blake Edwards realizing what a mess this show was and taking it on the lam. My next presenter arrived…

It was a big name writer, known to most of the people at Guild for being completely… as they say in the film business, wacko. I said “Hi,” and turned, so that I could secretly radio the director. “I’ve got wacko writer with me.” “Good, we’re like twenty minutes behind and we’ve only done three categories,” said the director, already exasperated. “He’s got props,” I whispered into the radio. “What??” exclaimed the director, “No props, tell him that he doesn’t need props -- all he has to do is read the teleprompter, which is, God-willing, correct.”

I turned back to the wacko writer and said, “The director said that you don’t need to bring your props, you should just read what’s on the teleprompter.” “I’m going to improvise,” he informs me. “He says he’s going to improvise.” I warn the director. “No, no, no improvising! Bill, tell him to read what he’s supposed to say.” “What about the props?” I ask. “What does he have?” the director inquired, pulling himself together. I looked over the wacko writer, who was now talking to Blake Edwards and his friend. “He’s wearing a bathrobe, holding a chair and a goose-neck flashlight.” “What’s he’s going to do?” asked the director, innocently. I knew the answer, but I also knew that I had to ask. “What are you going to do?” I asked the wacko writer, smiling. “You’ll see” he replied -- I’m like a mind reader. “He says you’ll see,” I answered the director. I heard the director exhale, every ounce of pain in his breath. “Can you reason with him -- tell him we’re running behind.” “You realize who he is?” I replied, the wacko writer’s reputation ended the discussion. The director just skipped to, “Five, four, three, two, one… cue the wacko writer.” I turned to the crazy man in a maroon robe and said, “You’re on.” He took up his chair and said, “Watch me now!” Like I had any choice in the matter.

Wacko writer walked out to the edge of the stage, waving to the audience. He placed the chair down and stood on the lip of the center stage, dressed in his bathrobe, holding the goose-neck flashlight and started talking. Of course, since the microphones were on the podiums, about fifteen feet on either side of him, no one could hear a thing, except maybe the first ten tables in the front. Panic ran through my headset, someone exclaimed, “Oh jeez, he’s talking.” I watched my monitor as the wacko writer ranted about the award he was about to present to a lucky WGA member. “Someone find him a handle-held microphone,” the director ordered. “Bill, do you have a hand-held back there?” “No, I don’t,” I answered, watching the monitor with Blake Edwards and his friend. Blake Edwards, the consummate director pointed out, “He doesn’t have a microphone, no one can hear him.” That’s the difference between a writer/director and a wacko writer.

People in the back of the audience started yelling, “We can’t hear you!” But the wacko writer wasn’t listening; he went on stalking the lip of the stage and shining the flashlight on the audience. “Someone bring Bill a hand-held mic. Bill, when you get it try to give it to the wacko writer. Maybe his babbling will be entertaining,” prayed the director, over my headset.

Suddenly, Jean and the lucky WGA member who was being introduced arrived… and Jean had brought a hand-held microphone. I checked to make sure it was on and turned to the stage. Standing just out of view of the audience, I waved the microphone at the wacko writer. Some of the people in the front of the audience noticed my waving and diverted the wacko writer’s attention in my direction, in hopes he would be take the microphone. But the wacko writer thought this would be a good time to improvise
.
“Hey, that guy’s waving at me -- he must like me.” I stood in the wings, trying to mouth, “Take the mic-cro-phone!!!”

Jean moved closer to try to help, stepping inadvertently, on my headset cable… causing my pants to drop around my ankles. I did the only thing I could think of -- I bent down to pull my tuxedo trousers up. Embarrassed, I look over at Blake Edwards and his buddy, sitting in the chairs, to see if they noticed. “You lost something there, cowboy,” said Blake. They noticed… and so did the wacko writer, who now was yelling on stage. “Hey, he must really like me -- he’s flashing me now!” I pulled up my pants and turned to Jean, who whispered a thin, “Sorry.” I turned back and continued to wave the microphone at the wacko writer who was still riffing on me, “Are you going to do a strip-tease, now?” Turning to the lucky WGA member, I asked, “Can you go out there and give him this microphone, so he can give you the award?” The wacko went on and on, while the lucky WGA member just sat center stage and smiled, uncomfortably -- the only good thing about this whole scene… the wacko writer never needed to use the teleprompter.

“We have an empty stage and nothing happening,” commented the director through my headset. I checked my monitor and it was true, for some reason the wacko writer’s goose-neck flashlight was sitting, lonely, on one of the podiums, “Anyone see the third-rate comedian backstage?” The director asked. “Can someone tell him that he has to go on?” I could hear people rushing around behind me, but we still couldn’t find our host. I think people in the audience felt we were taking a time out -- we were, in a way. Finally, the third-rate comedian bounded on stage, like nothing happened. Hire a third-rate comedian and you will get a third-rate host… and an empty stage.

We continued to have teleprompter problems and I was anxious about another wardrobe malfunction. I was openly holding my trousers up with one hand. Across the stage, I suspected the third-rate comedian, our host tonight, was drunk. The Paddy Chayefsky Laurel Award had become the Patty Tchaikovsky Floral Award -- that’s right, the award for the writer who put the most flowery, Russian descriptions in their script. He also let loose with a very off-color joke about Morgan Freeman and the Morgan Cox award. He was fortunate Morgan Freeman wasn’t at the show… and Morgan Freeman was also fortunate that he wasn’t at the show.

This show was like a bad car wreck, you can hear the crash, see the glass shattering and it’s all in slow motion. “We’re only a half-hour in people, we can still pull this together,” announced the director, over my headset -- even he didn’t sound like he believed it -- nice try. Myself, I just wanted to lie in the ditch bleeding and listen to nice sirens get closer -- but the show must go on.

Every presenter who Jean introduced to me, all had the same question, “Is the teleprompter going to be working when I’m on?” My deep resourcefulness had found a brilliant answer to that troubling question, “Have you met Blake Edwards?” I would then introduce them to the great director and hope that they would totally forget what they had just asked me. Most were thrilled and ready to present. Blake was very friendly and would chit-chat with them until it was time to go on and find out what was happening with the teleprompter.

Jean on the other hand, was still having problems with her radio. Most of the time, she couldn’t hear us because she had removed the headset to fix or not mess her hair. At one point in the show; suddenly her radio went on and stayed on, making it impossible to use that channel. It was innocuous conversation of Jean complaining, “I’m telling you, these shoes are killing me and this French-cut underwear keeps riding up my crack… (Some inaudible chatter)… talking about riding up my crack -- that guy, Bill, has been up there all night and is really chaffing it… (some laughing and more inaudible chatter -- then another voice)… Bill, says he needs the next presenter… Bill also suggests that you get some baby-powder for your chaffing while you’re back here…. Oh, your radio is stuck in broadcast -- everyone can hear what you’re saying.” The production assistant fixed the radio and we were back in business.

As the show started to wind down, it seemed like the teleprompter guy was keeping up -- there were less and less screw-ups. Hal Holbrook and a very anxious-looking woman arrived with Jean. Jean-the-beauty-queen introduced them to me and I prepared them to go out. “Just walk out and go the podium on your left -- the one the farthest away…” Hal interrupted me, “Is the teleprompter going to be working?” I dodged the question, “Have you met Blake Edwards?” The woman was thrilled to meet Blake, but Hal was direct, “I already know Blake -- what’s happening with the teleprompter?” So much for my not-so-brilliant-idea. “I think we’ve got it worked out -- it should be all right.” “You can’t work out being an idiot,” corrected Hal; I don’t know and didn’t want to find out who he was calling an idiot.

A trophy presenter handed me the two envelopes with the winners in them. I radioed back to teleprompter guy to confirm which presenter got what. “Hal gets the non-fiction envelope and the woman gets the fiction award.” Great, I handed each envelope to Hal and the woman, who was smiling now, after meeting Blake Edwards. Hal looked ready to go and didn’t want wait much longer… and then it happened…

“Wait, Hal gets the fiction envelope and the woman gets the non-fiction envelope,” I turned away from Hal and the woman, coolly. “Are you sure?” I whispered into the radio. Of course, now there was some other emergency happening on the same radio channel and the teleprompter guy was cutting in and out. “Teleprompter, are sure this is right?” Still nothing. I looked over at Hal, who was staring at me. I smiled -- and then quickly turned away, to whisper into my radio, “Teleprompter, who gets what?” Again, we were cutting in and out. In desperation and a very real fear of Hal Holbrook, Deep Throat, Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain and every other role he’s ever had, I yelled into the radio, “Everyone get off this channel -- I have to talk to the teleprompter. Teleprompter, are you there?” A very “over-it” sounding voice came back, “What is it, Bill?” “Who gets what envelope in the next category?” I could hear him going through papers, there was a long pause, “Hal gets fiction, and woman gets non-fiction.” “Are you sure?” “I’m sure -- over.”

I turned back to Hal and the woman, reached over, as nice as I could… I exchanged their envelopes. Hal looked at me like I had just told Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman that it was him in the garage. “That’s right, now,” I said. Hal stepped right into my face and said, “I’m holding you personally responsible if I end up looking like an ass out there!” Just to cover myself, I radioed the teleprompter once again, “Just to confirm,” I said, “Hal is fiction -- the woman is non-fiction?” There was another pause, it might have been long, but who was I to judge, this was possibly the last moments of my life. The teleprompter guy came back, “That’s affirmative” (I love the way people are on radios -- everyone suddenly becomes One-Adam-12). I confirmed it with Hal and the woman, even though it seemed like Hal wasn’t that convinced. Finally, the call from the director came and I directed Hal and the woman out to the stage.

….”Wait, wait,” came the plea over my headset. “Hal is non-fiction and the woman is fiction!” “No, no…” I screamed into the radio, “You can’t do this now!!!” “I mean it -- they’ve got the wrong envelopes.” I started screaming into the radio, “I need a trophy presenter (the model-types who bring the WGA trophies on stage -- when I first worked on the show the awards were only plagues, later the Guild had their own trophies designed. When former President and always the funniest member, George Kirgo, saw the trophy for the first time and noticed its resemblance to a female anatomy part, he suggested we name it the
Flying
Labia
) “I need a trophy presenter, quick. We’ve got to change those envelopes!!” The director cut in and said, “Bill, you’re going to have to do it. We don’t have time!” I soooo didn’t want to go out there! After the show, someone mentioned how cool it was that I could go on stage -- I told him if you ever see me on stage something has gone terribly wrong. “Bill, go out there and change the envelopes!” directed, the director. Actually, I had no problem going out on stage -- I just didn’t want to go out on stage with Hal Holbrook.

I had no choice, I had to save the show by going out there and letting Hal Holbrook beat me like a red-headed agency assistant, who just arrived with the wrong Starbucks order. I stripped off my headset and radio cable -- something got caught in my rush and again my pants dropped to the floor. “I think you’re just showing off, now” smirked, Blake Edwards. He and his friend broke up laughing. I picked up my trousers and clutched them firmly, and walked across the stage to where the woman and Hal Holbrook stood behind a podium.

“The winner of the non-fiction award is…” said Hal, glaring at me as I approached, like he wished he had a rolled-up spec script to beat me with. I reached over to the woman and took her envelope and handed it to Hal. Hal took the envelope. I then took Hal’s envelope and handed it to the woman. I turned around and tried to walk nonchalantly offstage. Hal announced the winner and people cheered, but I knew who had really won -- me. I was still alive and not broken in a pile on the Beverly Hilton stage.