“Hello, is Michael there?” a man said. His voice sounded familiar. Dustin Hoffman?
“I’m sorry, he’s not home at the moment. May I take a message?”
“Huh. Who’s this?” he said.
“Oh, it’s just the nanny.”
“Just the nanny?”
“Yeah.”
“I see. Well, this is Just-the-Roto-Rooter guy. We have the same first name, Just The. I never met another Just The before.”
“Okay.” I groaned inside.
“Hey, Just The, where are you from?”
“I’m from Oregon.”
“Or-e-GONE. I know a guy from there. Maybe you know him, too.”
“Um—”
“His name’s Ken.”
Okay, there are three million people in Oregon. How on earth was I supposed to know the same guy? Oh, the hell with it.
“Uh, what is his last name?”
“Kesey.”
Now, what were the chances of that? Ken Kesey is the uncle of my health teacher’s wife, and I had been to their house several times in high school.
“Actually,” I said, “I do know him.”
“You do? Wow!”
“Sure, I know him.” I didn’t explain my loose connection to the man. I also didn’t let on that I had figured out it was Bill Murray on the other end of the line. “He lives on that farm in Pleasant Hill.”
“That’s right. I’ve been there,” he said. “That’s amazing. What a small world.”
“It sure is,” I agreed.
“Hey, do me a favor. Tell them that some guy named Bill is coming over later today.”
I hung up the phone and felt slightly guilty. My connection to Ken Kesey, the infamous Merry Prankster and celebrated author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was more than a little tenuous. I loved my high school health teacher and his wife, but I had never actually laid eyes on her uncle in my life.
Carmen soon came in from shopping, and I told her what a strange conversation Bill Murray and I had had.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Bill, he’s a big jokester, that one. Very nice guy, though.”
When Judy came home, I gave her the phone message.
“God, I hope he’s not bringing that kid of his. Last time that little monster was over, he hauled off and bit Joshua.”
Yes, that has actually been known to happen with young children. I clenched my teeth.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Judy continued. “He bit him right on the face. Can you imagine the nerve of that kid? He hasn’t been over since, and I don’t plan on inviting him. And why the hell they named him Homer I’ll never know.”
I didn’t pipe up. I liked how Bill had joked with me on the phone. And I was willing to bet that he wasn’t like the famous movie-making mogul who had his assistant call Sarah at the office to officially pencil in playdates for the children. Bill’s kids probably didn’t have their own schedules—he sounded like a real, regular kind of dad.
Bill rumbled in an hour later, without little Homer. “Where’s the nanny? I gotta meet the nanny.” Then he came bursting into the living room. “Hey! You must be Just The. Come over here, Miss OreGONE!”
He swooped me up in a tight bear hug. “And there’s Carmen!” he said, seeing her in the doorway. “Come here, you! I missed you.” He picked up Carmen, too, and she started laughing.
Later, after he left, I said to Judy, “Wouldn’t it be funny to live with a guy like that? His wife must have a pain in her side all the time from laughing.”
Judy just stared at me for a long time. “Yeah, she has a real pain in her side all right,” she said.
Mom called today to tell me that she ran into Ryan and his dad at the Shriners’ annual barbeque. Turns out, Ryan is on crutches. He cut himself with a chain saw last week while he was out chopping wood on his dad’s property. Mom said, “Well you know how his dad is. He has a very strong work ethic. So he made Ryan finish throwing the wood in the back of the pick-up before he would take him into town to get the gash sutured up.”
Mom said Ryan’s dad was just sure he was trying to get out of a hard day’s work with his minor medical emergency. He wasn’t about to let him off that easy. Don’t think I will share that story with Judy, she may not find the humor in the situation. Judy doesn’t ever think anything is funny. She would probably get stuck on the fact that there are people in the world who use a wood stove to heat their homes.
I really should start accepting their way of life. If I don’t stop comparing things that I think are odd (like Michael eating chicken wings with a knife and fork) with normal things (like me going through the drive-up and being asked if I would like original recipe or extra crispy along with my coleslaw and biscuit) I will never fit in.
There must be something good to write about. Oh, yes! I got a book today on making homemade baby food. It has all kinds of fun recipes. I think that homemade is so much healthier than buying in jars—Michael and Judy should really be happy about that. Plus I can expand on my culinary skills. How can I screw up pureed zucchini?
My life is very split at the moment. I’m too scared to put on a dress in case the baby vomits on it.
—Cate Blanchett
chapter 14
the beverly hillbillies
This name-dropping thing wasn’t foolproof.
I was cruising down Pacific Coast Highway, thrilled to be on my way back to Cottage Grove for a long weekend. Judy had approved my leaving the beach house at 2:30, but she and Amanda left at noon for a mother/daughter fashion show in Malibu, and by one I was really antsy. Carmen shooed me out the door, promising to take care of Brandon and Joshua. I thanked her profusely; she knew how excited I was about going home.
But my lead foot got the best of me, and the officer who pulled me over didn’t care one whit about Michael Ovitz.
“Well, I guess the most powerful man in Hollywood won’t be too happy about your ticket, now, will he?” he retorted sarcastically when I tried to wheedle my way out of a citation. Crap. My fifth speeding ticket in three years.
I wasn’t going to let that officer ruin my excitement; I was off to spend a sweet weekend at home. I swung by the Brentwood house to pack my things, and Delma came dashing out to meet me.
“Suzy, Judy’s holding on the phone. She’s steaming mad,” Delma said. What in the world had I done now? Had the cops called Michael about my ticket? Did he have spies at the LAPD?
“Suzy, she just went off on me,” Delma cried, wringing her hands. “I’ve never heard her so upset.”
I tried to catch my breath, gulped, and grabbed the nearest phone, holding it a healthy distance from my ear.
“Yes, Mrs. Ovitz, it’s Suzy,” I said timidly.
“I know who it is,” she snapped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Huh?”
“Carmen is not your boss, I am! And I’m very unhappy with you. What did you do, just run out the door after my car left the driveway? I was already letting you go early. And by the way, I am not happy about uh … uh … the fact that sometimes you don’t pick up the kids’ toys,” she ranted.
Come again? I couldn’t think of what to say, and I’m not sure I could’ve managed the words if I’d had them. The pit of my stomach dropped out as she kept yelling. Mercifully, she finally hung up.
I immediately dialed Sarah, practically engulfed in tears.
“Suzy, calm down,” Sarah said, trying to console me. “Judy must be under some heavy-duty stress or something. Surely it couldn’t really be you. They always tell me how happy they are with you.”
“But she complained that sometimes I don’t pick up the kids’ toys,” I sobbed.
“That’s ridiculous.” Sarah snorted.
Ten minutes later, Judy called again, apologizing for losing her temper. Had Sarah called and told her how upset I was? I tried to stop crying. Judy even said that she was looking forward to my return, and she sounded sincere. Was she? I didn’t even bother trying to analyze it; I ju
st wanted to hold on to any shred of appreciation I could find. If she was willing to throw me a crumb, I was willing to accept it.
I heard Joshua whining that he wanted to talk to me. Great. Having just heard his mother’s earlier tirade, I was sure he was going to join in on the fun.
“Suzy? Will you still bring me back pictures of you water-skiing like you said?”
I began crying all over again.
This is the first time Josh has ever opened his heart to me. And he did it even after he heard his mother berating me. It may seem trivial, but for Joshua to take any interest in me, to extend himself even that much, is a monumental breakthrough. I really have hope now that things can be better. I think this may be a turnaround point with us.
Speaking of my male relationships, I went and visited Ryan and his family. His dad said he didn’t think Ryan was ever going to grow up, and he was really proud of me for moving on. I don’t think I have really moved on. I can’t imagine ever getting over him. Ryan and I stayed up and talked until 2 A.M. I gave him the world’s longest hug goodbye.
It’s not easy to remember why I left. Oregon exists on a different planet than Hollywood, a planet that cherishes fun and relaxation. I can’t even describe how much I enjoy myself here, waterskiing and having fun, but there is always a nagging voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I’ll be back in Bizarro World very soon. I’m trying to let myself fully relax, anyway, knowing that I’ll just have to deal with the reimmersion when it happens.
Apparently my subconscious really didn’t want to go back. On the morning of my flight to LA, my alarm didn’t go off. I had to connect in Portland, and if I didn’t catch the right plane, I’d be hours late. I was petrified of Judy’s wrath, especially given how I’d left things. Mom screeched out to the airport with me, yelling “Go faster” the entire way. I checked in at 8:42 for a 9 A.M. flight. Miraculously, the agent said I might still be able to make it if I ran—the Eugene airport is very small, and passengers walk right on the tarmac to the planes. I tore off across the asphalt, my enormous purse swinging behind me. Even from fifty yards away I saw the flight attendants waving for me to hurry up. I could only imagine what was running through the minds of all the passengers staring out at me from the little windows.
And then I tripped.
The entire contents of my bag—four tampons, wallet, a banana, two magazines, four sticks of Doublemint gum, my ticket, a paperback book, a pair of socks, a small can of Mace, nail polish, about four dollars in change, several loose slips of paper with notes for journal entries, pictures of the kids, and a backup toothbrush—spewed out across the tarmac. I lay there sprawled out amid it all, some free preflight entertainment for those infernal staring passengers. One of the flight attendants—laughing uncontrollably, I might add—dashed down and helped me pick up the stuff. Humiliated, I finally boarded the plane. My seat? Perhaps I should have known that it would be at the very back of the plane, past rows and rows of snickering people.
Thankfully, when I got back to Brentwood, it looked like there might be some good news. While I was home, my sister Cindy told me how bored she was with her accounting job at the headquarters of a national restaurant chain. In a flash of brilliant inspiration, I persuaded her to apply for a position in the accounting department at CAA. She had to send in a photo with her résumé—why they cared what the back-office number crunchers looked like, I’ll never know, but she must have been cute enough, because she got an interview. Cindy had an outstanding work ethic and was very good at what she did, and I wasn’t surprised when she got the job. Sarah had briefed Michael, and he said in passing one night, “I hear your sister is moving down here and coming to work for us.” It was the most personal remark he had ever made to me.
Just two years older, Cindy and I had always been great friends, and we were both excited to live close to each other. She aspired to do great things with her career, and I aspired to get an occasional Saturday night off and stay at her apartment. She put me in charge of finding a place for her. My priority was proximity to me, of course. The best I could do was a two-bedroom box that cost $1100 a month. Poor Cindy couldn’t muster up the rent herself, so she ended up convincing two of her friends to move down and share a two-bedroom five-hundred-square-foot flat not far from my house. One of the girls had to take up residency in the walk-in closet. I am not kidding.
At first, Cindy’s job seemed no different from shuffling paperwork in Eugene. She processed clients’ compensation in a room with eight other women and no windows. Though CAA’s clients weren’t employees, money they received from movies, TV, commercials, whatever, came through the office first, and CAA deducted its commissions immediately. Then the balance was sent on to the clients. On her first day, Cindy took a call from an actor’s manager demanding that CAA pay interest on the money that he was supposed to have received the month before. Apparently the check had still not arrived at his mansion. Cindy didn’t understand why such a wealthy actor would be worried about some measly interest—until she realized that the check was in fact two months late and was for four million dollars. Of course she wouldn’t ever tell me who it was; she has this confidentiality thing hardwired into her brain, and it has always been impossible for me to get information out of her.
During Cindy’s first week on the job, she was asked to handle the phones for the CFO while his secretary went to lunch. She was told to interrupt him if anyone “important” called. Since it was only her third day, her first thought was “How am I going to know who’s important and who isn’t? What am I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, but before I can put you through, I’ll need to know how much your last film grossed.’ ” No, that wouldn’t work. She had no idea what amount made a movie a blockbuster.
The truth is that my sister never knew which actors and actresses were currently hot in the media, let alone the names of behind-the-scenes people. To this day she’s probably not quite sure exactly what Steven Spielberg does.
The very first call she received was a memorable one.
“Hello, Bob Goldman’s office. How may I help you?”
“Is Bob in?” came the stressed-out reply.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes, it’s extremely important. Tell him to call …” Cindy didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t heard clearly; the caller was talking so fast that she hadn’t caught the last name.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get that. Could you give me your name again?” she asked politely.
“It’s Michael …” Still she couldn’t catch the last name.
“I’m sorry, sir, one more time?”
“O-VEE-EYE-TEE-ZEE.” He spelled it loudly and dramatically. “OVITZ!!!!” he screamed into the phone.
She gulped. “Thank you. I’ll put you right through.”
One night Cindy called, all proud of herself, informing me that I was wrong about thinking she was not up to date on the latest happenings in Hollywood.
“Suzanne, you know how you are always saying that I don’t know who anyone is?”
“Of course, yes,” I confirmed.
“Well, I will have you know that Nancy in the office just invited me to go with her to a wedding for that girl who played Lucy on Dallas, and I knew exactly who she was talking about.”
“Of course you’re up to date on it; no one watches that show anymore,” I explained. “Maybe we can rent some current movies this weekend. It might be helpful if you are going to be in this industry.”
The poor girl had a lot to learn.
Less than a week after she began her new job, Cindy realized that it provided more entertainment than an issue of People. The government had just required a new form in accounting, an I-9, which served as proof of U.S. citizenship. CAA tapped Cindy to gather the necessary paperwork on all of CAA’s clients. She needed to make copies of several documents: a passport, driver’s license, and social security card, and the law required that she “physically” see original
documents.
Since CAA’s clients included some of the most notable and reclusive actors and directors in Hollywood, what might have been a relatively mundane accounting procedure at any other office quickly became a hot issue among the celebrity clientele. These folks maintained their privacy at any cost, and things like birth-date verification could be quite upsetting to actresses of a certain age. I told Cindy that this was a job better suited for a National Enquirer reporter.
The adventure began when she went to the local clients’ homes with her portable copier on wheels. (She looked like a flight attendant perpetually headed to the airport.) In the first few weeks, she dropped by the homes of Demi Moore, Cher, and Dolly Parton. She could deal with looking like an overworked insurance saleswoman, but then came the complication of the out-of-town clients. Driver’s licenses and passports aren’t exactly the kind of documents you want to be mailing here and there. Cindy kept hearing some of the same comments over and over: “Oh, the government didn’t care if I was an American citizen during the past ten years when I paid millions of dollars in taxes, but now suddenly it’s imperative” or “Who’s going to see these documents; why do you need it?” Translation: Who’s going to know how old I really am, or how I lied about my weight on my driver’s license?
She persevered despite their protests. One day she was sent to track down Chevy Chase in a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. When she pulled up, she was mortified that she would have to use valet parking. Cindy drove an old clunker, and suddenly she found herself surrounded by Ferraris and Range Rovers. She said she felt a little like the girl in class who was wearing faded jeans from the Goodwill while all the cool kids had on name-brand clothing.
She nervously found Chevy Chase without a problem (although she hated interrupting him during a meeting), but as she headed back down to the lobby, she rummaged through her purse and discovered that she was virtually broke. Outside the hotel’s massive glass doors stood two valets. In queue were a Rolls, a Bentley, a Mercedes, and a Lamborghini, each driven to the entrance by a valet who would then dutifully stand by the open doors, awaiting guests. And a big fat tip.
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