Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (7 page)

Glenn Close, She’s Mine

A
nyone who has ever worked in a service job knows that there is a secret “hot” chick” rule (sometimes it’s also a “cool guy” rule). That rule is that a “hot chick/cool guy” has no rules for them. The reasons can be from anything like, “He’s good with the customers,” to, “Hey, look at her… do you need me to say why she gets the shifts wants.” A lot of times it’s not the fault of the “hot/cool” person, it’s usually the fault of the management who believe if they have “hot/cool” people working for them they will get a “hot/cool” clientele. Usually what they get is poor service with a “hot/cool” smile.

I once worked for a very smart restaurant owner who had been around for years and knew that if he hired the “hot/cool” waiter that the waiter would eventually get bored or lured somewhere else and he would have to start all over again (he called them
bimb-aitresses
and
bimb-aiters
). He would say to me, “We’re hiring only ugly people. Find me ugly men and really ugly women; they’re the only ones I can trust to do the job well. If they are not ugly, they’re not gonna care. That’s why you’ll always have a job with me, Bill.” I think that was supposed to be comforting.

I worked with a woman named Sandy at the Sunset Marquis. Sandy was about twenty-one, was in Los Angeles to be an actress and this was her way to meet connections in the film business -- just like the rest of us. Sandy was really dangerous because she the “hot chick,” who knew she was the “hot chick” and felt she deserved everything she got from it. I worked with many other women in the same job and they didn’t expect, or want the “Hot Chick” treatment, but Sandy did.

There was no sense in going to the weak management at this hotel, since everyone knew they would fold like one of the patio chairs by the pool. For one thing the Food and Beverage Manager had a hard time forming sentences when he was around Sandy. His scolding of her behavior went something like this, “Sandy, you know you can’t leave during your shift even if it is for an audition. We had a full patio for lunch.” Sandy knew she had him by the green-peas and she used it to her best advantage.

When you worked with Sandy all bets were off. You would think some people would try to cooperate just to be polite but that wasn’t our Sandy. On the patio the waiters would take tables in turn rather than working stations, as in most restaurants. Not Sandy, she took who she wanted and left the tables that looked like foreigners (usually poor tippers), too small (more people, bigger tips) or obviously just a pain in the ass (many of the customers were staying in the hotel so we all became very familiar with the good and bad guests, some staying for months at a time). Sandy did like celebrities, especially good actors.

This one morning was quite surreal on the patio; Sandy and I were serving breakfast. A gray cloud of smoke hung over LA from the wildfires in Malibu. There even was a light ash falling, giving you the feeling of snow. Because of the small bits of expensive and stylish homes drifting down onto our tables there was very little business. We had a few tables earlier in the morning and Sandy had beaten me to their orders, so I was getting more and more bothered by her behavior. I needed the money just as much as she did but she was definitely more driven to take it from me.

Sandy and I stood in our small waiter’s pantry; a closet like room that held extra dishes, beverages and condiments. Sandy was rambling on about the audition she had the afternoon before and how wonderful she was. Russell, the busboy and I stood bored, watching the ash drift softly onto the patio.

Glenn Close walked out onto the patio, with a child. They made their way to a table and sat down. Sandy abruptly interrupted her audition story and said, “Glenn Close, she’s mine!” Without missing a beat, she started out the sliding glass patio door to the table. I was fed up with her attitude; grabbing her by her apron strings, I dragged her back into the pantry. Russell, realizing I had been pushed too far, slipped out past us. “She’s mine,” I said, “You had the last two tables.” Sandy tried to fight to get away from me. “They weren’t tables -- they were French,” she hissed. I got in front of her and pushed her further back into the pantry. “You took them.” I replied. I was able to get position on her, so that I could step out of the pantry and slide the patio doors shut. “She’s mine!” Sandy yelled from behind the glass door. Desperately, I looked around and spotted a broom that Russell had used to sweep up the piling ash with. I jammed the broom in the door’s track and locked Sandy inside, leaving her pounding helplessly, behind the glass.

I smiled at her and said, “Glenn Close is mine!” I turned and calmly strolled over to Glenn Close and her child, ready to take their order. As I waited on Ms. Close, I would occasionally glance over at Sandy, still locked in the pantry and pounding on the window. Eventually, Russell came back and released her. But since I had started the table it was now mine.

I went over, very professional-like and asked Glenn Close and her child what they would like. Ms. Close gave me her order and then I said, “What can I get for your son?” Glenn looked at me with that Patti Hewes glare, from
Damages.
“That’s my daughter, Bill,” She said. I started to worry about a sexual defamation lawsuit -- when I realized that I was now the
bimb-aiter
… and I wasn’t even “hot” or …”cool.” Sorry, Ms. Close and daughter.

Warren Beatty Has Big Balls

O
ne of the first restaurant gigs I had in New York was at an Upper Westside café, called Ruelles. I was a busboy in a very popular restaurant. One Sunday after an extremely busy brunch I was walking down Columbus Avenue with two fellow employees; Megan, a pretty red-headed waitress, with a peaches-and-cream type of complexion and some other waiter. The waiter and I were walking while Megan was riding an older bicycle. All three of us were looking tried, shirt tails pulled out of our pants, carrying backpacks and our dirty aprons.

The three of us were just walking home, talking, when a black town car turned into a side street and stopped abruptly in front of us. Warren Beatty bounded out of the backseat door and walked briskly to the three of us. Beatty smiled at Megan and held out his hand to her. “Hi, I’m Warren,” he said. The three of us stopped, he didn’t need to tell us who he was, I, for one, knew who he was… and there he was standing in front of us, still holding his hand out to Megan. Megan slowly extended her hand to Warren, who took it elegantly and shook it.

The waiter and I stood there staring dumbly, as Warren gave us a nod and turned back to Megan. “You are beautiful, did you know that?” Megan could only come up with a very weak, “Thank you.” Warren wasted no time, “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Again, Megan could only come up with an “I… err… ahhh… I guess so…” she stammered. “Good” said Warren, handing her a pen and a piece of paper. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you. Do you like Italian?” The waiter and I replied, “Yes.” Warren looked to me and the waiter and said, “Nice meetin’ you guys.” He made sure he had Megan’s phone number and jumped back into his car, leaving the three of us and everyone else walking by asking “Was that Warren Beatty?” Megan finally blurted, “…but I have a boyfriend!”

As we continued to walk down the avenue, Megan kept on repeating, “I have a boyfriend -- I can’t go out with Warren Beatty.” While the other waiter and I kept extolling, “What nerve!!!” and “Did you see the balls he had!!!” “He stops a woman walking down the street and asks her to dinner!” we rejoiced, “He has big balls!” Megan muttered, “…I can’t go to dinner with him.”

I stayed with them until we got to Seventy-Second Street and the IRT. The waiter and I tried to convince Megan to go on the date, “It is only dinner, it doesn’t mean anything.” “Take the dinner and enjoy yourself,” we told her. I even tried to reason with her as an actor, “Maybe he can help your career -- have dinner with him.” “You know his reputation,” she said, “He’s going to want to lay me.” “Having dinner with him doesn’t mean he has to sleep with you?” reasoned the waiter. “I don’t know.” Megan replied, “You saw the way he looked at me.”

We stood in front of the subway-station at West Seventy-Second and Broadway when I caved and said, “Your boyfriend doesn’t have to know.” I think I saw Megan’s lower lip quiver. “I’ll go, if you don’t” said the waiter, adding, “…And I’m not even gay.”

Later in the week, I worked the same shift with Megan. At an opportune time I whispered, “What happened with your dinner with Warren Beatty?” Megan glared at me and replied, “When he called, I told him that I had a boyfriend and that I didn’t think it was a good idea.” She smiled uncomfortably and hustled off to one of her tables. It may not have worked out but you can’t blame Warren for trying -- what rocks that man has!!!

A few weeks later on a very busy Saturday night, I was in the kitchen with Megan when the hostess rushed up to her and said, “Megan, Warren Beatty just came in and requested your section.” Megan looked as if she had been snared by a red head devouring python. “Tell him I’m not here -- I can’t wait on him,” she replied.

The hostess was stunned, thinking that Megan would be thrilled that Warren wanted her. “It’s Warren Beatty -- from the movies.” Megan turned away from her, checking the order she was about to take out. “I can’t do it. Put him in someone else’s section.” Megan grabbed her plates and ran out of the kitchen. The hostess, kitchen staff and I watched, as she left. Only I knew the real story behind
Megarren
.

Later in the evening, I overheard Megan explaining her strange behavior to the hostess and some of the other waitresses. “We went out a few times but I’ve got a boyfriend. Now he keeps calling me and he won’t leave me alone.” All the women tried to comfort her, in sisterly solidarity. “He’s like that, I hear,” one waitress said. “He uses women and then just throws them aside,” said another. “But he is Warren Beatty!” said the hostess. The rest of the girls gave her the “of-course-
you
-would” glare.

I would never know if Warren and Megan got it on, as we used to say then. But on the other hand, there might be a guy right now who has a wife named Megan, who was a waitress in New York City in the early eighties, who sometimes has a very mysterious smile on her face whenever she watches the film “Shampoo,” and maybe now that husband has learned the answer to that smile.

While working at Ruelles, I also studied acting with Stella Adler. Not only was I her student but I worked for her to supplement my tuition One night a few months later, I got a call from Stella’s assistant, asking me for a favor. Stella was expecting company and couldn’t find the key to the wine cabinet (she suspected every maid she hired was stealing from her). He wanted to know if I could go over to Stella’s and open the wine cabinet for her -- I said I would. I used to get stuck with these little favors because I lived the closest to Stella’s apartment than anyone else who worked for her. I made my way from the one bedroom basement apartment that I shared with two other guys, to Stella’s building on Fifth Avenue, directly across the street from the Met and took the servant’s elevator up to Stella’s back door.

After I rang the bell, Stella answered, dressed for the evening. I greeted her and she gave me a warm, “Good evening, darling.” Stella at the time was eighty-two and was having some memory problems, so I’m not sure if she ever really knew my name. “How are you, Miss Adler?” I asked. She groaned and said, “Darling, I’m dying.” I had no answer to that so I went to where I was told the key was hidden and unlocked the wine cabinet for her.

While Stella was choosing a bottle of wine, the doorbell rang. “Darling, would you let my guest in and tell him that I will be there in a minute” she asked. I went through her extremely large apartment that I understood, at the time, was still under rent control (And probably cost less per month than the rat-hole I was living in) and opened the front door. There stood Warren Beatty, looking dapper but nervous.

“Is Stella here?” he asked. I let him in, “Yes, she will be straight out.” He nodded and we both stood in the foyer waiting. I desperately wanted to say something about the Megan incident but what? “Hey, remember me from when you picked up that hot red head on the street… you know the one on the bicycle? She works at Ruelles… I know, there’s so many it’s hard to keep up.”

Warren smiled at me, looking anxious. “Do you study with Miss Adler?” he asked.

“Yes, I do” I answered, really wanting to ask if he nailed Megan. That’s the difference between me and Warren, he’ll hit on any pretty women on the street, and I can’t even ask a simple question. “I did also,” he added, “She’s brilliant.” We both stood there, uncomfortable, waiting, until Stella finally appeared; making a grand entrance. “Warren, darling, how are you dear boy?” They embraced and I slipped quietly into the kitchen and out Stella’s back door.

It was interesting how Warren could have such confidence with extremely beautiful women but then be so humbled by Stella… I don’t want to give you the idea that she didn’t scare crap out of me, too. I have never been as terrorized by someone in their eighties as I had while studying with Ms. Adler. On one hand, I look at my time with Stella as once in a life time opportunity to touch greatness but on the other hand I don’t think I could do it again. Stella had the interesting gift of making you love her even while you were scared to death of her. I had a feeling that both Warren and I had that in common… and that’s about all we had in common.

Michael Stipe – Is He or Isn’t He?

I
went to the Sundance Film Festival for six years. I would volunteer my services and they would put me up and let me see many films for free -- it was a good deal. While I was up there the Writers Guild of America West, where I worked at the time, would send a few people up from the Communications Department.

Since I was in Park City anyways, I would also help the people from the Guild from time to time, whether it was in the Writers Guild Café, or just working the door to the Guild’s annual membership party. My friends from the Guild and I would always plan to go out to dinner once before the festival’s start.

It was at one of these dinners that the talk turned to Michael Stipe and his band R.E.M. Michael Stipe also was a film producer at the time, while fronting one of the most popular bands of the nineties. Someone at the table had seen Stipe downtown in Park City, on Main Street.

One of my friends from the Guild tossed in a little known fact, that supposedly Michael Stipe, along with being a fine singer/songwriter, was also very well endowed. Naturally, everyone at the table questioned him about where he got his information. He just said smugly, “I’ve got my sources” -- he confessed eventually, that at a different film function that Stipe was at, he ended up using a urinal next to him… and had stolen a peek.

This of course, is a very bold act to admit to. I have been in locker rooms all over the country where many men have strolled to the showers and I have never -- ever -- ever -- stolen a peek. Since he made the statement and there was no one there to disagree, it was decided that yes, Michael Stipe was indeed gifted. Who was going to argue?

A few nights later, I went to a screening of the film that Mr. Stipe produced and sure enough, there he was in the flesh, sitting a few rows from the screen, in the cordoned-off, VIP section. I, naturally, was well back in the theater and so stealing a peek, or even trying to steal a peek was pretty much out of the question.

The film was
Beat
, about writer and occasional actor, William S. Burroughs and how he shot his wife, Joan, while playing William Tell. The film was okay but earlier I had weaseled my way into some other reception. Aware that I had to leave quickly to make
Beat
on time, I pretty much emptied a tray of
hors d’oeuvres
by myself, and quickly drank down three Heinekens before slipping out and jumping onto a shuttle for the Prospector Theater. Half way through the film I realized that I had drank the beers too fast and now needed to piss. So, I slipped out and went to the men’s room.

Standing at the urinal, hoping that I would get back to the film before Kiefer Sutherland capped Courtney Love with a single bullet to the head… missing the apple by that much, someone slipped into the urinal next to me. It was Michael Stipe.