by Erik Tarloff
Don Barlow (director)
Kendell Fowler (actress)
Robert Bluestone (actor)
David Bayer (acquaintance)
Eppy Bronstein (widow of agent)
Gil Fraser (roommate)
Irma Gold (agent)
Matthew Devon (actor)
Gerhard Fuchs (musician)
James Sterling (acting teacher)
Sir Trevor Bliss (director)
Mike Shore (stand-in)
Kathy Brennan (first president, Chance Hardwick Fan Club)
Briel Charpentier (girlfriend)
Hector Mennen (acquaintance)
Dennis O’Neill (detective, LAPD Vice Squad, Retired)
David Osborne (director)
Buddy Moore (actor)
Alison McAllister (actress)
Benny Ludlow (comedian)
Charles Cox (director)
Dolores Murray (actress)
Bruce Powers (actor)
Mark Cernovic (producer)
Jerome Goldhagen, MD (psychiatrist)
Martha Davis (reporter, Variety)
Heather Brooke (neighbor)
Bernice Franklin (secretary)
Ward Paulsen (Memorial Park groundskeeper)
The Early Years
Mary Bennett (aunt)
He was the cutest baby you ever saw. Not that all babies aren’t cute, of course. Don’t you think? Just the sweetest little things. But still, I truly believe if my sister had wanted it and if we lived where those kinda things happen, Chance could’ve been a professional baby model, like that darling drawing on the Gerber’s jar. That’s how adorable he was. Everybody said so. A little angel. Strangers would stop us on the street to coo.
[Starts to cry] Sorry…It’s been so many years, I ought to be used to it by now, but when I start to think about him…I mostly try not to, you know, but you’re here, you’re asking about him, and…it was such a tragedy…such a loss…I loved that boy like he was my own child. Give me a second, okay?
[Deep breath] Okay, I’m gonna start again. Sorry. Please forgive a silly old lady.
Now let me say this about his name. I know some people believe it was those Hollywood types, those movie moguls, who gave him the name “Chance,” that Chance was some kind of actor name, like, I don’t know, “Rock” or “Tab.” Well, that just ain’t true. Now, it’s a fact he was christened Wendell, that much is so, but I don’t recollect anyone ever calling him that, except maybe me once or twice when he was being really naughty, giving me some sass, and maybe a couple of teachers in grade school at the beginning of the school year when they didn’t know any better, just reading off the roll call. But from the start, well…you can’t talk to a baby and use the name Wendell, can you? No way a name like that’s gonna fit a darling little bundle of sweetness.
See, Wendell was his dad’s name and Wendell Sr. insisted his son be a Jr. Typical. He was a real conceited person, Wendell Sr. was. Everything had to be about him. So naturally his son had to have his name. He basically forced the name on him—on all of us, come to that. Sally and I didn’t like it. Sally was my little sister, Chance’s mom. We argued with ol’ Wendell, but he was kind of bullheaded, and also kind of a bully, and he put his foot down and that was that. He wasn’t the kind of fella who’d brook any insubordination, especially not from women folk. And so Chance was christened Wendell Jr., it was a done deal, it’s right there on the birth certificate. And wouldn’t you know it, soon after that his dad just upped and skedaddled. Insisted on a rule change and right away quit the game. So long, Wendell, it’s been good to know you. Don’t let the door hit your fanny on the way out.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Although I’m not sure Sally saw it exactly that way. Not at the time, anyhow. I told her so, lotsa times, but she always acted like she didn’t wanna hear it. Even got a little snippy with me, something she didn’t usually do. “You just stop that talk, Mary. No one asked you for your two cents.” I guess I can understand why. She was still a young gal, Big Wendell kind of swept her off her feet when she was fresh out of high school, and besides, everyone knows love makes you stupid. And listen, Sally, God rest her soul, always was a wild one, she didn’t consider consequences when she wanted something. Left it to the rest of us to pick up the pieces. And by the rest of us, I guess I mean me, her big sister. And Big Wendell was something she thought she wanted. At least at first. Maybe always. I’m not sure she ever got over him, although the good Lord knows she tried.
He left so soon after Chance came along I thought we maybe ought to just rechristen Chance as something else. Mike or Tom or anything normal. But Sally couldn’t be bothered. That was Sally for you. She’d go to a lot of trouble to avoid a little bit of trouble.
So like I was saying, little Wendell was always so active and lively and mischievous, so full of ginger and energy and zest, seemed so heedless of danger, always going right up to the edge of things, that we took to calling him Chance. From early on. From the time he could move on his own, darn near. He was always taking chances, didn’t even seem to know they were chances. So that was no Hollywood name. The boy was always in a dither, grabbing at electric cords, grabbing at pots and pans, climbing up rickety structures, so that’s why he was called Chance. And the name stuck. He was always Chance. From the get-go.
Matter of fact, he told me once that those Hollywood boys wanted him to change it. Probably to Rock or Tab. But he wouldn’t do it. He’d got to liking the name Chance. Insisted on keeping it.
Caitlin Kelly (elementary school classmate)
Sure, I remember Chance. I’d’ve remembered him anyhow, I’m blessed with that kind of recall. But once, you know, he became famous, everybody started talking about how we all went to school with him and how amazing it was that we’d grown up with someone the whole world knew about. It became a badge of distinction. As a rule, famous people don’t come from these parts. I can’t think of a single one besides Chance Hardwick. But like I say, I would’ve remembered him anyhow.
Partly because he was the cutest boy in our class. That likely wouldn’t have registered in the early grades, but by the fifth or sixth, all us girls were starting to look at boys in that different way, we were all beginning to find boys, you know, attractive. We used the word “cute” back then, it was safer than “attractive,” I guess, or maybe being attracted to somebody was still too new an idea for us to get our heads around. I mean, our bodies were sending us messages we weren’t ready to deal with yet.
But Chance was real cute. Quiet, though. Shy. I don’t think he knew how cute he was, or maybe knowing it just made him uncomfortable. Some guys are like that. Being handsome makes it harder to be invisible. He didn’t speak up much in class, either. I don’t reckon he was an especially good student or anything. Seems now like we all underestimated him. But in fact, I remember once, I think this was in the sixth grade before we all went on to junior high, they gave us some sort of IQ test or achievement test or something of that nature, and apparently Chance did better than anyone else in class, like way off the charts, and everybody who knew him was shocked. The principal, our teachers, all us kids. Because he never made much of an impression that way at all.
When the results came back, we had some sort of assembly, and our sixth grade teacher, Miss Thayer, said, “Chance Hardwick! Where have you been hiding all these years?” And we all laughed. Everybody but Chance. He just blushed this deep, deep red. He was so embarrassed. I honestly think he would’ve deliberately done badly on the test if he’d known he was gonna get all that attention.
It’s funny he became a movie star, huh? Someone in the public eye, someone everybody stared at. You don’t imagine a really shy kid’s gonna be famous, unless he’s maybe a scientist or a computer inventor or Stephen King or something. Doing something you do in private. In a way, even though he was so cute, he was like the last person yo
u’d expect.
Anne Thayer (teacher)
Oh yes, Chance was deep. We used to give the kids this standardized achievement test in the sixth grade—the TBS, it’s called. It was supposed to measure a student’s mastery of the basics, and Chance tested through the roof. It wasn’t an IQ test, strictly speaking, but still, his scores were so amazing you’d have to say he was genius level. A lot of people were surprised at how well he did. I wasn’t. See, I’d graded his math tests, I’d seen his little essays and things. We didn’t assign a lot of writing back then, though we did try to get the kids proficient at verbal expression before they went on to junior high. And not only could Chance write beautifully, he expressed very profound thoughts. I won’t say I knew he would go far, because you never can be sure about that kind of thing, but I definitely was aware he was special.
Mary Bennett
When Sally married Steve—that was her second husband, Steve Goren—things changed a lot. In a way, it was good she met Steve, ’cause she’d had a couple of wild years. I’m not going to tell you about them, you’ll just have to take my word for it. That’s how wild they were. I’m not even going to tell you how she met Steve. Some things decent folk don’t talk about.
I never much liked Steve myself, and I didn’t like what happened after at all, but I can’t deny he was good for Sally in some ways. I don’t know she ever really loved Steve, not like how she felt about Wendell anyways, but he was a pretty good dancer, he could do man-type things like change the tire if you had a flat or fix the plumbing, and he turned out to be steady in ways I wouldn’t have guessed. I mean, given the way they met and all, you might have expected he’d be another good-for-nothing, like Wendell. That was Sally’s type, anyway, the good-for-nothings. She liked the bad boys. Probably thought Steve was a bad boy, probably was disappointed to learn he was a solid, upstanding citizen. But by then it was too late. She was already pregnant with Dot and she wasn’t going to let herself be single again. Not without a struggle, anyway.
Ned Fitzgerald (elementary school classmate)
Chance and I had a fistfight in the fifth grade, one afternoon after school. I don’t remember exactly what it was about. We weren’t friends, we weren’t enemies, we weren’t much of anything, even though we’d known each other since we were six. He was just part of the ecosystem for me, is how I remember it, and I can’t imagine I was more than that for him. So it’s hard for me to even guess what could have set us off.
But if I’m being honest, I’d have to surmise it was my doing much more than his. Chance was a quiet guy, a shy guy. He kept to himself, so I can’t really picture him initiating hostilities. It wouldn’t just have been out of character, it’s almost literally unimaginable. I must have started picking on him. Not for any reason, just to do it. I was a shitty kid back then, to be completely honest with you. A bully. A crappy home life can do that to you. I’m not at all like that now, and it still gives me a twinge to recall some of my behavior, but back then…I mean, I was a good athlete, I was big for my age, I was kind of an alpha dog. Even had my own posse, a group of guys who hung out with me, and I was more or less the ringleader of whatever we got up to.
Just considering the possibilities now, Chance’s being good-looking might have been enough to set me off. Plain old jealous resentment, even at age ten. Or his being so shy and quiet. That can be like a red flag in front of a bull to some people, especially if they imagine the shy and quiet kid is observing and judging them. You want a reaction, you want a hint of what they’re thinking. You’re afraid they’re registering more than you want them to see. And I had plenty of issues of my own, of course. My home life was…well, this is about Chance Hardwick, not about me, but I’m just trying to indicate I was more troubled than I would have admitted to anyone. Took me years to understand myself.
But the bottom line is, it’s hard to say what’s going to enrage a kid with unresolved anger issues when the hormones are starting to roil. Maybe—and this is the worst possibility, but I’m trying to level with you—maybe he struck me as so vulnerable, such an easy, inviting target, I just couldn’t resist. Throw my weight around, make my dominance that much clearer. And I probably intuitively thought, given his vulnerability, and the unlikelihood of his being able to fight back, that not only would he be an easy mark but the other kids would side with me. That’s how kids are…no, it’s how we primates are…we side with the aggressor more often than not, regardless of who’s in the right. It isn’t a pretty picture. We aren’t a pretty species. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.
Anyway, I think I started goading him in some way. Maybe I called him “faggot,” although I wouldn’t have even known what that meant. But that wouldn’t have stopped me. I would have had some instinct the accusation would draw blood one way or another. Or maybe I said something about his mom. She had a bit of a reputation in town, and news of it might have reached my ears. Again, without my knowing what it even meant, or what “having a reputation” is, but I might have had an instinct it was a profitable wound to probe. And, you know, I could tell it had something to do with sex, and at that age sex has a unique sort of power, since you don’t really know anything about it but you can already feel its stirrings. Which are, let’s face it, unruly, both scary and enticing at the same time. And clearly taboo. In any case, I swear I can’t recall now what got us fighting.
But I can picture it. By which I mean, I can still see the setting in my mind’s eye. We were in this empty undeveloped lot a block or two from the school, just dirt and weeds, and a whole bunch of kids had followed us there to watch the show. Because that’s what Homo sapiens are like. It’s why boxing is popular, and even pro football. The violence. If they brought back gladiatorial games, you can bet they’d be the most popular thing going. So the other kids formed a circle around us, and as I indicated, I believe they were rooting for me to give him a really sound thrashing. They would have made up a reason to explain why it was justified, even though there was absolutely no justification. “He had it coming,” that sort of bullshit. “He had it coming because yadda yadda yadda.” But it wasn’t really justice they were after, it was spectacle.
So we were in the center of this throng, in the middle of this overgrown vacant lot, and we were kind of circling each other, scoping each other out. I was mainly trying to figure out where to start on him. I figured I could call the shots. And then, suddenly, without any warning, Chance came at me. Just flew right at me. Amazingly fast. And the point is, contrary to my expectations, I got my ass handed to me. Chance was a slight kid, a skinny kid as I’ve indicated, and like I said, at least in those days a recessive personality. Completely unthreatening in the aspect he presented. I figured that after I threw the first punch he’d roll himself up into a little ball and cower on the ground while I rained blows down on him and everybody jeered.
Well, that isn’t how it worked.
He was a fricking firecracker. Fast, fierce, fearless. Wiry, with that kind of tensile strength that isn’t necessarily visible to the naked eye. And full of wrath…there was a lot of anger hidden in the guy, a lot of rage roiling around inside him. I could feel it all of a sudden. He seemed so placid normally, but you just can’t ever tell what’s going on with those quiet types. His rage, once he let it out, it was like coiled fire, there was a…an exultant quality to the way he went at me. Hit me in the face before I knew what was happening, then in the stomach, really hard, knocking the wind out of me, then, when I doubled over, gasping for breath, another blow to the face. After that it was effectively over. I went down. I was on my knees, and I made a move to get up—mostly because I still couldn’t believe what was happening—and he hit me in the face again, and that was totally that. I wasn’t unconscious, but I couldn’t make my body do what I told it to do. Not that I was in any mood to get up anyway.
And the crowd cheered him—their loyalties had turned on a dime, it’s the way of the world—and he immediately strode off wi
thout uttering a syllable. No victory dance, no snarling insults, no gloating. Just vamoose. I saw a couple of kids clap him on the back as he left, but he sort of shrugged them off. And from my rather special vantage point I could see he was crying. Silently. I’m not sure how many others noticed, because he just quick-stepped out of there. And I stayed down for a while, partly because I was hurting but mostly because I was too humiliated to get up and face everybody.
I was pretty banged up. When I got home, my parents wanted me to go the hospital, but I refused. I just wanted to hide out in my room. And then my dad forced me to go to school the next day. He was that kind of guy. I think it was punishment for losing the fight. He thought losers lose because they deserve to lose. Of course, I didn’t want to show my face in school. In addition to what everybody would have heard about my humiliating defeat, I had a black eye and what we used to call “a fat lip.” I was a walking PSA against bullying. But I had to face the music, and in the event it was just about as bad as I imagined it would be. There was a lot of mockery. My alpha dog status had evidently evanesced over night.
Mary Bennett
Chance and Steve never got along. I don’t know how hard either of them tried, maybe not very, but if they did, it just never took. When Sally urged Chance to call Steve “Dad,” he said, “No way, Mom. Not gonna happen.” And when Steve suggested Chance take his last name, become a Goren, the boy just laughed in his face and said something about hell freezing over, pardon my French. And the good Lord knows it wasn’t out of loyalty to old Wendell, who he never really knew. It was about Steve’s own self.
Now, I say it was about Steve, but it could be Chance wasn’t going to cotton to anyone his mom married no matter what. He had her all to himself—to the extent anyone had Sally—and now he had to share her. A boy’s going to resent that intrusion. But there was also something about Steve in particular, he really rubbed Chance the wrong way. He was loud, he was in-your-face, he told bad jokes, he crowded you. It was like he had a personality especially designed to drive Chance bananas.