Stay Interesting

by Jonathan Goldsmith

  “Jono?” he said. And then he started laughing. I smiled sheepishly, still panicking. He told me to put the car in neutral, and he and the other officer got back into their cruiser and pushed me to the exit. I coasted down Barham and found my way to the safety of Floyd Terrace, glad to be home at last.

  Every once in a while, I kick myself. Never let a door shut permanently behind you. I could have had that threesome.

  There’s One Thing That Never Gets Old . . .

  The Psychologist

  I saw her in the gym every day. She was a psychologist, and we had a game we would play. At night, I would go over to her place and we’d switch roles. To unwind, Jane would sit in the chair where all her patients usually were, holding a little bell. I would sit across from her in her chair—the doctor’s chair. (My mother always wanted me to be a doctor.) Jane would demonstrate the patient’s symptoms. She would play the patient and I would play the doctor doing a clinical work-up on her. Every time I made a mistake, she’d ring the little bell.

  “No, that’s wrong,” she’d say, pouring me another Wild Turkey in a lovely crystal snifter. Right or wrong, it always ended the same way: on the rug, where we’d make passionate love.

  The Painter’s Wife

  I have no idea what her name was. I never even asked. I saw her in a traffic jam and ten minutes later we were in the back of my ever-present truck, just ravishing each other. I never saw her again and realized what I had been doing was a cover, and I needed to stop.

  Rosie

  But then there was Rosie. I met her on the beach. It was after I realized my pursuits were shallow, unproductive, not lasting, and preventing me from having the committed, intimate relationship I really craved but probably was afraid of. I had made a promise to myself that I was going to stop my fatuous chases and turn over a new leaf. Then I saw Rosie, this beautiful redhead, as we both went out for a swim. She gave me a coy, Ipana toothpaste smile as we emerged from the waves.

  But remember: New leaf. Turning over. And she had two little ones with her. I went back to my mat and took a nap on the sand. There I was, at Malibu Beach, exercising uncharacteristic control. I was proud of myself.

  But upon awakening, I realized Miss Ipana had moved closer as I slept. She was about fifteen feet away and was calling to me, holding up a magazine.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked.

  I crawled through the hot sand to her blanket, where she handed me a copy of Redbook magazine, open to an article about husbands and premature ejaculation. My new lifestyle immediately went out the window. She had vivid freckles and pendulous breasts. So much for the new leaf.

  “You know about this?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s a common sadness. From what I understand. Which I, of course, personally don’t.”

  “I don’t know what I am going to do,” she said, and confessed her problem, which was hurting her marriage. Her husband was a hedge fund manager and retired athlete.

  “My Teddy is an Adonis,” she said. “He’s great in the sack. But I don’t have enough sex and I’m really horny.”

  “Oh, Rosie, that’s awful,” I said. That familiar twinge in my back was occurring again. I looked into her limpid brown eyes. “Rosie, you can remedy that.”

  “How, Johnny?”

  “Well, Rosie,” I said, looking into her beautiful brown eyes with sympathetic concern, “you should have an affair.”

  She’d already considered it, she told me, but thought it would be too complicated. Besides, her husband had a violent temper. Perfect.

  “Besides, I know all of Teddy’s friends,” she said.

  Desperate to help this poor, neglected woman, I deeply considered the situation for about three seconds. Then, I offered her a solution.

  “Well, Rosie, you don’t know me,” I said, offering myself selflessly.

  “I don’t.” She smiled.

  The little pain in my back was getting worse.

  “Rosie, let’s go in the ocean,” I said seriously.

  “What?”

  “Let’s. Go. In. The. Ocean.”

  She blushed.

  “Oh, I get ya,” she said. She was a really smart girl.

  She sent her little ones away to get ice cream while I feigned looking for sand crabs on all fours while crawling into the water to conceal myself and my growing ardor. In the waves, I was covered, and she met me there in the foamy Pacific. We held each other in the tide like two swimmers frolicking in the surf. It wasn’t easy. I lost traction, as the ocean was a bit rough, but I gave it my best. Big breath, push up from the bottom, thrust, big breath, push up from the bottom, thrust. Finally, the grand finale. And just in time, as the water was getting deeper. I looked at her.

  “Are you crying?” I said.

  “No,” she said, laughing and pointing at the beach. Hundreds of onlookers were gathered at the shoreline, watching us as we were dragged out to sea. At the time, I didn’t know what a riptide was. Then two lifeguards with orange paddleboards were coming for us. I waved them off.

  “It’s okay, guys, I’ve got her.”

  But they put us in a harness and towed us to shore. We made the Santa Monica paper the next day: UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR HELPS SAVE DROWNING WOMAN. Even then, I couldn’t get a mention.

  It’s important to remember, if you are ever caught in a riptide, don’t swim against it. Swim parallel to the shore until you’re out of it. This is, of course, much easier to do when you are uncoupled.

  I realize now that most of the pain I felt over the years was from those I loved, and fearing the loss of that love, I always left first—prematurely in many cases, and to my own detriment—or never committed at all. I felt the need to protect myself and would never give anyone the power to hurt me again. My dalliances were enjoyable, because going from one inconsequential relationship to another was safe. But when they were over, I was alone, and the cycle began again. Luckily, physically intimate encounters weren’t the only things I had to rely on when times got hard.

  People Are Paying Attention to Whether You’re Paying Attention

  Mouse, how would you like to be Judy’s date tonight at dinner?” Peter Feibleman asked one afternoon. Peter was a gifted writer, and we met at a dinner party hosted by some new friends of mine. He’d written a popular book as well as some great scripts, and after we became friendly he volunteered to introduce me to a few of his producer and director friends in the hope of finding me a new job. He called me Mouse, a term of affection for him, but I don’t know where it came from or how he had gotten on it. At the time, Feibleman was dating Buddy Schwab, the famed Broadway dancer and choreographer, and they were a kind of power couple among the so-called gay mafia that had a grip on theater and musicals.

  Judy was Judy Garland. Yes, that Judy Garland. I loved everything about her. Not only was she beautiful, but there was such tenderness and passion when she sang. Even now, when I hear “Over the Rainbow,” it still touches me deeply. So when Peter asked me to be Judy’s dinner date, I was thrilled.

  Peter and Buddy kept a little bungalow in Boys Town, located in West Hollywood. I came early, not wanting to be late for Ms. Garland. The bungalow was renovated and chic. A beautiful table had been set in her honor, the plates and candles and silverware placed just so.

  And then Judy came in, floating in a long black dress. She sat next to me and spent the rest of the night sharing some of her most personal stories. We connected, enjoyed each other’s company. I felt very close to her, as though we were old friends. She told me how, as a child actress appearing in The Wizard of Oz, she would suffer abuse at the hands of the studio executives, who passed her around like chattel. Later on, she confessed that she and other actors were frequently drugged up. The hours on set were so long, the studios would provide pills to keep them awake. They were so wired, she and Mickey Rooney needed other drugs to go to sleep. And then more drugs to w
ake up again, the cycle continuing. These studio executives she described, the founders of the film business in Hollywood, were all but plantation masters who treated the actors like slaves.

  She enthralled us with her insider’s tales. One of my favorites says a lot about this gracious woman. It was about Mr. Wonderful, another famous actor.

  “I had such a crush on this world-famous lothario,” she told me, relating a tale of woeful disappointment.

  “One day, he invited me to come out to his home,” she said. She had planned all week for the big event, buying a new peignoir, then waiting in suspense after his chauffeur arrived to pick her up and drive her back to his home in the Malibu Colony, the prized beachfront strip home to so many of the stars and Hollywood elite.

  The dining room was set when she arrived, the champagne glasses filled and caviar passed. After dinner, like clockwork, the butler and server disappeared. Her young heart was throbbing. And just like in the scripts for the movies they made, Mr. Wonderful got up from the table, picked her up in his arms, and carried her up the elegant staircase to the master bedroom.

  The view was magnificent. Through the windows, she could see the waves of the Pacific. It was liquid moonlight, a divine setting.

  She watched Mr. Wonderful retreat into the bathroom to prepare for their night of passion. In his absence, alone in the boudoir, she waited, anticipating a night of ecstasy.

  “I got undressed,” she said, “and slipping on my new peignoir and sliding under the bedsheets, I waited for Mr. Wonderful to emerge.

  “I was waiting and waiting, wondering where my Prince Charming had gone.”

  She grew restless. She got out from under the sheets, walked over to the bathroom, and opened the door. Inside, she looked around. It was empty.

  Then she noticed the closet door. She pushed it open, and there he was, bending down on the floor, under the rows of perfectly pressed suits on matching hangers.

  “He was putting shoe trees in his slippers.”

  She left the closet, put all her clothes back on, sprinted downstairs, and begged the chauffeur to take her home. It was a moving story for me. What kind of man carries Judy Garland up the stairs in his arms, has her waiting for him in his bed, and then proceeds to disappear into his closet and put shoe trees inside his slippers? It was always a warning to me. No matter what: Be kind. Be considerate. I always tried to be.

  Between Good Friends, “Call Me Anytime” Means Just That

  Cookie, life is like a bowl of roses. Just watch out for the pricks,” she told me. I had been cast in a two-part episode of Cannon called “The Star,” and they got one of the biggest to play that role: Joan Fontaine.

  I played a rapist and, of course, the killer. Another bad guy. We hit it off immediately. We spent so much time together on set she developed her own nickname for me: “Cookie.”

  And she was Joni.

  They didn’t use stand-ins. I had a knife to her throat and was dragging her from room to room in almost every scene. We had a lot of time in between takes while they set up the shots, and we talked and talked. She had been a companion to George Sanders, an ultimate bon vivant, a gentleman’s gentleman. He was a sophisticate, upscale, and a good actor who sadly committed suicide.

  His note simply read: “Is that all there is?”

  Joni had been left without him but still had many friends. I felt so flattered that she included me and that she shared so many marvelous and intimate stories about old Hollywood. One day during shooting, I made a confession. It was my birthday.

  “You know, if people could see me, holding one of the most beautiful women in the world in my arms, I would be the envy of everybody. Especially since it’s my birthday.”

  “Cookie, is it your birthday?” she purred in my ear.

  “Yes, Joni,” I purred back.

  “Well, happy birthday, Cookie,” she told me, and reached over and gave me a sweet little goose.

  “Thanks, Joni,” I said, thinking it a lovely gesture.

  “Mais certainemant, Cookie,” she said.

  Later that afternoon, I was walking off the Goldwyn lot, dressed casually, to say the least. I had on flip-flops, torn jeans, and a ripped Stanley Kowalski T-shirt. I was heading back to the sailboat I called home when a pea green Rolls-Royce pulled up alongside me. The tinted window went down and that incredible voice came out of the shadows.

  “Cookie, do you like caviar?”

  I’d never had caviar, not even the smallest of tastes.

  “Crazy about it,” I said.

  “Cookie, do you like champagne?”

  “Mais certainement,” I said, mimicking her sophistication.

  “Well, Cookie, why don’t you call the wifey and tell her you’ll be late? Why don’t we go to my digs at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  My God. Could this be happening? Was this gracious woman actually interested in me? She opened the door to her Rolls-Royce, and I could smell the Parisian perfume. I hopped in, and we wound through the jasmine-scented twilight of Beverly Hills. When we arrived, she opened the door to her spacious hotel suite, with huge bouquets of magnificent flowers throughout and, indeed, the finest of French champagnes. For me, it was not only the beginning of a lifelong love affair with caviar but, more important, a friendship with a very special woman. We talked and talked until the champagne disappeared; then we went down to the Polo Lounge to the table reserved for special stars.

  No, Joni wasn’t interested in me. Not physically, anyway. But it didn’t matter. We shared many personal stories and intimate details. No move was made, and I was fine with that. We liked each other, immensely. It was a magnificent night. I felt awfully good.

  “Cookie, do you ever get to New York?” she said.

  “Oh, sure,” I said, which was not exactly the truth.

  Since leaving home, I’d never made an effort to go back. My father would come each winter to escape the snow, as would Uncle Herbie, whenever he could get a free ride on a gambling junket to Vegas.

  “Take my number,” she said. “I’d love to see you again, and please don’t hesitate to call under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Cookie?”

  “Sure, Joni.”

  As it happened, about ten years later, I found myself in New York and in need of a friend. I’d been cast for a part on a stupid soap opera called Days of Our Lives, playing a deprogrammer. They had flown me out from Los Angeles, which made me feel very good. I had endless boring dialogue and got it straight twenty times, but the so-called star kept blowing it. It was New Year’s Eve when it came time for the twenty-first take or so, and it was my turn to blow it.

  They went into overtime and golden time. Guess who got fired? On the spot. Suddenly I was in the familiar position of having no money and no job. I walked around Broadway on the fringe of the huge crowds. It was a cold night and I had no place to go, no place to stay. What was I going to do? What would I tell my father? I was due at his farm the next day.

  Then it occurred to me. I flipped through my little black book and dialed her number. The phone rang twice, three times, and she picked up.

  “Ms. Fontaine,” I said, “you probably don’t remember—”

  “Cookie, darling. Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Joni.”

  “What are you doing? Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York and I’m not doing anything. I just lost a job—”

  “Cookie, you get in a taxi right now and come over to my apartment. I’m having a party for some people who can’t wait to meet you.”

  I hailed a taxi and soon found myself at the foot of a swanky building on the Upper East Side. The doorman in his cap and gloves waved me into a mahogany-paneled elevator. Up I went, the door opened, and there was Joan Fontaine in an elegant gray gown, a pearl choker around her neck, hair up in a chignon, as glamorous as ever.

  “I’m so
glad to see you, Cookie,” she said, hugging me, taking me by the arm, and introducing me to her socialite guests as “my dear friend from Hollywood.” The night went on, the New Year’s ball dropped, and I was the last guest. I had nowhere to go.

  “Cookie, do you need a place to stay?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  “Well, you must let me make you breakfast.”

  She went and changed into her pajamas, and we sat in her kitchen as the sun came up. She made me scrambled eggs and the best croissants I ever had. Our conversation was like an interrupted sentence from so many years before. We talked of many things, of lost love, of friendship, and of survival in the industry. I still had a lot to prove. I am sure she never knew how important she was to me. This sophisticated, world-renowned star chose me, an often-out-of-work actor, to be her friend.

  The lines we draw between us—lines of class, lines of wealth, lines of success or failure—are not real but drawn by us. I will forever be humbled and flattered that Joni looked at me and, for whatever reason, chose to draw her own conclusions instead. Her caring and kindness will never be forgotten.

  ACT III

  I saw 200 South La Brea, the massive glassy casting studio where they were holding auditions for the Dos Equis beer commercial. Parking was always tricky in Hollywood, and I found a spot down the block. I asked a nice shopkeeper to please put in the quarters I gave him once an hour had passed. It was a main thoroughfare. With the day I was having, I could end up with a very expensive traffic ticket. With my luck, my trusty Ford with my bed in the back—what felt like my current home—would get towed. Then I would really be a hobo. I would have nothing at all. Even Skid Row was a long way from Hollywood. I thought about leaving and going anywhere else instead. Why was I wasting my time?