Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (15 page)

Flea got out and smiled up to his friends on the roof, when he suddenly realized that he had soaked our boss. “Uh, sorry man,” he said as he made his way past us. “Nice suit,” he added just before heading into the hotel and bar. Jeeves didn’t know what to say...or to do. He took his steak from Jean-Pierre and went up to his office to eat it. I’m sure he probably had a nice cabernet to go with it. But that’s how it was at the Sunset Marquis, idle time in the kitchen is the devil’s playground.

My Inner Celtic..or How I Almost Got Beat Down by Big Game James

T
he green goes deep in me...way down to my inner idiot core. If you work in the restaurant industry, you probably hate and fear Sunday brunches. Who wouldn’t hate a shift filled with crying children, hung-over adults and people looking for a reason to drink bloody-marys without a gun to their head. The only good thing about these shifts, was that I was the bartender, the easiest of all awful jobs on Sunday. At this one Beverly Hills Hotel, I used to look forward to brunch, I usually got watch basketball with James Worthy.

I had practically no bar crowd during brunch. Usually, all I did was make bloody-marys, mimosas, cappuccinos and stock the bar. But when James came in, I would hang out with him, watching basketball. James Worthy is a Hall of Fame basketball player, playing his whole career with the Los Angeles Lakers, part of three Laker Showtime championship teams. To watch a game with him was like taking a basketball master class. One afternoon we were watching the Celtics in the playoffs; suddenly Reggie Lewis, of the Boston Celtics, stumbled and fell. He hit the floor hard and stayed down. “Hey, Celtic Fan,” called James. I came down to his end of the bar and we watched the replay. “That’s not good,” added James, with a few of his friends. Everyone looked concerned. “He just stumbled,” I hoped. James shook his head, “There was no one around him. It’s something else -- Reggie Lewis doesn’t just fall down.” The team managers helped Reggie to the bench. Later in the week it would be reported that Reggie had experienced a heart episode during the game. Three months later, Reggie would have a heart attack during a summer pick-up game and died. James was right, “That was not good.” It was tragic.

But no matter how impressed by Big Game James knowledge of the sport, I couldn’t control the little Lucky the Leprechaun inside me. I couldn’t stop unintentional antagonizing Worthy. James and I would be having an interesting discussion when suddenly Lucky would pop out of my mouth. “Yeah, those were great games,” James would exclaim. “Larry used to school you guys!” Lucky had to add. “We won more championships,” James would inform me with a steely glare. “Oh, yeah...if you’re counting championships,” I corrected him, “But if you’re counting losing to the Houston Rockets -- that’s another thing.” “Get me another drink, Celtic’s Fan,” ordered James, in retaliation.

I mean, it’s not just me -- being an asshole is part of the Boston fan experience (actually, we’re called Mass-holes -- look it up). I’m an idiot but I’m not crazy; one time I went to a Patriots game in Phoenix, Arizona. While I’m waiting in a long, slow beer line, I end up talking to Sully from Southie. Sully starts telling me how much he hates the fans on the other side of the stadium. I mean, this is Arizona -- the Arizona Cardinals. The Patriots have played them something like four times in the existence of the team. I can’t remember any fights, bad calls, or the last game between the two teams. “I would like to throw a bomb across the field and kill everyone in the stands,” proclaims crazy Sully, “Kill them all.” Oh, boy -- I wish this line was moving, was my only thought. “You know what you should do?” I coached Sully, realizing I wanted him to remember I was on his team. “You should save your bombs for a good Giants -- Jets game, on Yankee night and just set off an atomic device at Giants Stadium (If an atomic device is ever triggered at the Meadowlands, look for an Irish guy named Sully from South Boston -- that should be pretty easy). I was lucky -- Sully agreed and forgot all about bombing the Arizona game (I would consider myself something of a hero -- no honors, no speeches, please -- just Super Bowl tickets will be award enough).

I was much more stupid than crazy. I could never give the Lakers or Big Game James his due. One time, we were watching a Bulls - Lakers game, this is when Michael Jordon was suspected of taking Flubber. M.J. takes the ball down alone and makes a high-flying dunk. “You used to play with Michael in college” I informed James -- totally forgetting that he was an upper-classman to Michael at North Carolina. “Michael Jordon played with me.” James corrected, his friends laughing and slapping hands. Now it’s Lucky the Mass-hole’s turn, “You know what they say, who’s the one guy who was able to keep Michael under thirty points?” The corner of the bar went quiet, James’ friends wondering if the Celtic’s fan was really going to say it -- and of course my inner-Lucky couldn’t stop, “Dean Smith.”

James stands on his bar stool and looks seriously into my stupid green eyes and says, “Don’t talk shit about Coach!” Right.... I think I hear someone calling me down at the other end of the bar -- I turned quickly and walked away. “Shiiit,” I heard one of Worthy’s friends exclaim at my gross ignorance. James played the game and played it well -- I on the other hand had been to two Celtic games in the Boston Gardens.... and I’m making jokes about James Worthy’s coach. Boy, the only thing lucky about me is that James didn’t give me the ass-kicking that I deserved.

It’s tough being a Mass-hole -- it never goes away. I’ve lived in New York City for ten years and almost twenty years in Los Angeles and I still occasionally drift into the on-coming lane of car when I can visually spot the driver wearing a Yankees baseball cap. And get this, my wife is a Yankee fan and my five year-old daughter has just told me she’s a Lakers fan. I think my inner Lucky may do harm to himself -- take this as a cry for help.

Christopher Walken -- Nicky, One Shot

W
hen I worked at the Sunset Marquis, Chris Walken used to stay there, occasionally. I was always a big fan of his because he was in
The Deerhunter
, one of my favorite films.

Once, when I was filling in as a waiter in the patio restaurant, Walken came in and sat at a table. He ordered a tea and just sat alone, staring off. Figuring that maybe he would like some company, and the patio not being very busy, I went over and said “hi.” He kind of looked up at me and said, “Hi, Bill…” There was a long awkward pause as we just stared at each other. Finally, I went with the old, “I really like your work” line and Chris replied, “Thanks, Bill…” and then continued to stare off, over the empty pool. Realizing that we had hit the uncomfortable “Now what” wall already, I slinked away, pretending that I had something urgent happening in the kitchen. Chris Walken sat alone on the patio, staring.

On another night, when I was doing room service, we got an order from him. I put the tray together and walked up to his room. I knocked and gave a hearty, “Room service,” to the door and waited. “Come in,” the obviously recognizable Walken voice called to me. When I opened the door, only the light from hall illuminated the living room of the one bedroom suite. I could see Mr. Walken slumped in a chair. “Shut the door,” he said. I did and then realized I couldn’t see anything in the dark room. “Do you mind if I turn on a lamp, sir?” I asked, feeling my way across the carpet. “No, please don’t. It bothers my eyes,” He replied. “I can’t see, sir,” I said, knowing that there was a short, iron and glass coffee table somewhere in this darkness. “Just put it on the table there,” Walken instructed. “What table, I can’t see.” Bang, my shin bashed into the coffee table, just below the knee. “Right, there,” He pointed out. Stupid me.

I lowered the tray off my shoulder with one hand, as the other felt blindly along the coffee table, clearing a spot for the tray. “Do you want me to set it up, sir?” I asked. “No. That’s fine,” He answered, a disembodied voice coming from somewhere in the dark. Suddenly, I realized that if he’s going to kill me, this would be the moment to do it. He said, “Bring that over here and I’ll sign it.” I walked to where I thought his voice was coming from and where I last seen him slumped, in a chair. Gently waving the check book, I handed it to him and then supplied the pen. As he signed the check, I imagined that this is how he lived, it explained a lot things.

Of course, he only lived in the dark. The night was his domain. The dark was Christopher Walken’s best friend. This was when he worked best, because he had super human eyesight. He was like a bat, he worked, learned his lines, blocked his every move at night in the dark, so that no one else would have a clue of what he would do the next day on the set. He was so far beyond his peers; that’s why he gave the performances that he gave. When everyone else is sleeping, Chris Walken was at work… at home, in the dark.

“There ya go,” He said and waved the check book in the air, it brushed past my arm and I was able to grab it, I thanked him and took my leave. My imagination running wild with all the super human and heroic things Christopher Walken did in the dark. As I walked the down hall, I checked to see if he had a left a tip. I was disappointed to find that he didn’t… and he didn’t sign it… because with his super-eyesight he couldn’t see that the check book wasn’t open and he signed the top of it.

I could make out his signature and the 20 percent tip he etched in the top of the check book -- I decided that I would sign it myself and add the tip in. No sense in going back and banging around blindly in Mr. Walken’s room. I’ll let him do that.

Another time when U2 was staying at the hotel, Bono called me at the butler’s pantry and asked if I could come up and make some drinks for him and his guests. This was right after a show they had put on at the Forum. There were a lot of famous people at this little get together, or actually, there was only one person I didn’t know there -- that was me. It was like those parties you hear about when it’s everyone who is anyone and not being
someone
you never get invited. All of U2 were there and Sean Penn, Robin Wright, Little Steven, a whole bunch of actors and musicians and off in a corner… all by himself, just staring, was Christopher Walken enjoying the light.

Robin Wright Penn helped me make drinks -- the Sunset Marquis was a strange, but sometimes, cool place to work.

The Night I Almost Killed Ronald Reagan

I
came of age in the Reagan era, though I was never a big fan of his, I never really wanted him dead, either. In 1982, I was driving a cab in New York City and taking acting classes, with the great acting teacher, Stella Adler.

Cue the soulful saxophone: It was a night like every other; I picked up my checker cab and began the lonesome drive. “This city is a trash heap, with rats running in and out of burned-out tenements and Wall Street Investment Banks. What we need is a good rain to wash all the garbage down the sewer and into the East River, sending it out to sea…” Okay, so I wasn’t really feeling it that night (and channeling Travis Bickle at the same time). I took my cab over the 59
th
Street Bridge and started looking for fares on Second Avenue.

I didn’t vote for Ronald Reagan (I voted for John Anderson, anybody remember him? Somewhere, some kid, with the last name Anderson, is telling someone, “I’m not kidding, my grand-father ran for president… no, he isn’t rich or Ralph Nader”) and I wasn’t a big fan of his, but this was early in his presidency and the only thing that really repulsed me about Reagan as president, was that he was a former actor. If you spend five minutes with any actor, you will quickly realize that actors live in a world of make believe. Little did I realize that a good part of the country also live in a world of make believe, Reagan would make good use of imagination.

The only connection I had to Reagan was that the acting school I studied at shared the building with The Joffrey Ballet, where Ron Reagan, Junior, was a company dancer. Ron Junior wasn’t a featured dancer but was still part of the company with his wife, Dora. Since Ron-Ron was the son of the sitting President of the United States, he was assigned a detail of Secret Service Agents (I remember there was about three of them). You would be dressed in your Shakespeare costume, maybe something like Romeo, in tights and a dancer’s belt (if you don’t know what a dancer’s belt is, it’s a man’s G-string – leaving your package looking truly awesome, not that the Secret Service guys looked impressed) and as you walked down the back stairs of the City Center, you would pass these big guys with a single earphone and talking quietly into their sleeves. I can only imagine what these guys thought of the whole assignment, but then on the other hand, there were the ballerinas.

Having the Secret Service around would sometimes be helpful. We had a couple of incidents when we had some out of control actors that the government had to usher out of a class. They were always very polite and helpful, no matter how stupid the situation was. Even when Stella Adler used to berate them over Reagan’s policies – there was no use in trying to explain to her that they really didn’t get to speak to the president.

Back to the cab story, I’m driving – every once and a while I pick up a fare and take them where they want to go. Driving a cab is an extremely boring job, punctuated by moments where you think you are about to die.

At some point that night, I had a fare and was about to turn south onto Fifth Avenue. As I was waiting make the turn, a cabbie next to me rolled down his window and yelled, “Don’t go down Fifth. Reagan’s in town and there’s a huge protest at his hotel – the whole street is shut down.” I thanked the guy and headed to Park Avenue instead.

It’s a few hours later, after midnight, I’m driving empty, looking for a fare; business had really slowed down in the last few hours. I’m speeding down Lexington Avenue, I doing about forty miles an hour. I know from experience that at this speed and keeping in time with the red lights, I shouldn’t have to stop until I get to Fourteenth Street. My mind wanders as I past Grand Central Station, where for six months I sold pretzels on the concourse, when I first came to the city.

As I approached Thirty-Fourth Street, I was the only car on the road except for a lone police car that was parked perpendicular to the cross walk at the corner, in the center of the street. I thought for a moment that that was strange, but you know the NYPD, they do what they want and I’m not going to go ask for trouble over how they’re parked.

Suddenly, I caught it out of the peripheral vision of my right eye. Blue and red lights approaching the up-coming intersection, moving very fast. Without thinking about it, I hit the brakes of the car as hard as I could. I realized that I was very lucky, the car I had for that night had surprisingly good brakes (
Common scenario
-- passenger:
“
Hey you missed my street?” me:
pumping life-less brakes furiously, “
I know…and now I’m trying to miss the back of that truck that just stopped in front of us.”). But it being a Checker cab, the back end of the car swung out as the tires let out a shrill squeal. The Checkers were great cars, but they had very little weight in the back, during a snow storm you could see the Checkers fishtailing all over the road. I got the car under control and finally brought it to a complete stop, parallel to the near cross walk of the intersection.

As the car came to a stop, the first of the motorcade passed me. I watched, almost stunned, realizing how close I came to plowing into them – then I noticed the presidential emblem on one of the stretch limousines, as it passed me, also at a high speed.