Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (26 page)

Matthew Broderick Took My Life

W
hen I was an actor in New York, I auditioned for many projects and was mostly rejected. It was frustrating to go to the film or play after it was finally produced and watch the actor who eventually got the role. In the mid-eighties, I went to an audition for
Platoon.
When I got there I found out that the character I was assigned was the platoon’s interpreter. I looked over the two pages of dialogue (called “sides” in the business) and realized that more than half of it was in Vietnamese. I read it as best as I could; I decided to just use gibberish for the text instead of trying to sound out the foreign words.

I thought I did well, (of course, just like in the war, I was translating to an uninterested, white woman) but I didn’t get the role -- Johnny Depp did (the casting agent seemed to be bothered by my Boston accent -- I had two cousins who went to Vietnam and I’m pretty sure their Boston accents went with them -- and unlike the casting person, the army didn’t care). Ever since, I look at whatever role Johnny Depp is playing and say, “I could do that.” Be best friends with Tim Burton -- I can do that. Imitate Keith Richards as a pirate --- I could do that. Butcher people with Helen Bonham Carter, I could do that. Have long scissors for hands -- I could… how does he go to the bathroom…. after a few beers… that must be tricky -- I’ll pass on that.

Most of the auditions I went to had the same other guys going to it. Actors are usually broken down into characters that they would most likely play. My agent would send me to an audition and all the same actors would be there. All hopeful that this will be the one… that this audition will open the door…. That Matthew Broderick wouldn’t show up. We would all be camped out in the hallway, a small office ante room, lined up along the sidewalks, waiting for our chance to go in and “wow” them. Then Matthew would arrive and you could watch the confidence drain out of the line of Matthew Broderick hopefuls.

Matthew was always very nice. He would wave; maybe talk to a guy who he has recently stole the role-of-a-lifetime from. You could hear him stomping on our dreams as he passed. We would watch Matthew and his “people” (we didn’t really have people then -- we had agents and assistants -- or actually Matthew had agents and assistants -- we had books, walkmans and cups of coffee) stroll by and be warmly accepted into the world of casting agents (the only time I was ever accepted warmly by casting agents, was when they accidentally mistook me for the delivery boy from the Greek deli -- I still didn’t get the part and it was a for a delivery boy walk-on).

One by one, we would all decide to leave, convinced that the part had gone to Matthew. A few of us would amble on down to the nearest coffee shop and we would order breakfast to plan Matthew’s deadly accident. Of course, being actors we could never decide the means, the place or whether or not to do it under Equity waiver.

After some time, I came upon a plan to audition for a job that Matthew Broderick could never take -- his. My agent (or the seedy loser, as I preferred to call him) got me an audition to replace Matthew in
Brighton Beach Memoirs
. The seedy loser was very positive that Matthew wasn’t going to come back and that I may be actually able to book this play -- if I lied and said I was Jewish -- just a little bit.

I went to the audition with my Tom Winfield monologue from
The
Glass Menagerie
flowing in my brain like a well spring. I waited, confident in the knowledge that Matthew Broderick was out of the running. This was my time -- this was about “me.” A woman called my name, and I entered the stage from the wings, as everyone else had. I stood at center stage in the only spotlight and waited. They asked for my name again and I answered to the barely visible, dark figures, sitting a few rows back in the pit. Then a man’s voice asked, “What will you be doing for us today, Bill?” “I’m going to be doing Tom’s last monologue from
The Glass Menagerie
,” I answered, confidently. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to blow their hair back with Tennessee Williams’ poetry when someone said, “I love that play.”

I stopped cold when I heard the tinny-little voice in the dark audience. I recognized it from the many times I had heard it before, usually asking for tea with lemon, instead of coffee. There was an uncomfortable silence, as I struggled to remember what a monologue was -- in general. I knew I had to say something -- Matthew Broderick would -- he was sitting right out there waiting. Panic ran through me -- I suddenly remember what panic was.

“Start,” announced another voice. I gave a strong, “Eeeaaaa….” This was like the worst case of Matthew-Broderick-interruptus ever. The tinny-voice said, “Relax, we have plenty of time. Take a breath and begin.” Bastard, now he’s trying to help me. I replied, “Oooouuuuu…” I was still stuck in vowels. “Do you want to take a minute?” another voiced asked. I wanted to take a lot of minutes -- I needed to get to a library fast -- I know the play has a unicorn in it. In one last burst to say something -- anything -- I blurted “Oy!!” Again, it was only vowels but at least it was vowels in context of Brighton Beach. As I struggled off the stage, I heard that tinny-voice say, “That’s too bad -- I heard he was good. I don’t remember any “oys” in Williams?” Ouch, now he’s criticizing my performance -- or the lack there of.

I followed Matthew’s career from the trades. When he got a part -- I got that part. I was better and dated prettier girls (in my imagination). I auditioned for
Project X
, as soon as I found out that Matthew was coming in to read later, in a last ditch effort for a job, I asked if they were planning on using real monkeys. They were -- damn it. I still did the whole audition in chimpanzee (at least, that’s what I told the casting people).

I continued to follow Matthew’s career; I was Ferris Bueller, I was awesome in that -- I killed in
Glory
-- I upstaged Brando in
The Freshman
-- I was in
The Cable Guy
(that was a mistake -- I was just doing it for the pay check) -- I was a kick-ass Professor Harold Hill and I had a great time with Nathan Lane in
The Producers
. I was as busy as Matthew Broderick and I was still tending bar at night. No, I realize that that wasn’t me. But it’s easier to dream than to keep auditioning.

Years later, I went a holiday party for some film organization. Late into the evening and deep into the open bar, I spotted Sarah Jessica Parker standing alone. Using all the courage that had drained out of me at the Brighton Beach audition and was now mixed with a lot of alcohol and Red Bull, I staggered over to where she was preparing to leave. I got in front of her and with no warning, I announced, “You and me… we could’ve been married now.” She smiled sweetly, without even thinking about it, she replied, “Nope, now way -- no how.” Sarah Jessica Parker, Mrs. Matthew Broderick, turned and left the party. Okay, but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t kill in
Inspector Gadget.

My Feud with Jay Leno

I
grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. My town, Tewksbury, was the red-headed step child to Andover, Massachusetts. Andover had bigger houses, better schools and Philips Andover Academy, the blue-blooded prep school that gave us Humphrey Bogart, Jack Lemmon, George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush. Tewksbury boasted a high school that was on triple sessions and lost its accreditation, the Tewksbury State Hospital that is used as a threat to Annie Sullivan in “The Miracle Worker” and a grisly triple-murder one New Year’s eve. Whenever a Tewksburian was caught in Andover, they would immediately get kicked in the balls and given a code-red wedgie (a code-red wedgie is when the underpants are pulled over the head, whereas an atomic wedgie is when the underpants, still containing the person from Tewksbury, are suspended on some elevated hook -- fence post, basketball hoop, top of flag pole). Jay Leno is obviously from Andover.

In Los Angeles, we live in our cars and that’s where I first spotted Jay Leno. I was driving back from dropping a friend off at the airport and was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the 405. Realizing that there was nothing I could do but just wait until the traffic starting moving again, I looked around at the other cars stuck on the freeway (something you shouldn’t do often -- you never know when you could draw some “What’re you lookin’ at” automatic weapon fire). In a fancy, foreign car, sat Jay, looking as bothered by the stalled expressway as I was. As everyone knows, Jay likes to collect cars (I hear that he has a special climate-controlled, subterranean, warehouse where he keeps them -- whereas in Tewksbury, many of my friends collected cars also, but they were usually kept in the front yard and were up on blocks, without wheels) this car was some Fiat or something.

Realizing it was my chance to say “Hello” and not having to worry about a ball-smacking or wedgies, I leaned over and waved to Jay. Jay caught sight of me out the corner of his eye and sternly stared ahead. I continued some more gesticulating in his direction while he glared at the cars in front of him. Being from Massachusetts, I knew my next move was to hit the horn, which I did, but still no response from Jay. Suddenly, I turned into Glenn Close’s character in
Fatal Attraction
, -- “You’re not going to ignore me, Jay.” I continued to blow the horn. The car to my left contained to two guys with long hair, who must have also recognized Jay. They too we’re waving and started to sound their horn. Then a woman in the passenger’s seat, in the car ahead of me, rolled down her window and waved at Jay, as the driver honked. The passenger yelled back, “Hey, Jay -- nice fancy-ass car.” Every car around me was now waving and honking at Jay -- remember, celebrities are not a big deal in L.A.

I looked over at Leno and it was obvious that the whole encounter was really bothering him -- his chin jutted straight out, almost hitting the expensive solid wood steering wheel. Jay grimaced, he slowly turned to us and smiled, one of those; “I hate this part of my job” smiles… and waved to us. Everyone waved back at him. Jay kept smiling and then the traffic gods decided enough was enough and the 405 started moving again. I tried to keep up with Jay for a bit -- each time waving at him, finally the highway opened up enough for Jay to leave me and my 1983 Toyota Corolla far behind.

Years later, I spotted Leno at the Beverly Connection doing his little “Jay Walking” bit. Jay stood with his camera crew waiting for someone interesting to come along, when I stepped up and introduced myself and told him that I was from Tewksbury. Jay laughed and said, “Oh, you got out, too.” Suddenly, Jay and his crew spotted a guy who most definitely thought that LAX was named after Malcolm X; they ran after him, stunning him with a tranquilizing dart.

As I walked home that night, I couldn’t help thinking that both Jay and I had gotten over the homeboy antagonism -- We are both Angelinos now. That whole Andover/Tewksbury thing is over -- we’ve gone beyond that. That’s when they grabbed me. Two guys held my arms, as one tough kicked me right in my fuzzy dice. The other two put me in a text-book code-red wedgie, my rear underwear waist-band resting neatly across my forehead. I was almost sure it was Leno’s henchmen -- probably Teamsters, or maybe the Bush boys… or maybe some fifth-grade rowdies from the Center for Early Education (my neighborhood was crawling with them). When I woke up, I was suspended in an atomic wedgie, dangling by my shorts from a banner advertising “The Vagina Monologues” at the Broad Theatre (which made a lot of sense) on a street light pole. I thought, you won this one, Jay -- but next time I won’t let my guard down.

Since then, I’ve always been aware of the Tewksbury/Andover feud. Years later; I was working a Writers Guild show when I approached Michael Chiklis. Chiklis, or Chik, as he likes his friends (obviously, not me) to call him, was also a former Andover resident (I think he knew Jay growing up -- you know how those guys at the country club are). I greeted Chiklis and told him I was from Tewksbury and a fan of
The Shield
. Suddenly, he gave me that cold-blooded glare, the same one that he gave Terry Crowley just before he iced him.

Realizing that I once again stepped off the Hatfield land and onto the McCoy’s, I did what any self-respecting person from Tewksbury would do. I found the nearest chair and jumping as high as I could, I ruptured myself and then pulled my underpants into the most perfect self-inflicted-code-red-wedgie, ever attempted. Chik smiled and stepped over me, stating “Thanks -- I didn’t want to wrinkle my tux -- I’m going on soon.” This is how I learned to always respect the feud.

Stella for Star

I
studied acting with the great Stella Adler. I know most people wouldn’t feel that Stella would be considered a celebrity but she was considered a major celebrity by myself and everyone else who studied with her (she had the nerve to demand it). Stella made a major impression on me.

The first time I ever saw Stella was at a performance of
Waiting for Lefty
that some of the students, from the year ahead my class, put on (Steven Bauer and Judd Nelson were in the cast). Everyone was sitting and waiting for the show to start, when two older women stepped through the door and the whole audience stood as one and applauded. I recognized Stella from the brochure I was given when I first applied to the school. Accompanying Stella, was Alice Winston, one of my teachers from my night technique class. Stella entered, walking with a limp (she had just had major hip surgery) and warned, “Here comes the villain!”

Stella and Alice sat down in the front row and the play began. From the moment it went dark to the very end of the play, Stella whispered notes on the performance, while Alice wrote them down onto a yellow tablet of paper. It was very annoying for the audience and probably a real pain in the ass to the actors but this was Stella’s stage and Stella was still the most important person in the whole theater. I thought the one-act was top-rate and I was pretty happy with my choice to go to Stella’s school. The performance was also one of the major reasons why I chose to become a full-time student at the conservatory, rather than just the two night classes I had been taking. I was going all in on Stella.

When I went to apply for full-time, I asked about a working-scholarship. One of my room-mates had already inquired and I certainly could use it. I had not gone to college for any length of time because I was encouraged by my high school that me continuing an education after high school would be a huge waste of time and money (it was that “You Are Dumb” teaching style – it took me years to get over) so I never seriously pursued a degree being convinced it would be an inconvenience to everyone involved. I decided that if I was going to acting school I would try to pay for it myself – my parents had other children who the Tewksbury Public School system were more willing to bank on. I wheedled out an agreement with the Stella Adler Conservatory to work to pay for my education; I worked mostly for the school, in the office and doing odd jobs around the studio (one summer vacation, I painted the whole studio -- alone). Sometimes I would also fill in at the jobs that other scholarship students did when they went out of town, taking Stella to her house in South Hampton on the weekends, walking her dogs and the like. I paid about three hundred dollars for three years of acting education and I was Stella’s indentured servant for that time, or as they called us at the school, I was one of “the boys” – though there was a few women on scholarship most of us were “the boys.”