Call Me Lumpy: My Leave It to Beaver Days and Other Wild Hollywood Life (38 page)

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Authors: Frank Bank,Gibu Twyman

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BOOK: Call Me Lumpy: My Leave It to Beaver Days and Other Wild Hollywood Life
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Page 189
It's the kind of ticklish situation you could have seen Ward getting into with the Beav.
I like to think we did it the way the Cleavers would have.
We stumblebummed around not knowing what in God's name we were doing for awhile.
But we stuck together.
We loved each other.
We did the best we could.
We got the job done somehow.
All before the last commercial, just like the Cleavers.
In the meantime, I have to say maybe Joanne also should consider a job as a director. Because she did inspire her dear old stepdad into the acting job of a lifetime.
Talk about your Academy Award performances.
I was thinking about giving myself an Oscar and an Emmy.
Best Performance by a Stupid Broken-Down Hammy Ex-Actor Sprinkling the Mortal Remains of a Weirdo Ex-Husband of My Wife and Father of My Wonderful Daughter Across the Tombstone of a Former Pelvis-Thrusting Rock n' Roll Singer.
I humbly accept these awards in honor of my loved ones and E.
Thankyouverymuch.
 
Page 190
Chapter Ten
Frankly Speaking
Ryan O'Neal put his hand on my
chest and shoved me aside.
Complete jerkwad that he was.
He thought that was the end of it.
He was wrong.
O'Neal and I were guests on "The Nanette Fabray Show" with Nanette Fabray and Wendell Corey.
The two of us, Ryan and I, were supposed to be on the Beverly Hills High School football team.
My friend, Earl Bellamy, was the director.
Ryan and I were supposed to walk in the front door.
Earl says, "Frank, you come in first. Ryan, you come in right after him."
So the camera rolls.
Earl goes, "Action."
And Ryan takes his hand, pushes me aside and walks in first.
"Cut," Earl says. "That's not the way I had the scene planned out.
"OK, let's go back to our marks."
So OK.
We close the door.
I look at O'Neal.
I go, "Hey, pal, didn't you hear the director?"
All of a sudden, he takes both hands, puts them in my chest and shoves me again.
He says, "I'm the guy who's gonna go in first."
And I look at him and I go, "No. You're the guy who's gonna go to the floor first."
So he gives me a little push.
I give him a push back.
I haul off on him.
It was never a question about who was going to win this fight.
 
Page 191
This was the only question for Ryan O'Neal.
Do you want one lump or two?
Lumpy is just the man to provide what you need.
It turned out one punch was all that was required.
I wound up goin' in first.
Hey. Didn't you ever learn anything watching ''Beaver" episodes?
Don't mess with Lumpy.
I never talked to this pompous peacock, O'Neal, again as long as I lived.
O'Neal was a total putz.
And everyone knew what happened.
They came up to me and said, "Frank, you're not the only guy who's had trouble with him.
"He was a jerk from the word go."
But he was under contract to Universal and they had to use him.
And yet they didn't have to use him to walk all over me.
I got a fairly good shot in on him. I mean, I didn't break anything.
It wasn't that kind of a hit.
But I certainly mussed him up nicely.
The experience illustrates one of my basic beliefs in life:
Acting ain't all it's cracked up to be.
In case you hadn't noticed, that's what you're gonna get in this chapter.
The World According to GarpFrank Bank version.
Here's where I get to tell you what I think.
About anything.
Whatever's on my mind.
Hey, it's my book.
You want to tell me what's on your mind, write your own.
I get my hands on a copy, I'll read it.
I love reading anything.
I might learn something.
But right now, here's where I get to be a self-centered blowhard and it's your turn to read.
You might learn something.
Besides, they're paying for this. I owe you. It's the American way.
Anyway, one of my fundamental beliefs is that I wouldn't exactly want my kids to get into acting.
There are way too many people in the profession who are a few ants shy of a picnic.
You see a lot of broken psyches and chewed-up lives.
Why would I wish that kind of torment on someone I loved?
I will have to say that most of my time at Universal was wonderful.
Besides Brando, who stands as something of a towering Matterhorn of
 
Page 192
arrogance, I only had one other unpleasant experience at Universal.
It involved another fat man whose ego was so big it must have slid down to his belly. He must have been keeping something huge in there somewhere.
I speak of Alfred Hitchcock.
Yep.
The master of mystery himself.
The sultan of suspense.
The Jabba the Hut of jerks.
The dispute was kinda over my car.
Kinda over a parking space.
And kinda over nothing.
Other than Hitch being a bitch and wanting me to know he was Mt. Rushmore and I was head lice in the grand scheme of the entertainment world.
Remember this one Corvette I told you I used to have?
It was that metallic turquoise, you know, 1958 or '59.
Really cool car.
Ran like hell.
Four-speed, fuel injection.
This car rocked.
Well, every Friday afternoon, see, it was a regimen.
We would finish shooting. We usually parked our cars very close to Stage 17, where we shot "Beaver."
And with traffic starting to hit at 5 o'clock, it's going to be bumper-to-bumper on the Hollywood Freeway, going over the canyon and all that other good stuff to get home.
And before I left, I had to stop by the casting office and get next week's script.
It was close to the front gate. There are just these few rows of parking spaces.
So I get into my car.
I drive up to the front gate. I pull into this parking space.
I leave my engine running and put the parking brake on. Because I'm right near the guard gate.
I'm not more than 30 paces from the gate. They can see my car.
I remember this guy, Scotty, who was still the regular guard on duty until he died about a year ago.
He was a fixture at Universal.
I said, "Scotty," and I just sort of waved.
He knew I was going in to pick up my script. He knew my wave meant: Please keep an eye on my car. I left the engine running.
You know, why bother turning it off? I'm gonna be out in 7.5 seconds.
 
Page 193
I didn't even open the door.
I bailed over the car.
That was the cool thing to do anyway.
It wasn't just for speed.
It was for something way more important.
Looks.
Style points.
Never open the door. Never.
That way when you came back, you could bail over the side and then sssliiide in.
Gotta slide in.
Gonna have to deduct points if you don't come over the side with that good glide and slide.
So I run into the office.
And I'm going, "Hey, Ione" that was the script lady's name, Ione"where's next week's script?"
Nice lady.
She'd been there forever.
And she goes, "Oh, hi Frank. Here."
She hands me the script. That's how long it took.
OK. Maybe it wasn't 7.5 seconds on the nose.
Maybe eight or nine seconds.
Ten more steps out of the casting office, back to my car.
I'm ready to glide, slide and ride, Sally, ride.
And there behind my car is this big black, hulking limo.
Right up on my bumper.
Great. Just what I need.
Some self-important yutz gumming up the works just as I'm trying to make my escape and go out and play chicken with the rest of the easy-ridin' Angelinos out on the freeways.
I walk over to the limo.
I go, "Uh, excuse me, I'd like to get out."
All of a sudden the back window of the limo opens up.
It's my good friend, Alfred Hitchcock.
He leans out the window.
He starts giving me a load of crap.
He says, "You must be an actor, because you can't read."
Which is kind of a good rip, when you think about it.
I don't know whether the 10 or 15 seconds he was waiting were enough for him to come up with something that cute.
I don't know if his mind works that quickly or what.
Maybe so.

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