Everyone has a story about “that time” they met someone famous. My mom used to love telling about the time we were visiting my grandfather in Culver City and went out for ice cream (the closest thing to a vice my father partook of). As a small boy, I was laser focused on my flavor choice; mint chocolate chip was my go-to, but I liked to mix it up now and then with a butter pecan or a rocky road. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, the adults in line were abuzz with something approaching excitement, and this was focused, like an invisible energy field, on the man standing in front of my mother.
As I’ve said, I was probably only 4 or 5 at the time and quite unaware of the man or the excitement. I had excitement of my own to deal with. I mean, ice cream… c’mon! I may have picked up my fondness for its frozen dairy deliciousness from my dad. So what happened next didn’t even register with me, but my mom told the story for years to come.
The man in line with us, patiently waiting his turn to give his ice cream order, was Jerry Lewis. According to my mom (I should point out that I have no recollection of the ensuing conversation but that I recall it from my mom telling the story, over and over), Mr. Lewis turned around and said to her, “do you know what you’re getting?” And when my mom said no, he said, “try the tutti frutti, it’s good here.”
I worked “in the industry,” which is what you say when you’re cool, in Los Angeles, and have something to do with tv or film, as if LA had no other industries (come to think of it, I don’t think it does!). But I should say that my connection to it, for most of my career, was tangential: I invented and then maintained computer software used to manage studio scheduling, equipment inventories, payroll, and basic accounting functions up to but not including the general ledger (so payables and receivables). From there I moved on to a broader role in IT infrastructure, and from that I was promoted to vice president (sounds impressive, but vice presidents were a dime a dozen at our studio) with responsibility for facilities, which included some operations responsibilities in my portfolio.
Part of those operational responsibilities included managing the “gophers” – young men (and they were all men) trying to break into the business, join the union (IATSE), and get an apprenticeship to become an editor or mixer. Until that time, they were employed to move heavy things around, get lunch for the crew on Stage 3 because they were behind schedule with a broadcast date 48 hours away, or serve as drivers, and I was their wrangler who assigned them their tasks; in the grand scheme, it wasn’t glamorous work, but someone’s got to do it!
It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. Ryan, a handsome 18 year-old whose father was a producer on one of the shows we were mixing (which accounts for how he got the job), was moving a Sony ¾” tape deck (from where to where I don’t remember).
Rather than rolling this heavy piece of equipment on a cart (which was protocol) he chose to carry it, through the public lobby (also against protocol – “never let anyone see how we make the magic”).
He dropped the Sony VO-9600 deck on his foot, in the lobby, bits of it breaking off and coming to rest around him in what can only be described as a debris field. He sat down in the midst of it, took off his shoe, and began rubbing his foot with a pained expression on his face. The receptionist, who was a completely braindead woman hired solely for the size of her breasts (“Hollywood” was, in those pre-Weinstein-revelations days, quite misogynistic and rapey), phoned me in my office and told me Ryan was on the floor in the lobby. I rushed down.
When he saw me, he immediately put his shoe on, jumped up, and said something like ‘don’t worry, I’ll get this cleaned up.’ It seemed obvious from the broken bits of tape deck strewn about that he had dropped it, so I asked if he was hurt and about his foot specifically, and he said he was fine.
To which I replied, “even still Ryan, you need to be checked out by occupational health, there’s a clinic the union uses over on Hollywood Way by the airport, I’ll get Jeremy to drive you.” No no no, he protested, saying repeatedly, “I’m fine.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Forgetting for a moment I was in the lobby, and thinking the person pestering me was another employee, I did a kindof half turn, and with a scowl on my face while staring at the ground just to the right of this person, I said, obviously annoyed and in a tone that conveyed ‘don’t interrupt me’, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Ryan was still insisting that he didn’t need to go to occupational health. His insistence had less to do with if he was in pain or injured and everything to do with what he knew would happen. You see, when I sent someone to OH, invariably they’d end up on “restricted duty;” if they were injured on the job, the law, and more importantly the union, was on their side: you could not lay them off, you had to find something else non-physical for them to do, at their full pay rate, until “cleared” by occupational health. Ryan knew that I put my injured ducklings on the front desk answering the phone; he also knew that when his peers had been put on restricted duty in the past after a workplace injury all the other employees would taunt them by inferring they were doing girls’ work and growing boobs (as I said, it was a very misogynistic, sexist, and even homophobic environment). So his mind was made up: even if he had severed his foot, there was no way he was risking getting stuck on restricted duty answering phones.
I explained that the trip to occupational health was not optional, that I had no discretion here, that he must go and that I must have a report from a doctor showing (1) he was seen, and (2) he was either cleared or to be placed on “restricted duty.” He started jumping up and down like he was on a pogo stick and making exaggerated gestures I could only describe as kung fu moves while repeating ‘I’m fine’ and throwing in an occasional ‘never felt better’ now and then.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Again, I did a kindof half turn, and with a scowl on my face while staring at the ground just to the right of this person, I said, not hiding my growing frustration, “I told you I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I pleaded with Ryan. “Look, just go and get checked out, if you’re fine the doctor will say that in writing, and I can put that in your file in HR and we’ll forget about this whole mess.” He responded that no one ever comes back from a trip to OH ‘fine,’ they always find something wrong. He was adamant. But so was I. I’d like to say it was because I was genuinely concerned about his well-being, but the truth of the matter is HR had been riding my ass so much about following health and safety procedures I was about ready to install handlebars and seatbelts on my ass for their safety while riding me!
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, with a force this time that indicated they, too, were growing frustrated. I spun around as my blood began to boil; I shouted “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?” while staring angrily at the person straight in the face.
It was Cher.
She said, “I’m here for an ADR session, which way is Stage 1?” I pointed to my left, then slinked off back to my office and buried my face in my hands. Cher did her looping. Ryan was cleared by OH and brought me a doctor’s report saying so; I think he dropped a sarcastic “see?” as he handed it to me. As for me, well I just sat in my office in total silence for the rest of the afternoon thinking ‘I just yelled at Cher.’
At 5, I headed to the Bullet in North Hollywood for my daily “after work” cocktail. Peter, a child welfare worker, was already there, so I took up a spot on the smoking patio at his table and lit my cigarette. We were soon joined by Peter’s partner Larry, a travel agent, Postman Tom, Barber Tom (whom we called Trixie to avoid confusing our Toms), and Rod (who actually made quite a good living buying crap at yard sales, refurbishing it, marking it up, and then selling it).
We were all smokers, except for Larry and Rod who put up with us because it meant they got to sit at the cool kids table. Through the billowing haze of second hand smoke, everyone took turns telling those assembled at our table about how their day was. Postman Tom got chased by a dog on his route and had to climb over a fence. Larry had a last minute cancellation that was going to cost him a big commission he was counting on to pay some bills. Rod made a 500% markup on a brass spittoon because he told the buyer it was from an old west ghost town in Arizona when it was actually from a garage sale in Burbank.
Then it was my turn. I told my story. Other bar patrons on the smoking patio began to gather around our table. You have to understand the place Cher holds in gay culture. Yah, you got your Streisand fans, your Bette Midler fans, even your Elizabeth Taylor fans. And of course Judy Garland, where the euphemism “friend of Dorothy” to describe gay men comes from.
But Cher, Cher is at a whole different level.
I myself have seen her in concert more times than I can count, more than any other artist or band I have seen. As a boy, I never missed The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour on CBS and then, after their divorce, the reboot – The Sonny & Cher Show. In every drag show in every gay bar you are guaranteed that at least one performer will “do Cher.” Many female stars have a big gay following, like Doris Roberts (Marie from Everybody Loves Raymond) or Lady Gaga, but they are all courtiers in the court of Cher. Amongst gay royalty, she reigns as queen.
As I finished my story, there was silence. It was a mixture of awe, of reverence, and of anger at my impertinence. Some guys walked out onto the smoking patio, their full drinks indicating they were new arrivals. They noticed the gathered crowd and walked over, one saying, “what’s going on?” There was silence.
Then, someone spoke.
“This man was touched by the hand of god today.”