The nervous little man with the curly hair leaned over to urge his
young daughter toward the movie theater door. He looked familiar, like an uncle
out of context or an old school chum from high school, aged almost beyond
recognition. When I realized who it was, the smile on my face probably
telegraphed a warning to him that I might say something to interrupt his
clearly cherished daddy-daughter time. He smiled reluctantly, desperately, as
if to plead, “Please, not now. We’re good, right?” And then Billy Crystal
continued toward the theater doors on a night out in Westwood Village in
California, ushering his little girl ahead of him.
Life in Brentwood was surreal at best. Movie star sightings
were less frequent than one might expect, but they were invariably a jolting
reminder that our culture rewards an elite few with riches and status the rest
of us can hardly imagine. These ordinary people experience a lopsided familiarity
with millions of television viewers who sometimes expect the relationship to be
reciprocal.
It seemed wherever we went in our adopted neighborhood in
1986, the quest for stardom was tangible, either in conversation with new
friends who landed a part in a daytime soap, or as evidenced by 8x10 glossies
hanging just about everywhere. Even our apartment manager’s office was lined
with photos of her handsome, bald, aspiring actor husband. Perhaps he thought
that the world needed another Yul Brynner. Unfortunately for him, Telly Savalas
and Patrick Stewart came along with the same idea. Who loves ya, baby?
An essence of star-seeking scrutiny hung in the air like a
bad stench. Seated near a window at a restaurant in Santa Monica, I recall being
repeatedly stared at by passersby on the sidewalk outside. Maybe I was
“somebody.” It was unnerving, and as a Midwesterner unused to this Californian
curiosity, I found it completely annoying. I instantly
assumed there was dressing on my
face, splashed by a frazzled Meredith Baxter-Birney, who cut in line ahead of me at the salad bar with barely an “Excuse Me” as she returned to scoop up a
forgotten item for one of her twins.
The phenomenon struck closer to home as well, only a half
block from our back door. We found we could walk to Baskin-Robbins if we ducked
behind the parking structure that shielded us from Barrington Court. We passed
this routinely on our evening walks past the house where O.J. Simpson later
went on a murderous rampage. Just your usual neighborly goings-on, California
style.
The consistently gorgeous weather sustained a constant
craving for ice cream during the endless summer of 1986. A short line led
almost to the door of the 31 Flavors. Near the tubs of ice cream stood a very
tanned man with a little square head. I could almost imagine him saying,
“…sometimes I just go berserk!” while his cup of rocky road was scooped from
the freezer case. Tom Laughlin had put on some weight since his success in 1971
with Billy Jack.
The early days of the frozen yogurt craze attracted a more
health conscious crowd. We were no
different, and the perpetually nice weather resulted in a more active
lifestyle, but no less desire for sweet treats. We sat curbside in our car one
evening enjoying a cup of TCBY’s finest when a guttural-voiced fellow sauntered
by.
“Who does this guy think he is, Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I
commented, barely looking up from my Dutch chocolate. It was. The Terminator passed
by without incident, though if we had it to do over again, I would have
shouted, “I’ll be back” as we drove away. I bet he never heard that. The thing
is, we left and we never went back. Southern California was too much for our Midwestern
sensibilities. Money makes you stupid. Fame drives you crazy. Los Angeles has
lots of both.