Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (17 page)

Kirk Douglas is a Great Man

T
o many people Kirk Douglas was just a good actor -- he wasn’t John Wayne or Marlon Brando but he was Spartacus and Vincent Van Gogh. But in the eyes of Hollywood he’s a great man, because in an industry where guts is usually measured in opening day box office receipts, Mr. Douglas displayed his guts by saying “no” to an injustice.

When I worked at the Sunset Marquis, we had a big event, it was the first time I waited on Kirk. It was a large viewing party for the American Film Institute’s Honors Kirk Douglas. It was very cool, with Kirk, Michael Douglas and his family, watching the show on a large television, as we served them dinner. At the time, we had another Food and Beverage Manager who was a moron (I don’t know where they got them, but this hotel had a bottom-less well of idiot managers). To motivate his staff, he told three of us that we would wait on Mr. Douglas… without informing us about the other two. As I’m cruising around the table, the other two waiters are zipping by… taking Mr. Douglas’s soup bowl, salad plate, refilling his glass… I couldn’t understand why the other two waiters were jumping Mr. Spartacus’ table.

When Douglas finished his main course, I reached to take the dirty plate and someone pulled it away. I looked over Mr. Douglas (who was intently watching the television) and realized that one of the other waiters also had a hand on his plate. We went back and forth, in a tug-of-war over Kirk Douglas’s dirty dish. Finally, I got frustrated and let the plate go. The other waiter, right at that moment, had tugged the plate forcefully and when I let it go, he winged the plate into the chest of an older woman, sitting three people to Mr. Douglas’ left. I did the only gracious thing I could think of… I took off as fast I could and hid in the kitchen. Everyone else (including the culprit waiter) helped to clean up the woman. Later, all three of us realized what the moron F&B manager had done. As I remember it, you wouldn’t have thought that a dirty plate, with leftover food, silverware and a napkin on it, could still fly like a Frisbee… especially as hard as it hit that woman’s chest.
(This lovely event ended, when after dinner; I suggested we put the dirty dishes in some milk cartons, lined with trash bags, to transport them down the hill to the kitchen to be cleaned. Moron F&B manager nixed that -- why do so much work. We’ll just have a porter wheel it all down the sidewalk on a cart, to the front door and into the kitchen. Fine…so it was kind of amusing when the porter lost control of the cart and spilled dirty dishes for sixty down Alta Loma Street. I digress, in warm reminiscence)

In the nineteen fifties and sixties there was terrible sickness in America called “Blacklisting.” Blacklisting was a symptom of lack of faith in Democracy by many of the people who so claimed that they believed in it. The belief that the American public could be manipulated against freedom by viewing a movie or attending a play, that communism was so much more devious than Democracy that it could steal the American mind. Going against the whole notion of freedom of speech that this country was built on; many influential men decided that they should patrol the morals of the average citizen and get to decide who was a threat to the country. Using the accused connections to the Communist party or anything that these defenders of the Constitution decided were dangerous; the accused could then be considered unfit to work. Most people throughout the U.S, including the studios and the WGA, bowed to these bullies and blacklisted their enemies, close associates and in many cases, their friends, ruining their careers.

In nineteen sixty-seven, Kirk Douglas hired blacklisted writer, Dalton Trumbo, to write the script (and be credited in the titles) for
Spartacus
, feeling that he was the best qualified writer to do so, thus finally ending the blacklist. Kirk Douglas will always be a hero in Hollywood.

At one of the WGA Award shows Mr. Douglas was to receive a special award for having the courage to use Mr. Trumbo’s name on
Spartacus
(it should be noted that this award was given about thirty years after the fact, but the Guild moves slowly, if at all). I was the stage manager for this show.

Mr. Douglas was led to the backstage, where I was directing presenters to one of two podiums to present the awards. I was thrilled when I was introduced to him and he was very kind in shaking my hand. This was just a year or two after he suffered devastating stroke that left him partially paralyzed and with a speech impediment. I told him that someone would introduce him and I will tell him when he could go out and what podium to go to. He nodded his head, signaling that he understood.

A writer went (can’t remember who it was) onstage and started the introduction. The one thing I can say about most of the introductions at the Writer Guild Awards was that they were writers and not editors. Most were long and rambling, leaving the recipient of the award waiting helplessly backstage.

I always enjoyed working as a stage manager at the award show because there was always a few minutes when it was just me and the presenters. I had many good chats with prominent people, waiting to go stage. The one problem was while we were chatting there was a much larger conversation going on in my ear. All the stage managers had to wear headsets, so I would have many people talking to me through the whole show. It would be interesting things like “Lights, can we get the second podium lit before they come out?” “Cue the music.” “Bill, is Mr. Douglas ready?” I would call back, “He’s here and waiting.” “This is a pretty long introduction but have him ready.” The director informed me.

As the introduction went on, Mr. Douglas became more and antsy. I had already used up my “I’m a big fan of yours…” “It was very courageous of you to go against the studios and give credit to the real writer…” and “Is it still raining out?” The introducer continued to drone on… and on.

Somewhere in this long, tedious, introduction speech, the presenter said Kirk Douglas’s name. Mr. Douglas thinking this had to be his cue, started to walk out. I blocked him with my arm, stopping him, as the presenter continued on. “When does this end?” I asked the director over my headset. “He’s still got some,” the director answered. “This is really long,” chimed the teleprompter guy.

Again the presenter mentioned Mr. Douglas’s name, and again, Mr. Douglas moved to exit, and again, I blocked him with my arm, informing him that there was a bit more. Mr. Douglas nodded and we waited. The presenter again mentioned Mr. Douglas’s name and he started out to the stage. I stopped him again, this time by wrapping my arm around his shoulders, to hold him backstage. “Does this ever end?” I quietly asked the people on my headset. “He’s almost there,” answered someone. “I hope there are people still awake when Kirk Douglas finally does come out,” another voice said.

Now every time that the long-winded presenter mentioned Kirk Douglas, Kirk would start out towards stage and I would hold him back. Finally coming up with something to distract him, I told Mr. Douglas that I read his book,
A Rag Man’s Son
and how much I liked it.

Kirk Douglas turned to me and said, “Really, that’s very nice. Did you get the feeling of the people that I came from?” I was telling him how I did and how I never knew how difficult his childhood was, when I suddenly realized that the director was yelling in my ear, “Bill -- Bill, where’s Kirk Douglas? Send him out -- send him out!”

Cutting Kirk short, I said. “You’re on, sir.” But Kirk was still waiting on my opinion of his book. I stammered because the director was still yelling in my ear. I finally pushed Mr. Douglas out towards the stage. “You’re on, sir,” I said again and Mr. Douglas made his way out the podium. “Here he comes,” I answered, over the radio. Mr. Douglas stood center stage, as the audience of writers gave him a standing ovation, almost as long as his introduction. Over my headset someone said, “For a minute there, I thought that maybe Kirk got bored by the introduction and went home.” Mr. Douglas walked to the podium and gave a short, concise and moving tribute to Dalton Trumbo… just like a great man would.

Nice Guy Chris Penn

I
was a bartender for more than fifteen years. In all that time I never got loaded on the job. Sure, I had my shift drink when I finished working and many times I plowed through a few beers trying to make a full case to restock or to confirm that the tap beer is flat. But I never got loaded while on duty. I’ve worked with other bartenders who would, sometimes even bringing their own (the best way not to get caught -- liquor is inventoried like any merchandise). Maybe a taste of some special cocktail -- a sip of champagne, if I was working New Years eve -- or checking to see why the margarita tastes like metal, but I never got smashed. It’s always a slippery slope.

For example; there was a bar on Columbus Avenue, in the eighties, that we used to go to a lot. One night I go into said bar, to wait for a friend, who was getting off work soon. I know the bartender, Brian. Brian is a good guy, actor, sometime carpenter, more than anything, a drunk. But Brian has no problem buying me every other drink. It was always a good place to start the night off -- which also worked because Brian usually wasn’t that drunk when you were starting your night off.

The bar is empty, so I sit on a bar stool because there is no one behind bar and wait for Brian to get back. Being a bartender myself, I know he’s probably downstairs changing beer kegs, or getting some more vodka, or in the kitchen, begging the chefs for something to eat or just hanging out back… Man, he’s taking a long time. I’m still waiting.

After ten minutes, I’m starting to think that maybe they’re a waiter short tonight and he has to take some tables. But he’s still not here -- this isn’t good. Anyone could walk in off the street and open the cash drawer. I’m still waiting.

Finally, a waitress comes over; she’ll tell me where Brian has gone. But she doesn’t say anything to me. The waitress leans over the bar and stares at something on the floor -- then she shakes her head sadly, and leaves. I stand and look over the bar, to what the waitress was staring at…. And there’s Brian, passed out on the floor. Brian obviously slipped on the slope -- though, he had a very serene expression on his face, I don’t think I ever saw him that happy. As I look up, my friend, Gary, arrives. I tell him, “Let’s go. The service here sucks.” We leave, I don’t tell Gary about Brian and his little nap -- why embarrass the guy. I would run into Brian a few months later on the street, he was looking a bit rough. He tells me he quit that job, “Bucko was an asshole.” I agreed, wanting to add, “…Especially when you pass out behind his bar,” but I don’t.

Years later, I’m working in a restaurant in a Beverly Hills hotel. I’m the day bartender, not a great job but better than being out of work. I’m also balancing a part-time job in a bookstore. This is a strange gig, the general manager is a very attractive woman, who, it seems, is sleeping with almost every guy on her staff (except the gays and the dishwashers, who can’t speak English). I found out that she had a dedicated room in the hotel for this adventure, and she wasn’t exclusive to just the staff (I was dating the baker of this establishment, so I was off the list -- you don’t mess with your baker’s man if you don’t want to have to come in at four in the morning to make the muffins). Most of the time I was alone after the lunch crowd died down… because the last waiter would usually just disappear for a time and then suddenly show up at the bar, sweaty and really thirsty. My afternoons were mostly my own, unless it was a waitress or a homosexual (I think a few of the gay guys went through with it just to get a quick nap in after lunch).

But this one shift was going to be easy to get through, because after I got out of work on this Thursday, some friends and I were going to drive to Vegas the next day to see two Grateful Dead shows. This was an annual event, where my L.A. friends and even some friends from NYC would get together at the Sam Boyd Bowl and listen to Jerry and the boys. I made sure I got the weekend off, by asking for it two weeks previously.

If you never went to Vegas on Dead weekend, you have missed something, buddy. It was like two worlds colliding -- players versus the hippies. Where Caesar’s Palace’s pool would be filled by women with phony tits, gold lame’ bathing suits, their men in French cut Speedos, Cartier watches and pinky rings, the rest of the pool is swimming in their underwear. This was before Vegas went mid-America. We would arrive in Vegas, check into our room (all six of us) and then I would look forward to be sitting on the right side of a bar.

It’s after lunch; the waiter/actor is nowhere to be seen. I’ve taken over his only table -- he’s being serviced and I’m doing table service. But hey, I’m going to Vegas, baby. Then the waiter suddenly appeared. “I’ll take my tables, thanks.” “Boy, that was fast,” I’m thinking. I get behind the bar and start cutting fruit for the night shift, when the General Manager storms through the dining room and past the bar. “You may have to take Ronny’s tables,” She warns me. “He might be going home…” Uh-oh, poor Ronny -- sounds like someone’s been giving bad service. I tell her, “No problem.” She adds, “Oh, and you can’t leave this weekend. We’re going to be short-handed.” “Ronny, you shitty lay!!” I thought. “But I’ve got reservations,” I argued. “Cancel them,” She yells back, throwing the kitchen door open and leaving. I glared at Ronny, now poorly serving my two customers at the table. “C’mon,” I thought, as I tried to mentally get Ronny aroused from the bar, “She’s screwed every guy that’s been through that swinging door… and none of them were fired.” I got that empty feeling that all Deadheads know when the Rolling Stone’s song
This Will Be the Last Time
is played -- the show’s over. What was I going to do?

I heard someone slide onto a bar stool to my right -- I turned and there was Chris Penn -- Mr. Nice Guy, in
Reservoir Dogs
. He looked closely at the bottles of whiskey on the back bar, then pointed to a bottle of Bookers and said. “I’ll have one of those.” I poured the bourbon and set the glass in front of him. Penn looked up at me and asked, “Can I buy you one?” I glared over at Ronny, who had to the gigantic balls to laugh at something one of the guests said. “Yeah, I’ll have one,” I replied.

I poured another Bookers, Chris Penn and I tapped glasses and threw the shots back. “I really liked
Reservoir Dogs
. “Thanks, man,” he replied, relaxing into the drink. “Are you working on anything, now?” I asked. “Nah… I’m just coming from an audition,” He told me. “How did it go?” Chris thought a minute and said, “You want another?” I turned and set up two more glasses, why the hell not -- maybe the Waiter’s Helper will see me and kick me out on my ass. “Sure,” I gave Penn his drink and we threw them back. What could happen?

A lot… First, I lost count around round six -- and I know there were more. Now, I was really pissed-off about the weekend and I was prepared to help Ronny with his performance problem, even if it meant having to become his fluffer. I probably told Mr. Nice Guy my dilemma, since a big part of my bartending style was rather than listening to a customer’s problems, I would tell them mine, even if they didn’t care to hear them. I mean, really, whose problems are more important?

Somewhere, Chris Penn left. I don’t remember when, but I assume he paid me. I started to get busier, and angrier…. I wanted the dirty little waiter-fucker to come back, I had a thing to tell her.

Finally, the staff slut arrived, dressed for dinner. She walked up to the service bar and asked for something that I can’t remember. I leaned over to her and said, “I’m going to Vegas this weekend. I can’t get out of the reservations and I don’t want to, either.” She glared at me, coolly, “You do, you’re going on half shifts when you come back.”

I stared at her, pissed, “alright, this is my last shift. I’m done.” She glared at me, probably the same way she looked at Ronny, earlier in the afternoon. “If so, get out from back there -- I don’t want you handling my money.” I took off my apron and threw it on the beer chest. I slid under the service station and out from behind the bar. Little did I know that that would be my last bar shift ever.