Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (6 page)

Hello, Jerry Seinfeld

I
n the mid-nineties, I had a job working in bookstore, a Brentano’s, in the Beverly Center, in Los Angeles. This was a different kind of gig than what I was used to in the restaurant/hotel business. First off, it was part-time, for very little pay, but on the other hand as a reader, it was one of the most interesting jobs I’ve held. It was interesting just learning about books and spending time reading the back covers -- making a list of books I planned to get around to reading.

Another difference was that it was the first job I worked at that I didn’t have to wear a uniform. At first, it was very freeing -- be able to wear what I wanted to wear but after a few weeks it got to be such a drag trying to find something that would look good with my large Brentano’s badge, that said “Hi, I’m Bill -- ask me how I may help you.”

I think it’s a man-thing, I remember my father, who worked in the insurance industry, wore the same suit for thirty years which also made it easier to decide. My sister claims that somewhere in the eighties my mother made him get a new one, but I never noticed the difference (another man-thing). Eventually, I chose a pair of black Dockers, three different shirts and a pair of shoes to be the three sets of clothes that I wore at my three shifts, weekly.

One day, while I was working the cash register at the check-out counter, Jerry Seinfeld stepped up to buy a magazine. It wasn’t easy to recognize Jerry, because he was wearing a Yankees baseball cap, pulled way down low on his head. Naturally, I’m a big fan of
Seinfeld
, the television show -- “
Have you ever noticed those performers who feel that don’t have to do the comedy gags with every single person they run in to, even though those same gags are what made them famous?”
The amount of hours I spent watching your little television show about “nothing” -- of course you owe us.

Since I am a long time member of Red Sox Nation, I was disappointed in the cap (Did your friend George, get you the cap? What would your friend, Keith Hernandez, say?) That’s probably why I decided that I had to do a bit with him. As Jerry stepped up to hand me his magazine, teenage girlfriend at his side, I glared at him and said, “Hello, Jerry…”

Seinfeld looked at me puzzled, it looked like he was trying to figure out if he actually knew me… or maybe he had been through this many times before. I’m not sure of which, but he just stared. Nodding my head, I tried to indicate my name badge on my chest. But Jerry still hesitated.

“Hello, Jerry…” I repeated and continued to nod in the direction of my badge but still nothing. I’ve always heard that Jerry was very sharp but he seemed to be a bit slow on the under-hand pitch I was tossing him. Once again, I gave him a “Hello, Jerry…” in my best Newman imitation.

Jerry stared, lost and confused, and finally looked over at his girlfriend, who gave him a sweet, “
you always wanted to be in this business,
” smile. Finally, Jerry turned his attention to me and said, “Hello….
bookstore guy.
” He pushed his magazine and some money at me. I took it, disappointed. Was a “Hello, Bill,” too much to ask? Was it that hard to pick up on? Come on, this guy worked with Michael Richards and Jerry Stiller on a daily basis -- whatever happened to good ol’ improvisation? Isn’t that what his pal, Larry David does, instead of actually taking the time to write his show? I was giving him his pitch, right in his wheel house, what’s problem, Jerr? Am I too insignificant to play along with? Jerry, you can’t take a few seconds to read my damn badge? Would it kill ya? Would it, Jerry? I’m sorry, it’s the damn Yankee hat -- before 2004 that hat alone could do this to me.

I gave him his change -- Seinfeld smiled, as he and his girlfriend turned to leave, my dream of doing a bit with Jerry Seinfeld smashed to pieces. Jerry and his little chick strolled out of the store, my last chance walking away, trying not to be noticed in the crowd…

In a moment of last-ditch fantasy, I shouted, “I think you should know -- that magazine has been in the bathroom!” Jerry and the young hottie stopped and looked at me (as did everyone else in the store)… All right, probably not the best bit to steal from the show but being a Brentano’s and all, it’s the only thing I could think of. Jerry just laughed, and went on his way with his stick thin, “I-don’t-even-have-to-wait-until-I’m-twenty-one-to-drink-in-a-bar-because-I’m-so-hot” girlfriend.

I turned at the sound of almost everyone else in the store dropping the book they were holding -- because it too, was probably in the bathroom. The store manager, who was, of course, just standing a few feet away from me, would require the help of two of my fellow employees to lift and re-attach her bottom jaw to her top. Later, I feigned ignorance, that I didn’t know that we were not tell customers that -- see, I had never worked in retail before… I just didn’t know.

I enjoyed working in the bookstore but since all employees got a thirty percent discount on books and I think I made about five dollars an hour, it was something of a wash financially. I don’t think I made any money in the job, but I did read some good books.

Bono, the Man I Wanted to Hate

F
rom the first time I saw U2 on MTV, I hated them. Being of Irish descent, I believe that the Irish should only play traditional Irish music (Van Morrison is exempt). An Irish rock quintet?.. No, thanks… unless you’re playing, “Wild Rover” or “Whiskey in the Jar.” And another thing that really got me, was Bono’s mullet. Admit it, that was the beginning of the bad hair trend, I blame him for all those hair bands, Andre Agassi, Wayne’s World, Larry the Cable Guy, and the disfiguring of many attractive lesbians (I’ve always had a strange attraction to lesbians, probably the number one reason why I didn’t get married till I was 40).

Another thing that turned me off the band, was that two of their members used pseudonyms, Bono and The Edge. Bono, I don’t know, maybe he was a big Sonny & Cher fan, but The Edge? The Edge of what? The Edge of Guitar playing… music… reality… the Edge of the world? I felt he had an incomplete nickname. A nickname should sum up the person and not be vague… a vague nickname might as well be the same name given to you by your parents when you’re born. That’s why you get a nickname because it suits you better than your given name. And the drummer’s name is Larry Mullens, Junior. Who made him use that name; Larry Mullens, Senior? He sounds like he’s in a country club, not a rock group. They were too pretentious of a band for me, then.

The other thing was that I once dated this woman who was really into them. One time during a very passionate moment, I swear she whispered, “Bono…” in my ear. Rattled, I stopped and questioned her mumblings. She claimed that she said “Mono.” She thought she was coming down with Mononucleosis. I was relieved, though this Bono thing was starting to bug me.

One day I showed up at work at the Sunset Marquis and I noticed that most of the hotel was full and many of the rooms and villas had a “U2” following it. Don’t tell me they would be staying here. Yes, they were and I had Adam Clayton, Bono and The Edge staying in my villas (Larry Mullens, Junior, was traveling across the country on a Harley -- pretentious). They were about to start the Actung Baby Tour.

Before I ever met anyone in the band, I found another reason to hate Bono -- I met his wife, Alison. If only it was another life, one where I was a rock star, had millions of dollars and had married Allie. The woman was beautiful -- that salt of the earth -- Irish Spring type, “…and I like it, too”, kind of beauty, with one of those lilting Irish voices that make you fall in love the first time she says your name, she also seemed to be very real and honest, she could’ve been one of those heroines from a Dickens novel (
Little Allie
- I’d read it). Bono met her in high school and married her. I was really hating on him!!! She was at the villa pool with their kids, all of them perfect, in an Irish-like way (they were like little well-behaved leprechauns).

After meeting Allie and the kids at the pool, I not only hated Bono but I was obsessively jealous of him. Why did he get the life I put in for? I’m sure if Saint Peter had said, who wants to be a rock star, travel the world with your best friends, make millions of dollars, marry a hot and wonderful woman, have awesome kids together, be Irish and not wrecked by alcohol or drugs…. I’m sure I would put hand right up.

The first time I met Bono, he was very nice -- good try, Mr. Paul Hewson (that’s his real name). In the three years that I worked at the Sunset Marquis about three guests actually introduced themselves to me -- Bono was one of them. I arrived at his villa and I found him alone, Allie and the kids had gone out. He was sitting on the couch in all his Bono-ness, talking on the telephone. I entered and started setting up his lunch on a coffee table in front of him. When he hung up the phone, he stood up and offered me his hand, “I’m Bono,” he said. It totally threw me (at first I thought he was patronizing me and then I got the feeling that he might have ESP and knew I was lusting for his wife… and or, at the most, lusting for his whole life). I got stuck between returning the handshake and handing him the food bill to sign. Finally, I was able to come through with a weak hand shake. Bono thanked me for the meal, tipped me and signed the check. Crap, this was when I realized it was going to be harder to hate him than I thought.

As I left his villa, I pledged to continue to hate him -- he wasn’t going to change my mind with that weak Irish gentleman act. I went home to listen to the
Rattle and Hum
album that my ex-girlfriend (now just my friend) had given me, to open me up to their “evocative sound.” Usually, all I need is the line, “Charles Manson stole this from the Beatles, so now we’re stealing it back” to get rekindle my disgust, but that night I had to play the whole introduction to
In The Name of Love
to finally right myself.

The next few weeks at the hotel were very busy with U2 staying with us. The real problem seemed to be that they all were very nice, the band, the crew, the staff… you name it. But I was still determined to hate Bono. Then he made his move -- I was just finishing up setting out another lunch for him (again, Allie and the kids had gone out) when he asked, “Bill, are you going to see the show? It’s really good.” I told him that I wasn’t able to get tickets (mostly, because I didn’t try). Bono started eating his lunch and said, “I’ll leave a pair for you tomorrow, down at the front desk.” I thanked him and left. Nicely played, my friend -- there is no way I can hate you if I take up your invitation. Even in my wildest hypocrisy, how could I say that you were Satan I if took those tickets… I would certainly check to see if he left them… but I felt that it was just another empty promise from a rock and roller (you know, like, “we’re gonna play all the songs you want to hear,” but they only play the new album and a few old hits). I was getting anxious; it was going to be hard to hate Bono if he leaves those tickets.

To back myself up, just in case. I told my former girlfriend (now just my friend) and promised if there was two, I would take her since she wasn’t able to get tickets (she had actually tried). I sauntered down to the front desk the next day and casually asked if there was anything left for me. The front desk assistant took some time and looked… nothing. I asked her to look again, anything left by Bono or U2? Nope -- nothing. Thanks a lot Bono -- thank you, God. I know you want us to hate… and now I have a good reason to… and so does my former girlfriend (now just my friend). I called her and told her that Bono had failed us miserably -- that’ll teach her to emulate.

We missed the show and the next day Bono had to nerve to order lunch again. I went to his villa with his food and this time he was with Allie and the kids. I set up their lunch at the table and everyone started eating. I labored in not letting my disappointment show (and the fact that I had originally recognized him for what he was -- the devil). As I was finishing up, Bono had the gall to ask, “What did you think of the show last night?” I stopped and looked him -- incredible! He would do this in front of his beautiful wife and family. He knew I wasn’t there -- he didn’t leave the tickets! “I didn’t go,” I said, meekly. “I went to the front desk but there wasn’t any tickets left for me.” Bono stopped eating and turned to Allie, “I thought you told Paul (Paul McGuiness, their manager) to leave tickets and laments (backstage passes) for him?” Allie looked uncomfortable for a moment.

Aw crap, now I’ve got this wonderful woman in trouble -- over a concert I didn’t even really want to go to. Allie grimaced, “I took them down myself. The package said ‘Bill -- the butler’ on it. I don’t know what happened.” I started apologizing. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her. I said it was no problem. That they probably just got misplaced or something, it happened all the time. Bono kind of seethed and said, maybe next time. I left feeling miserable, that I might have gotten Allie in some trouble.

Feeling good about the fact that Bono was the disappointment I thought he was, a few days later I was called into the hotel’s General Manager’s office, where I was berated for bothering a guest for tickets (Bono had offered them to me) and that the guests were not to know what was happening within the hotel (like, letting the guest know that obviously someone else on the staff had claimed the package of tickets that were left with my name on them). One of the problems with the management of the Sunset Marquis, is that they cared little about their guests, so this dressing down could only mean that Allie did indeed leave the tickets and laments for me but someone else (most likely they were given away to some travel agent for their business) had taken them… and I shouldn’t have told the guest that I didn’t get the tickets that he left me, even if the hotel gave them to someone else -- which I guess wasn’t really Bono’s fault.

Their last few days at the hotel were my eventual collapse in hating Bono. I watched how he interacted with his kids, his wife, his band, his friends and even his fans. I never caught him being disingenuous or phony, he seemed like a good guy, and especially to the people he spent the most time with and that he did care deeply for them and for what he believed in. Before leaving he actually gave me a large portrait of himself (it was more like, “Can you get rid of this for me? Why would someone give me a picture of me?”). I, in turn, gave it to my ex-girlfriend (now just my friend), saying Bono gave it to her (she kept it until she became insanely religious and then she gave it back to me, but not after I tried pointing out that she could tell her new religious friends it was Jesus (the first thing that goes when people join religion -- is humor, second thing to go is their old boyfriend -- who is now just their friend), I ended up throwing it away (sorry, Bono).

When they left for Dublin, Allie gave me a big hug and a peck on the cheek. It was kind of sad watching them all leave. Bono shook my hand and gave me one of those ‘bro hugs.’ Off they went on their little rock and roll adventures. Yes, I came around and I do respect Bono as a musician and as a man. The next time they came to town with Zootropa, I got to go to their show and I had a great time. I’ve been to many more U2 shows and they’ve never disappointed and at this point in my life, I couldn’t be disappointed with anything that Bono does… except if it involves mistreating Allie. There’s being lucky to be a rock star and then there’s being real lucky… finding the right person. Of course, every time I read what their albums and tours make I have to admit that there must be something more than just luck.