Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (24 page)

Our new GM had doubled back and was now pointing at the rag cabinet. I walked over to the cabinet he was pointing at and said, pretending to not realize that we were caught, “I’ve been told they are Winona Ryder’s. I don’t know how they got there.” The new GM walked to cabinet and tore the underpants from their tacks. “It’s a good that I found them and didn’t have a guest complain about it -- is Duckie aware of this?” he asked. “No,” I lied. “I don’t know,” I lied again. The GM took the panties and tucked them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll make sure these are disposed of.” Our new boss bolted out the door, Mohammad shrugged -- we both knew who was getting blamed for this. Mohammad scurried after the new general manager, to their next inspection.

Yves took his television home and the Celtics went on pretending they were still a pro basketball team for the next fifteen years. Winona’s undies were never heard from again. Duckie did try to replace them with Ronnie Wood’s left-behind t-shirt, but it really wasn’t the same (it also made the butler’s pantry smell of sweat -- we never could get it out). I realized that Whiffle Bill was a better nickname than Wrecking Bill...or
Pinche
Bill, which of most the Mexicans had to taken to calling me.

Like I said, I never believed the myth, but every once and a while, at slow times of the day, when I would walk past the general manager’s office, I swear, it might have been my imagination, but sometimes I heard a loud gasp air from someone inside and followed by the word “Winona….” It was very
Blue Velvet.

Brando Being Brando

I
studied acting with Stella Adler. Stella’s fame came mostly from the fact that she taught Marlon Brando to act. Besides Brando, Stella also taught Robert De Niro, Warren Beatty, Harvey Keitel, Bruce Willis, Matthew Modine (who was in my class), Mark Ruffalo and many other actors. But Brando was the man. While I was at school, the guys in my class basically broke down into two categories; the guys who tried to copy Brando and the guys who tried to copy Robert De Niro. I was in the De Niro crowd, but I was such a bad actor I don’t think anyone noticed. Bad Robert De Niro and bad Marlon Brando impressions were very common in the hallow halls of the Stella Adler Conservatory.

One of the reasons that I chose to study with Stella is that the school said I could go on a working scholarship. I would do odd jobs at the school to pay my tuition. I spent the good part of one summer painting the whole studio. I would sometimes walk Stella’s dogs or drive her to her house in the Hamptons, when the other students, whose jobs these were during the year, were unavailable. Much of my time was spent working in the studio’s office; answering phones and helping any prospective new students with questions.

There is an interesting story that someone had once told me about Brando and Stella. It’s pretty common knowledge that Brando used to mumble. When he first came to Stella, she instructed him to yell, and of course, he was to yell Stella’s favorite word --
Stella
. Brando used her name as a vocal exercise.

When Elia Kazan was casting
Street Car Named Desire
, Kazan told his friend Harold Clurman that he was looking for a strong male lead. Harold, who was married to Stella at the time, mentioned it to her and she suggested that Gadge (Kazan) audition this student of hers -- Marlon Brando. Brando being Brando, showed up at the audition wearing jeans and a t-shirt (something unheard of at the time) and recited “Hickory, Dickory, Dock,” with false buck-teeth, in a thick Japanese accent. Kazan sent him home, and quickly asked Clurman what was going on. Clurman went to Stella and told her how the audition went and asked if Brando was brain-damaged. Stella got a hold of Brando and told him that she had read Tennessee Williams’ play and that he just blew the role of a life time.

Brando realizing what he’d done; learned that Tennessee Williams was vacationing on Cape Cod. He took his motorcycle and found the rented house that Williams was staying in, doing re-writes. Marlon spent the weekend. He helped Tennessee fix a leaky toilet, do some chores around the house, gave him rides on his motorcycle and got Tennessee to fall in love with him. Williams called Kazan and asked him to audition Brando again. This time Brando was brilliant. While Tennessee was doing the re-writes, the character of the wife in the play had a different first name. But one day, Williams overheard Brando warming up by yelling “Stellllllaa!” Williams changed the character’s name… and the rest is history.

Most of the office work was very boring. I also wasn’t that good at it. One night, a call came for one of the school’s administrators, Eddie. Eddie was very flamboyant but really a lot of fun. He knew everyone and everyone liked Eddie. He was considered Stella’s right-hand. There was a call from some British guy looking for Eddie, I told him that Eddie had left already and would be back tomorrow, could I take a message. The guy on the other end of the phone says, “Tell him Sting called.” Without thinking, I ask, “What’s your first name mister Sting?” Sting says, “It’s just Sting. He’ll know me.” After he hung up, I realized who it was.

It was the end of the day. The last class had just finished and I was waiting for the guard to come up and lock the door so could I leave. A few days before, Lee Strasberg suffered a heart attack and died after appearing in “Night of a Thousand Stars.” Lee and Stella always had a strained relationship. Stella was Lee’s student in The Group Theatre but after one summer in France where she and Harold Clurman met Constantin Stanislavski and Stella studied with Stanislavski for six weeks, she came back and told everyone that Strasberg had it all wrong. They would argue the point for more than forty years.

During her classes Stella had two different diatribes on Lee Strasberg. I would sit in scene class with friends and Stella would say, “Lee Strasberg...” We would then try to guess whether it was going to be the; “Lee Strasberg was my teacher” speech, where she attributes all her teaching success and some of her acting success to him… or there was the; “Lee Strasberg ruined the American actor” speech, which kind of speaks for itself. It was amusing to see her ask some new actor if they had studied with anyone else. The new student would think for a moment and say, “I studied at the Lee Strasberg Institute.” Stella would turn to the class and give a look (Stella was an actress first, teacher second) and say, “I’m so sorry, darling.”

Stella took Lee’s death hard. I don’t know if it was her recognizing her own eventual demise, or the fact that she didn’t have a Salieri to her Amadeus anymore. Stella usually arrived a few hours before her class to prepare and then greet guests for about an hour after. Since Lee’s death, she arrived only for her class and would immediately leave for the day.

This night I was alone, since Stella left early. Then the phone rang. I answered it, wondering where the guard was -- I wanted to leave. “Stella Adler Conservatory,” I announced. The person on the other end of the phone was quiet. “Hello,” I said, thinking it was a wrong number. Suddenly a voice jumped on the line, “Is Stella there?” In one of the worse Brando impersonations I’ve ever heard. “No, she left already.” I answered. Again, silence. Where was that guard? “How is she feeling?” the bad Brando impression asked. “She’s a little sad about Lee Strasberg,” I said, figuring it might be a friend. “Is she at home?” the voice asked. “She should be,” I answered. “But I’m not sure.” Followed by another long bit of silence. In my best secretary voice, I asked, “Can I tell her who called?” Again, there was a long… drawn… out… pause… finally “Yeah, tell her Marlon called.” Then just before he hung up, he said, “I’ll call over there.” I so wanted to ask Stella the next day if Marlon called -- but I could never get the nerve up to do it. I thought about it on the way home that night. It was pretty cool of Brando to check in on his teacher. This is a guy who is the actor of his generation but still looks in on the person who influenced him the most -- his teacher.

A Rumor of Tom and Nic

W
hen I was employed by the Harbor View Hotel on Martha’s Vineyard, I worked and lived with about a hundred Irish, English and Scottish college students. The Harbor View recruited these UK co-eds because their school years started later than American colleges. Most American university terms started at the beginning of September, which meant that we would lose a good portion of our staff two weeks before Labor Day; so that the college students could have a few weeks off before starting classes. Realizing this, the hotel’s management brought in the Europeans, who would not have to start back till late September, early October.

Most of these students were from eighteen to twenty-four in age. Being in the U.S. for a short time, their greatest desire was to see a movie star. One day while walking to work we came upon Jon Bon Jovi and his wife, leaving the Kelley House. I pointed him out to the four or five of the young women that I was with, most of whom thought he was “lovely.” Though one Scot pointed out, “The wanker’s wearing a fur coat in the summer.” I told her that he was a rock star and that’s how they dressed. “I guess he’s too stoned to realize its 30 Celsius (or ninety degrees).” For many of the girls Bon Jovi wasn’t enough of a celebrity sighting.

We were having dinner in the staff dining area (or a small corner in the hotel’s basement -- your choice). I was telling my friend Pottsy, the Dining Room Manager, about a guest who had gone out on a night time cruise around the island. Suddenly, one of the Irish housekeepers asked, “Are they here?” Pottsy and I looked at each other, not sure who she was talking about. “Is who here, Fiona?” I asked. Fiona bubbled up anticipation, “Is Tom and Nicole staying at the hotel?”

Why not? It’s right there, just hanging, waving at me, begging, pleading to me to grab it and run with it. “Well, I’m not supposed to say anything,” I answered. “They’re here with their kids,” Pottsy added. “What room?” asked Scoairse. I looked to Pottsy. “We can’t say -- you’re not even supposed to know,” I replied. The girls turned to each other and started to talk about the films of Tom and Nicole that they liked and who was “brilliant” and who was “lovely.” Pottsy and I just smiled in our little conspiracy.

The rumor of Tom and Nicole’s supposed visit swept through the staff of the hotel. A few of the waitresses whispered the information to me, while scanning the dining room for our anonymous guests, as I poured their drinks. I heard one of the front desk employees tell another waitress that one of the hotel’s more glamorous suites had been blocked out -- It had to be their room. The housekeepers kept making trips by the closed door and continued to pass on updates of their vigil. The maids said it was strange that the room never requested service. Room service wondered why they were never called. I dropped the suggestion that they were probably eating out at island restaurants.

Pottsy and I grabbed Jake, the head of maintenance. Jake was a good guy but he wasn’t going to get involved in the rumor mill so he could be trusted -- I was also the bartender, and I knew he could be bribed (That’s why my condo in our staff housing had the only telephone). We asked Jake why the room had been blocked out. He told us that one of the toilets were broken, he was waiting for parts. This was good news -- on Martha’s Vineyard the phrase “waiting for parts” was the same as waiting for the bluefish to run, they would -- but the smart money didn’t expect them to come anytime soon.

Having set up the room, we were onto the next step. Pottsy and I pooled some money and ordered a large (but cheap) bouquet of flowers with a card addressed to:
The Babbits -- Have a great vacation, Tom, Nic and kids -- CAA -- your agents
and let them sit at the front desk for most of the day. The bellman eventually delivered it to the blocked out room but naturally no one answered. They left the pathetic bouquet in front of the door (CAA really has to find a better florist on the Vineyard), where I picked it up after work and gave them to my friend Cookie to take home (what nice guy I am).

By Monday morning, the whole staff of the Harbor View was honored to have Tom and Nicole staying with us. At the Monday morning meeting (where department heads get together to criticize each other departments -- I was only the Bar Manager, I really didn’t have to go but I found it helpful to find out about big events like weddings and parties before they actually happened) the Head Housekeeper suddenly blurted out, “Is Tom Cruise really here?” Everyone’s eyes turned to the hotel manager, a tall Irish man who had started the “Co-eds across the big pond” program. Even Pottsy and I looked to the hotel manager, assured that his ego would never let anyone know that there was something happening at the hotel that he wasn’t aware of. “Well,” started the hotel manager, I’m sure he was hoping everyone would avoid this question, “I can’t comment on that -- obviously, it’s confidential.”

The front desk manager raised her hand, “Even if it’s confidential, I feel that I should be informed when any room is blocked out.” There was a general agreement, actually, everyone in the room wanted to be informed. Backed against the wall, realizing that everyone else knew, the hotel manager pretended to come clean. “People, of course we can’t tell everyone. The Cruises…. I mean, the guests requested anonymity.” Yes, we let him confirm our rumor. I felt it was my turn to jump in, “He seemed really nice. They came down for a drink last night.” Everyone turned to me -- I had them hooked -- and there wasn’t even going to be a fight. “I’ve been taking their meals up myself -- just as they requested,” added Pottsy. For a moment I thought he went too far. Yes, he was in charge of room service. No, I don’t think anyone has ever seen him lift a tray in two summers. This is what usually kills a good scheme,
over-reaching
(see: Iraq and Weapons of Mass Destruction). “Yes, brilliant,” added the hotel manager, “Grade A service, that’s what we give here at the Harbor View.”

For the next few days Pottsy and I would toss out little miss-directions to anyone in hearing distance. Pottsy would drop by the service area of the bar and announce to me, “Just saw the Babbits out by the pool -- that Mrs. Babbit looks smokin’,” while in the earshot of a few waitresses. I would add something like, “You should’ve seen them relaxing on the porch last night.” You could see Irish, English and Scottish ears stand up.

By now everyone was convinced that the Babbits were staying at the hotel, it was going great -- a few of the housekeepers told me that they saw them in the hall this morning after breakfast. A couple of guests told me they saw them on Chappaquiddick. It was just swimming along when…

Lorna, a young, cute, sweet little Irish waitress came up to me at the bar, looking very dejected. “Bill, I haven’t seen Tom and Nicole,” she said, like a child stuck in the house during bad weather. Myself, being very sympathetic and hoping that I could get her to go to South Beach some night soon (which usually involved a little buddy-system skinny dipping) I told her that the Tom and Nicole were not really staying at the hotel. After letting Lorna into our little clan, I swore her to secrecy. Lorna perked up, now being part of the plan. I perked up because I was already running down the beach after her, tearing my tuxedo off (it was, after all, a fantasy).

The next night, when the fever was at the absolute high -- the order came in. At first I couldn’t believe it, but it was right there… I stared at the room service check -- it was for the blocked out room number. The Babbits were ordering a bottle Crystal champagne and a bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, with four glasses. The jig was up.

I hurried the check to Pottsy and we conferred in whispers in the waiter’s station. “Do you think it’s a joke?” I asked. “No, no one knows but me and you,” Pottsy replied. That was true, I didn’t think I needed to tell Pottsy about Lorna, she’s Irish, she knows how this goes; loose lips sink ships, what happens in the bar -- stays in the bar and all that stuff. Pottsy got an idea and disappeared into the kitchen. I went back to my bar. Pottsy rushed to the bar holding four room service checks. It seemed that the mythical Babbits/Cruises had ordered room service four times that day. Tom and Nicole seemed to crave steak and hamburgers. Needless to say, something was rotten on the fourth floor.