Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (9 page)

We made our way down Broadway, to the China Club, everyone was in a good mood and we paired off, Scott with Hailey, me and the vein… I mean, Julie. We greeted the bouncers at the door, one of the cool things about working on the Upper Westside of New York in the eighties was that the restaurants and clubs were like a small community and everybody knew everybody else. The other thing was that there was sort of gentleman’s agreement amongst the staff of these establishments that cover charges were only in effect if the managers and owners were standing right there. We were escorted right in, ahead of the line waiting.

The China Club in the eighties was the place to be. It was always hopping and always filled with celebrities and beautiful women. I have been at the China Club when Cher danced with everyone on the floor, another night, I just missed David Bowie putting on an impromptu show and once Chaka Kahn got up on stage and sang, backed up by her girlfriends. You never knew what was going to happen there and Scott and I had two hot women with us.

The four of us got some drinks and we danced. I can’t really remember if Julie was a good dancer or not. What I do remember is that every once and a while she would throw back her hair and I would I catch that vein in the colored lights of the dance floor. At times, it seemed the vein was glaring at me, like it was checking me out. Though it seemed like Julie was into me, I can’t honestly say the same thing about her vein. It just stared at me, like a third eye -- a third, disapproving eye.

When we stopped dancing, Julie told me about her job. She worked at the Athlete’s Foot store in Columbus Circle, selling running shoes. The vein kept watching me… pulsing in her forehead. It was like something out Edgar Allan Poe -- the tell-tale vein. This was a beautiful woman, very much out of my league, but she seemed to be having a good time, laughing and joking with me. Julie had a good sense of humor and it seemed that she had no idea how beautiful she was… except for the vein. The vein knew. Every once and a while the light would hit it just right and it would glare at me, with a “Forgit-bout-it, you’re not getting any of this,” look. I know it was only a vein but I swear the damn thing was mocking me, baiting me, begging me to bring on my “weak shit.”

At some point, Scott and Hailey dropped by to where Julie and I were encamped at the bar and said that they were leaving. Hailey and Julie whispered to each other, Scott gave me an encouraging nod. Julie laughed at something Hailey said and I caught a glimpse of the vein, it just smirked and pulsed, “You may think you’re there but you’re not…” I was liking the girl, but hating on the vein.

Scott and Hailey took off, leaving Julie and I alone. We had a few more drinks, as the vein glared at me under a light sweat on Julie’s forehead. It knew what I wanted and it wasn’t going to let it happen. I was sure that at some point the vein would just clog itself if it thought that this was the only way to stop me . The girl was beautiful, the night was exciting… and still that vein pulsed for me -- determined to ruin everything.

The club started to clear out and Julie leaned over to me, “Do you want to go back to my place?” What every man is waiting for. I winked at the vein. It just smiled (as much as vein can smile) and Julie said, “I have to warn you, I’m staying with my brother.” I swear that vein threw up its arms, victoriously. “Is he big?” I asked, hoping she thought I was kidding. “Kind of,” she said.

The game was on, it was me versus the vein. Sure, I was a man and it was capillary (albeit, a large one) but it seemed like Julie was on my side. Besides, I never listened to my body, why should I listen to hers. We got our coats and left, as the vein angrily pulsed.

In the cab uptown, we snuggled together. Every time a headlight hit the vein, it threateningly glared at me until it was too dark to see. As Julie rested her head on my shoulder, the vein came dangerously close to my face. I could almost feel it beating, the blood inside whispering to me -- promising me that if I didn’t leave right now it would burst, killing this beautiful, hot, young woman. The vein asked if I wanted that responsibility, if I could live with her death on my hands, her blood, gushing from the engorged wound. The vein told me that she may have wanted me but it would go kamikaze crazy if I should enter that apartment, invited or not.

Julie rested comfortably on my shoulder, while that self-destroying vein, promised me of Julie’s demise. I can’t remember what we talked about -- I could only picture the scene of myself and Julie’s lifeless body splayed on the seat, both of us covered in her blood. The vein, now open, exploding like an aneurism -- like when Omar is got shot by Kenard in the Korean deli, in the final season of
The Wire
. I tried to put it out of my mind, reasoning, “It’s just a vein, and it’s not even an artery.”

I had gathered myself enough to walk her to her door, but as we stood out in the hall and I made my move to kiss her, the vein grew. It looked be two or three times its regular size and beating. We kissed and Julie looked up at me, the pulsating vein enraged… and I said, “Well, I guess I ought to be going.” Julie smiled warmly and asked, “You don’t want to come in?”

I stared her angelic face, the angry vein bulging out over her eye. “I’ve got to work tomorrow,” I said. We hugged, the vein glared and I left. On the way home I couldn’t get the angry vein out of mind. I spent the whole night tossing and turning with dreams of flesh-eating veins, pulsating worms, angry spaghetti.

The next day I decided that I wasn’t going to call Julie back, yes, the vein had scared me off. I went to work, Scott told me that his time with Hailey didn’t go well and she ditched him at the door. He asked me if I was going to call Julie, I mumbled something incoherently and timely broke a glass in an ice bin. After I cleaned the ice bin out, Scott had forgotten all about it. A few days later he said that he ran into Julie and had asked her out (ran into her -- he went to the Athlete’s Foot -- where she worked -- and ran into her -- what a coincidence). I said I was cool with it, that Diane and I was finally happening (I lied, or course -- everything was held up by some psoriasis on her elbow).

Scott and Julie started showing up at the bar as a couple. Julie was real cool about what happened at her brother’s house. I also think she found when she was sober that she liked Scott better than me but she in no way seemed to harbor a grudge -- we became friends for the short while she dated Scott.

One day Julie showed up with her brother (whose apartment I saw only the outer threshold of) which was pretty exciting, he was the actor Eric Roberts from the films,
The Pope of Greenwich Village
and
The Runaway Train
… yes, that’s right, I cock-blocked myself and blew off Julia Roberts -- over a vein.

Julie broke up with Scott, eventually starring in
Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman
and
Erin
Brockovich
. On the other hand, I easily moved on from Diane when she told me she thought she was getting spider veins on her legs. I tended bar in a few other restaurants, moved to Los Angeles and worked in a few more restaurants, it sort of even out. But still, whenever I go to see a Julia Roberts’ film, that vein glares at me -- taunting me, mocking me, pulsating, pulsating, blood moving through it… ahhh!

Richard Harris, the Great Hell-raiser

O
ne of the most entertaining guests that I’ve ever waited on was the great actor, Richard Harris -- and if you were going to wait on Richard Harris, it was best to have the attitude of him being “great” or he was going to eat you alive.

At the Sunset Marquis I worked with a French man, named Luc. One day I showed up for work and Luc asked me to bring tea to a guest. I found this kind of strange because Luc never let you have his tips -- he didn’t share, split or trade tips… except it seemed, for this once.

I prepared the tea and took it to the villa number on the check. I knocked and gave my
“
It’s your butler” greeting and the door swung open. There was English Bob, from
The Unforgiven
, unshaven, hair all over the place, wearing a stained night-gown (it was about three in the afternoon) with two, yapping, little dogs, circling his feet. I entered the suite with his tea and said, “I’m your butler, Bill.” Harris’ reply was only, “Where’s the frog?” Taking a chance on the question, I said, “He had something else to do.” “Good,” Harris replied, as I started setting up his tea.

I got along well with Harris - unlike Luc, who couldn’t stand him (I think it was that French/British love/hate thing). Working for Stella Adler, to pay my way through acting school may have also helped. Harris, like Stella didn’t care, nor wanted to hear about anything other than what was important to them. They didn’t want to hear how come you couldn’t get the water for their tea hot enough or why the car was late. They wanted it and they wanted it now. A good server, realizing this, then becomes their friend by re-enforcing the fact that you were going to get it, rather than taking their time up explaining why it wasn’t there. This is also the reason I think both people were so successful, there was no other choice than what they wanted, good or bad, they went with what they believed in and never looked back.

Walking into Richard Harris’ life was like waiting tables in a tornado. There was always something happening. He was either on the phone, yelling and laughing or he had a guest that he was wildly entertaining. You never walked into his suite and he was just watching television or reading. There was always some problem, some heartbreaking news or some crazy thing going on. Also, his two little yelping dogs added to the confusion. The dogs barked continuously, trailing after Harris as he paced the living room, yelling into the telephone, “I won’t work with that wanker again!” I would enter, calmly set up his lunch, retrieve any old trays or dishes, let him sign the check and leave. “The man is insane!!!” I would hear him yell into the phone, on my way out the door -- I would be surprised if he ever realized I was in the room with him.

As chaotic as he was, Richard Harris was very entertaining. He’s one of those people who could tell a story like no other. He would always have something to talk about while I was setting up his dinner or lunch and they were always a lot of fun to hear. One night, while at home watching David Letterman, Peter O’Toole was Dave’s guest. You could tell that Dave loved having either O’Toole or Harris on because of their stories, most of the time about each other.

O’Toole tells this story about he and Harris, it went something like this; “We were going to a party with a lot of pretty girls. We hail a cabman and he takes us to the house where the party is at. It’s on the top floor of this building, something like three stories high. Harris and I get out of the car and go to the front door. We can hear the party from above because all of the windows were open. We ring the doorbell and no one answers -- so we ring it again. Still no one answers. I tell my friend, Mr. Harris, that I will climb up the drain pipe on the side of the building, drop into the flat and open the door for him. I shimmy up the drain pipe and climb into the room but Harris decides to follow me. While Harris is climbing up the pipe it suddenly breaks away from the building and Mr. Harris is left hanging until the police arrive to get him down.” Dave loves the story and O’Toole obviously loves telling it.

The next day at work, I bring Mr. Harris his tea and just for something to say I announce, “I saw your friend, Peter O’Toole, on Letterman last night.” Harris drops what he was doing and stands, yelling “Peter O’Toole is a LIAR!!!” “Oops” I’m thinking, “What have I done?” Mr. Harris runs over to me, livid. I’m still standing, with his tea on the tray, on my shoulder. “Mr. O’Toole would not know the truth if bit him on his arse!” Harris exclaimed. I’m so regretting bringing this subject up, I was actually hoping that he wouldn’t hit me. “I’ll tell you what happened that night -- not the cheap fabrication of O’Toole’s imagination.”

I started setting up the tea, hoping that I wouldn’t end up being scolded with it. “Mr. O’Toole lies! There were not a lot of pretty girls in that flat -- there wasn’t even a party. There was one very beautiful girl and she was to see me. But while I was paying the cabdriver, Mr. O’Toole jumped out of the car and climbed the water pipe. When I climbed it to follow him into the flat, he shut the window and called the police on me. He is a shameful liar.” Having made his point, Richard Harris sat down and I poured him a cup of tea. When I left him, Harris was still steaming “Liar, that’s what Mr. O’Toole is… he’s a liar.” It was a really good story and I enjoyed it as soon as I realized that he wasn’t going to physically attack me.

On one of Richard Harris’ stays at the Marquis, a terrible thing happened. One of his dogs got loose, slipped under the hotel’s fence and ran away. Mr. Harris was inconsolable -- of course, I may have made it worse when he asked me what happened when the bunnies got under the fence (the hotel had a herd of them. They started with two small rabbits, but I guess they never heard the “breed like rabbits” simile. It’s true -- they did and now there is a herd)? Not knowing where he was going with it, I answered, “They usually run into the street and get hit by a car.” This sent Harris into a deeper state of panic. “We’ve got hundreds of them,” I said, trying to console him about the rabbits.

The hotel put together a group of employees to go and search for Harris’ dog. The Sunset Marquis bellmen also put up flyers in the neighborhood offering a reward for whomever found the dog (and some guests, even Gene Hackman, who was staying with us since he was nominated for an Oscar and was going to ceremony for his role in
The Unforgiven
, with Harris, was also out in the bushes looking for the dog).

I went downstairs to pick up some things from the front desk when one of the hotel’s neighbors entered the foyer with the lost dog. I went to the neighbor and told him to stay there, I would get Mr. Harris. When I knocked at his door and entered his villa, Harris was sitting on the couch, petting the other dog, affectionately. I told him my good news; that his dog was down in the lobby. Harris jumped up and gave me a joyful embrace. Like a flash, he ran out the backdoor of the villa and raced down the hill to the hotel -- his stained night shirt billowing in the breeze. I went downstairs to the hotel lobby later and Mr. Harris was still talking to the neighbors, happily holding his lost dog. He had bought drinks for the dog’s finders (I had heard that Harris was on the wagon but there was always an open bottle of white wine in the suite) while he recounted loving stories of his travels with both dogs.

I don’t know for sure if the hotel or Harris ever paid the reward for finding the dog but I heard that they didn’t because the hotel thought Harris was going to pay when they made the fliers and Harris thought that hotel should pay since they let his dog escape. Who knows, it’s just bunnies under the fence to me.

Harris was amusing, one of those great Irish story-tellers you hear about. One time I served a Sunday dinner to his three sons and an ex-wife. While I set up the table and served the meal, Harris was telling the story of trying to get in through U.S. customs with the two dogs. It was a funny story but the way he told it was the best part. He acted out the roles of the customs agent, the agent’s supervisor and even some of the people around him, as he tried to convince the agents that the dogs were not filled with drugs. He held his family in rapt attention and I stayed after I finished serving to hear the end.

One of the last times that I waited on Mr. Harris, he was eating out by the pool with a friend. I came over and took their order. While I was setting up the table for lunch, Harris asked, “Bill, who is staying here, beside myself, that is important?” Without missing a beat, I said “Mr. Harris, when you’re staying here there is no one else more important.” Harris turned to his friend and said, “I told you he was good -- he’s very good.”