Crane (31 page)

The experience had rocked Kari and me, but we tried to be optimistic about the future. We convinced ourselves that our engagement with cancer had been a one-time skirmish. We fought the fight, crossed the battlefield, and emerged from the irradiated fog of war slightly scarred but confident the hostilities were behind us forever.

29

Kari’s spirits rebounded. She was back at work, in control, designing landscapes, transforming mundane yards into visually exciting environments where families, hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees could all thrive.

One afternoon I got a phone call from John Candy. Fresh on the heels of the success of
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
and
The Great Outdoors,
John was about to star in another John Hughes film,
Uncle Buck,
which was to be filmed on Hughes’s home turf in Chicago. John wanted me to reprise my role as protector of publicity and to liaise with the Universal Pictures publicity department and the eager Chicago press. He also wanted me to wear the tour manager hat. Those responsibilities included getting John from one point to the next. This wasn’t always easy because John was often incapable of saying no to fans, newspaper columnists, or studio types in black towers. So I was to become the buffer, the obstacle, the doorman and bouncer that the great unwashed had to get past if they wanted to get to the goods. Almost every performer has at least one gatekeeper. Some posses consist of a small army of deterrents.

“Can you get on a plane tomorrow?” John asked, mission at hand.

“Of course.”

I hung up the phone and instantly saw the world from a different vantage point. I was now working for a movie star who was appearing in a big studio film written and directed by arguably the hottest hyphenate behind the camera. Then I realized I had also swapped tracks with Paul Flaherty, John’s golfing PR veteran. I was now on the A train bound for the Second City, and he was in the rough looking for a scalded ball.

The night I landed in Chicago I headed directly for the Ritz Carlton where John was staying. I found him in the hotel bar where he had just spent a delightful hour with Julian Lennon, son of John and now himself a rock star. Like me, John was a Beatles fan—he had seen them at Toronto’s
Maple Leaf Gardens in 1964—so meeting and spending time with a Beatle’s son was still a momentous occasion even at his lofty perch. John had had a few rum and Cokes, and he welcomed me to his beloved Chicago—a city where he had spent innumerable hours performing on Second City’s stage on North Wells.

We had the big-picture talk, John laying out the plans for his future work, the kind of publicity opportunities he was looking for, what he thought I could bring to the mix, and a rundown of Team Candy’s personnel. I had my last Heineken at 3:00 in the morning and took a cab to the Talbot, a boutique hotel a few blocks west of the Ritz, where the rest of John’s posse was ensconced. John had a 6:30 a.m. makeup call to transform him into America’s favorite uncle, Buck.

A few hours later that morning, John told me he had had another drink after I left him at the bar, which I soon learned meant two or three more, so while I had caught a couple of hours’ shuteye, John had had none at all. Even so, he went through a full day of makeup, rehearsal, and filming with maximum energy and nary a complaint. Whereas I was trashed by 10:00 in the morning. As I looked for a quiet place to nap, Hughes enthusiastically mapped out the next scene with John, who was alert and funny, had no bags under his eyes, and had every line of dialogue memorized. He had the strength of a Brahma bull, and I noticed the performer’s adrenaline kicking in before each take.

Though they were of different generations and followed dissimilar paths, John and my dad shared that adrenaline, that rush that transported them to an altogether other place to achieve the comedic goal of a scene for film or videotape or to persuade a live audience to let its guard down. John and Dad didn’t drink coffee or do drugs, though I did see John smoke grass once or twice. But at 6:00 in the morning, you couldn’t find two more alive humans whose mission was to elicit laughter, whether at KNX Radio, Stalag 13, or a closed-down high school north of Chicago being used as the set for
Uncle Buck.

Of course there were also a couple of major differences between these two actors: one could drink all night and smoke cigarettes all day, while the other preferred to tirelessly photograph women until they achieved a sort of monotonously naked blur. But because I was close to my dad and I became close to John, I also knew they shared the most important similarity—a yawning gap separated them from the nonperforming world. Just as brain surgeons and plumbers perform a range of tasks beyond the
ken of most of us, standing in front of a camera and crew or live in front of an audience while assuming another identity requires traits that most of us don’t have and probably don’t want. I knew these guys were different. I could never do what they did. I could share a camera frame with my dad in the opening credits of
The Bob Crane Show
where I didn’t utter a sound. I could even walk by John in an office shot in
Delirious
and say, “Hi, Jack” (a cameo role that still pays me an annual residual of as much as ten bucks, I might add), but to actually walk and talk while hitting a mark with the weight of a film or television production sitting squarely on my shoulders requires an alienlike quality I could never imagine possessing.

There was always a moat. John and my dad occupied the castles while the rest of us inhabited land on the other side of the drawbridges. We could meet halfway or I could visit the castle, but we would always return to our respective sides. Those living in the castle had the same set of responsibilities the rest of us do, such as being careful and taking care of oneself, but it was up to the kings or queens to recognize that for themselves. If one of us knaves dared to suggest a change in behavior or lifestyle, well, then “Off with his head!” I once witnessed two “old friends” of John’s from Toronto seriously confront him about his weight. That was the last time I ever saw or heard about them. In my dad’s case, I was never aware of an agent, publicist, or friend confronting my dad about his homemade porn and the impact it was having on his career. I wasn’t secure enough myself—meaning simply that I didn’t have the stones—to discuss and suggest lifestyle changes with him.

Uncle Buck
was a big-time Hollywood studio movie. This was not
Superdad
or
Gus
or
The Wicked Dreams of Paula Schultz.
This was the work of legendary entertainment honchos Lew Wasserman and Sid Sheinberg, Midas-touch writer/director John Hughes, and the Canadian comedy actor who didn’t realize he was the hippest guy in the room, John Candy. It was fifteen-hour days and a million feet of exposed film. Hughes was allowed that kind of indulgence because he had had a string of box office hits and the executives in the Black Tower knew he would find just the right moment for his actors, so Universal paid to let him keep shooting. Hughes pushed John hard, never settling, always striving for the perfect take, when John would come as close as possible to expressing Hughes’s words as Hughes had originally heard them in his head sitting at the typewriter. Amy Madigan brought authenticity to her role, and because a young Macaulay Culkin worked a funny, staccato,
Dragnet
-like
interrogation scene with John in
Uncle Buck,
he was rewarded with another script Hughes had in development. That was
Home Alone.

John’s personal team had decades of experience in film and television production. Teamster driver Frank Hernandez didn’t actually drive John. Another Teamster did that, but Hernandez took care of John’s trailer, his home away from home, where more hours were spent than in John’s hotel room. Frankie kept the trailer stocked with beverages and snacks and, more important, kept an eye on John’s wad of per diem cash, which was money over and above his salary. He kept the $3,000 that was delivered to the trailer every week safe and neatly stacked, ready to be spent on a John whim. Back in the early ’80s, Frankie had taken the green, wide-eyed kid from Toronto under his wing and showed him the ropes of film production. Size mattered in Hollywood, Frankie had explained, as in the dimensions of an actor’s trailer. On their first film together (
Going Berserk
), Frankie had taken John out of a honey wagon dressing room, which was the size of a closet, and repositioned him in a trailer worthy of the star of the film. It was always good to know someone like Frankie Hernandez in Hollywood.

Then there was a dapper professional named Silvio Scarano, John’s personal wardrobe man. Frankie and Silvio were opposites, but they respected and trusted each other like an old married couple. Ben Nye Jr., the son of a famous makeup artist, handled all non–special effects makeup for John. He was efficient and patient. Dione Taylor did hair, making John look suitably lead actorish before he actually was a movie star. John’s stand-in/stunt double was a guy named Bob Elmore, who was always trying to figure out why he wasn’t John Candy and not just some guy from Riverside, California, who stood under hot lights with a setup crew hitting the marks that John would eventually hit. As John’s fame and fortune grew, so did the list of demands written into his movie contracts. The list included the above-mentioned personnel, who all came along on the production company’s dime.

Team Candy, dubbed “the Chongos” (monkeys) by Frankie, had taken the ride on any number of Candy films. I was the new guy and therefore was being watched and broken in, sanctioned by the leader but kept on a short leash with the posse just to make sure I would have the leader’s back at all times. When, during a break in the filming, John and the Chongos took to the sky on Super Bowl weekend to see the game in Miami, I took the opportunity to migrate west to spend time with my wife.

I had been gone over a month, but it seemed much longer, at least to me, because the days were so long—endless shoots followed by John’s need to relax at a bar, a club, or back at the Ritz-Carlton. I felt as though I had been gone closer to three months. Kari was pleased that I was bringing in a steady $750 a week and, though I didn’t know how long this would last, I was satisfied with my move from freelance writer to publicist-tour manager-babysitter for the rock ’n’ roll group called John Candy. I felt the experience would loom large on my résumé.

Kari was still working. She was in remission and feeling better, running her own life. But when I got home there was tension in the air. The kisses and embraces I had expected were not forthcoming. It took time that we didn’t have, on my short R & R visit, to settle back in and feel as if we fit together. The temporary nature of my return didn’t do anything to diminish the uneasiness.

On Super Bowl Sunday Kari and I watched the game for a quarter while Candy, Frankie, and a few others stood on the sidelines at Joe Robbie Stadium in Miami and watched the San Francisco 49ers do battle with the Cincinnati Bengals. When the Niners were attempting to retake the lead from the Bengals, Niners quarterback and MVP Joe Montana was so relaxed on the field that he is reported to have said, while in a huddle calling an important play, “Here’s the play, and hey, look, there’s John Candy.”

After a too-short few days I was back on a plane to O’Hare. To avoid another long separation, Kari rearranged her work schedule and, two weeks later, flew to the Windy City for the first time. This created a different kind of dilemma for me. On the one hand, I wanted to be part of John’s club. After all, I was the new guy and wanted to fit in. Yet on the other, I wanted to spend time with Kari, showing her the sights and sounds of Chicago. So while Kari visited, I had to take a hiatus from hanging out with the guys at clubs and bars after work. Instead, Kari and I took in the symphony, the art institute, and a number of terrific north side restaurants. While we enjoyed sharing a “Windy City Things to Do” list, I still missed the boy’s club and felt guilty when I spent time away from John and the rest of the Chongos. If only there had been a way to be in both places simultaneously. The club was a place where men left the daily grind behind. They swore and belched and told inappropriate jokes with the only goal that of making the boss happy. It was a locker room atmosphere that Kari and the other wives had little interest in joining. Kari
enjoyed meeting everyone, but her brain would have gone numb after an hour of the survival tactics deployed by this small group of men enduring long hours on the road. We all served at John’s pleasure during the day and many a night, because all we had was each other to share a beer, a laugh, or a gripe with. We took everybody on and had John’s back at all times. Loyalty was the coin of our realm.

John was an oversized personality in every sense, and I dealt with many overzealous fans and well-wishers: women who wanted hugs and kisses, men who wanted to share a beer. John was a rock star. We even started making each publicity tour into something like a rock ’n’ roll tour, complete with hats and other imprint gear. We had the Guns ’n’ Snakes tour, the Just the Fax tour, and the Dangerous Times tour. It was all just an inside joke for us, but all the fun and laughter it provoked was medicinal. I don’t think Kari ever understood that aspect of my job. She saw me as an extremely well-compensated babysitter, and while I admit there was an element of truth to that, I do believe that being adored by the public at large puts an enormous amount of pressure on the adoree, and I was there to help alleviate that.

Try to imagine what it would be like if every time you went out people started yelling your name or making references to jobs you’d done.

“Yo, emergency room nurse, wanna check my swelling?”

“Look everybody, it’s the H&R Block guy. Woo-hoo!”

“Hey, bank teller girl, got change for this?”

It wouldn’t take long before most of us would start packing heat. John never lost his cool even when it was warranted. Except once. After putting a day’s filming in the can, John, off-duty Chicago Police Department detective Tim O’Meara of the Bomb and Arson section, and I headed to a blues bar on the north side of Chicago. If there was ever a guy who would have your back 24/7, be your right arm or point man, it was the salt-of-the-earth O’Meara. He liked to have fun, but he didn’t take shit from anyone. We pulled up to the subterranean club and got out of the town car. Belushi and Aykroyd had spent hours at this place after a day’s filming of
The Blues Brothers.
There were fans and celebrity watchers hovering near the entrance. When they spotted John, a collective shriek went up, women clamoring for a photo op with the cuddly big man, and guys wanting to shake hands with Johnny LaRue, Del Griffith, and Ox. John, as always, was gracious with his time, attending to everyone’s needs—these were the people who bought movie tickets. He signed autographs, posed for photos,
and tolerated hugs and kisses. As we descended the stairs to the club’s entrance, we heard someone yell, “John Candy sucks!”