Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (8 page)

Okay, this should be one of them character tests that they do on those magazine shows. You know, where they set up a large buffet with a sign inviting people who are supposed to be attending this phony event to enjoy the food. But you see; there is no event and so anybody who takes some food is then confronted by a reporter who asks if they are with the event. They either pretend they didn’t see the sign or they lie and say they’re part of the phony event. In this show, you could hold a panel discussion on Michael Stipe’s penis and then when someone goes into the men’s room you film Michael Stipe taking the urinal next to him and whether or not the guy goes for a gander. This could keep John Stossel busy for years to come.

So Michael Stipe and I are taking a piss together -- and all I can think of is putting my Guild friend in his place or becoming a witness to the eighth natural wonder in the world. The only hitch is, of course, not allowing Stipe to catch me taking in Life’s Rich Pageant.

I tried to move my eyes… just to the right… to check and see if he was looking. Nope, Michael’s stare was directly at the dirty tile in front of him. This was my chance -- I quickly looked down… and realized that he was wearing one of those long flannel shirts, hanging loose in front of his pants, like the errant curtain in front of my hot, actress/neighbor’s bedroom window, as she practices yoga in the buff... Oops, another story there. Then he moved closer to the urinal, blocking my view. Damn!!! I looked up quick… and I swear, I think I caught Michael Stipe looking down at my package!

He looked up and we glared, eye to eye. He quickly buttoned himself up and flushed the urinal. I turned quickly to first position, staring at the wall. Finishing up, I zipped and flushed. I couldn’t believe that Michael Stipe had the nerve to peek at me. I mean, really. This guy is a gay rock star -- he certainly doesn’t need to be stealing peeks at me (while I was trying to “size him up”). But then on the other hand, kind of nice compliment that he even bothered to look. I have a woman friend who likes to recount how Bruce Springsteen checked her out, now I know how she feels (even if this is more of what it would be like if my neighbor discovered my sudden interest in yoga).

I left the urinal and went to the sink to wash my hands. Stipe was just finishing up -- now we were free to interact. I smiled at him and said, “I really like your music.” Michael thanked me and then asked, “Are you Irish?”

I was blown away by the question, he could tell that with just a peek? It must be the gay thing -- I bet if I gave him a real chance to look it over, he could tell me my future. “Yeah, I am,” I stuttered, still impressed. “I can tell from your face,” he said, “But I’m not wearing my glasses so you’re all fuzzy. I can’t even see my own film.” He laughed and tossed his paper towel into the trash can and sauntered out of the john. Slowly in the back of my mind a tune started. Yes, I recognized it, it was R.E.M.’s “
Everybody Hurts
”… but the words were different. It sounded something like “Everybody peeks… Sometimes…”

I figured, what the hell -- after all that, I missed my chance… and you know what? It doesn’t matter if Michael Stipe has a big dick or not -- I really like his music, and that’s what’s really important. I wasn’t too crazy about the movie, though -- some things can be
too
long.

George Takei and the Kling-on

I
was never a big Star Trek fan, both of my sisters and my father followed the show more than I did, but I was a bit familiar with it and not surprised to see the line of “Trekkies” spanning down the wall of the Brentano’s bookstore that I worked at, in the Beverly Center. Almost everyone there looked normal as they patiently waited for George Takei to start signing his memoir, To the Stars.

After I punched in and pinned on my little
“
Hi, my name is Bill. How may I help you?
” name tag on my shirt, my supervisor found me and asked if I would help with the signing. Desperate to avoid having to ask, “Would like to join our Preferred Readers Club?” all night long, I jumped at the chance to stand around and hand Sulu books to sign.

George showed up and took a seat at a table that had been set up specifically for him and waited for us to let the orderly line in. Takei seemed to be just a quiet man trying to sell his book, not some second-level cultural icon, so I was kind of surprised that the publishers of the book had assigned a plain-clothes security guard to him but, hey, it’s their money… and from what I remember of the show, Sulu, usually got punched, drugged or knocked-out (though he wasn’t one of those unlucky inconsequential crew-members who got killed in many hideous ways) so maybe he did indeed need some protection.

Unlike a lot of the signers we had in the store, George didn’t make any comments or answered any questions; he just started to sign books. We had a few interesting signers at Brentano’s; once we had one of Bill Clinton’s mistresses (or claimed to be -- I don’t need Clinton arguing with me what “is” is) Gennifer Flowers sign. Miss Flowers entered confidently, with three security people and a press associate, unfortunately, the first question was why her first name started with the letter “G” rather than the perky “J”? This threw her and she never really recovered, it was obvious that her fifteen minutes of fame were running down fast.

Another time we had Richard Preston in to sign “The Hot Zones.” Hardly anyone showed up since the book had just been released, I felt sorry for the guy and got a copy. Great book, it’s about the Ebola Virus, after reading the first chapter, it’s changed my airline flying fears… while most people look for Jihadist terrorists, I still look for Ebola carriers amongst the passengers. I have no problem with flying into the side of a building but I don’t look forward to my body “
Bottoming out
.”

While George good-naturedly signed books and answered questions from the fans, I stood on the side of the table answering general questions; “Do you have to buy the book after he signs it?” “Yep” “Is this line just for him?” “Yep” “Who is Sulu?” “If you don’t know then you should really buy the book.” This guy, somewhat rotund and disheveled sidles over to me, with a sort of, “What’s the big deal?” attitude.

Suddenly my bartender’s intuition kicked in. I give the guy the once over, like the Secret Service agent in
Taxi Driver
to Travis Bickle. He actually looks like he could be a hack driver. He starts talking to me about the length of the line and whether or not everyone will get their book signed. I tell him if he gets into line now, I’m sure that he can get his book signed. He replies, “Yeah,”...but doesn’t move.

In my mind is a large screen with the knucklehead staring lovingly at Sulu. “Can you identify the species, Mr. Spock?” As we pull back from the close up of the screen, I realize that we’re on the bridge of the Enterprise, in the style of a Simpson’s cartoon that I think I remember seeing once, “It’s the Knucklehead-eaus - Imbucil-ious” announces Spock, also a Simpson character, but mostly resembling Chevy Chase from an old Saturday Night Live sketch. “They can be as harmless as Rosie O’Donell’s love for Tom Cruise or as dangerous as Mark David Chapman waiting in front of the Dakota,” Spock adds.

I notice that the cab driver is now waving at George. George looks up, between signing books and schmoozing with other fans. George’s body guard becomes alert and silently asks me if this guy is a friend of mine. I wait until the Trekkie sniffs his armpits to check for B.O. before I shake my head and shrugged my shoulders to the body guard. All three of us, George included, notice Mr. Creepy taking a few steps closer to the table. “I would like to shake his hand,” he tells me.

“Steady there, Sulu,” Now it’s an older, heavier, William Shatner, sitting in his captain’s chair, but still a cartoon. “What is our course of action, Mr. Spock?” Chevy Chase trips and falls down; one of his pointed ears drops off, “Not to be Mr. Sulu, is the best course of action” answers Spock/Chevy from the floor. “Careful, Mr. Sulu,” directs Captain Kirk, in my imagination.

I tell the kling-on that maybe he should get in line, buy a book and then have George sign it. My supervisor arrives with a bottle of water and a glass for George. She fills the glass up with the water and sets it on the table in front of Mr. Takei. “I already have the book,” my new friend says…

“Good God, Jim!” rings in my head, “I’m only a doctor but even I know a red flag when I see one,” hysterically shouts Bones, now a life-like Dan Ackroyd. “Bridge to Enterprise, battle stations” orders the older, fatter, James T. Kirk, now wearing a tuxedo, “full speed ahead, Mr. Sulu.”

George Takei looks up at the cab driver still standing beside me, as we both inch closer to the table. The knucklehead gives a small, almost intimate wave to George. George looks away quickly and takes the next book to be signed. George’s body guard slips to the other end of the table, closer to me and my nutty shadow.

“Easy, easy…” instructs Captain Kirk. “You know I love you, Denny Krane,” Says James Spader, who appears in my scenario, also in a tuxedo, he and Shatner are now non-animated, sitting in recliners on the bridge of the Enterprise, smoking cigars and sipping whiskey. “I love you, too.” Says the older, fatter and relaxed Shatner (Good news; I have never seen
T.J. Hooker
, there’s a real good chance he and his old hair-piece will be no-shows).

The next few seconds happens in slow motion, like in a car accident, except I know that it isn’t going to end with a crash; I don’t know what it will be, but deep down, I do know it’s going to be really weird. George anxiously takes a sip out of his glass of water. “I’ll get in line now, Bill,” reports the knucklehead. I let out a short sigh of relief; sometimes that bartender’s intuition goes a little over board. The cabbie starts to head for the back of the line… a few times my intuition will give me a feeling and nothing comes of… suddenly, Travis Bickle diverts and heads straight to George’s table. “I could use a sip of water,” he announces.

“May-day -- may-day!” one of the William Shatners is shouting in my head. Myself and the body guard react. The body guard is almost able to block the guy from table, the cabbie reaches down and takes hold of George’s water glass and raises it to his lips, trying to take a sip in the exact spot that George drank out of. In one of those moments of clear anticipation (my bartender’s intuition, I’ll never ignore you again) I dive and block the glass from the cabby’s unshaven face. “Warp speed, Mr. Zulu” commands another Shatner… the round, wheezing, sweating, moist, and tobacco-stained, lips of the cabbie touch the back of my hand while I heroically push George’s glass away. There’s a moment where everyone in the bookstore is staring at the cabbie. From the other groupies in the waiting line comes a community groan of “OOOO -- GROSS!!!”

He’s strange, but he’s still surprised that he wasn’t able to get the glass to his mouth. I’m surprised that he still hasn’t stopped suckling on my third knuckle; my supervisor is surprised I was actually paying attention and the other Trekkies waiting for their books to be signed, are not surprised at all. I’m told later that they’ve all seen weirder behavior than this at other fan-boy events.

The body guard steps up and takes the cabbie by his arm, telling him he can leave on his own or he is going to usher him out of the mall. The cabbie tells him he will leave on his own…but it’s unfair -- he was only thirsty. “And that’s the art of deal,” exclaims Shatner, The Price Line Negotiator. George continues to sign books and answer questions. All I can think of is how probably at one time, decades ago, his agent called and said, “Hey, Georgie, don’t worry, it will only probably run one or two seasons and then no one will ever remember it.” Leaving George saying to himself, “If that…”

I spent the rest of the night at a cash register, asking “Would you like to join our Preferred Readers Club?” It wasn’t all that bad.

The Vein

I
t was a night like any other night, I was working the service. It wasn’t too busy and I was on with my friend, Scott, who was handling the rest of the bar. I spent most of the night just shooting the shit with the wait staff. I had a huge crush on one of the waitresses who was on that night, her name was Diane.

Diane was sweet and obviously knew I liked her and so she played me for everything I had. I gave Diane some of my awesome bartender service and she in turn flashed her beautiful blue eyes at me. When I asked her if she wanted to go out and have a drink at the China Club, she replied that she was going home to do her toe-nails… and so it goes (to quote Kurt Vonnegut).

Just because Diane wasn’t going to join me didn’t mean I wouldn’t go out for a drink… and just to show her, I was going to have more than one. While drawing up my plan for heading down to the Dublin House, Scott sidled up to me, “You wanna go to out after?” Scott indicated a pair of attractive women at the other end of the bar, “They do. I told them that we could get them into the China Club.” It’s interesting how life turns out sometimes, dumped for some toe-nail painting and now I’m on my way down to the China Club with a two beautiful women.

I was introduced to the girls, Hailey and Julie. Scott gave me the invisible nod that he liked Hailey, so by process of elimination, I had Julie. Both women were very attractive, Hailey was a bubbly blonde and Julie had one of those smiles that you never forget.

Scott and I started to break down the bar, to close up. We kept the girls in drinks as we cleaned and reconciled the money in the cash register. At one point, I leaned over to listen to Julie tell me something when in just the right light I noticed a large blue vein running down her forehead over her left eye. Julie had that kind of skin that was so fair you could see some of the veins in her face, sort of a subway map under the translucent skin of this pretty woman. At first, I found the vein interesting. I could almost see the blood flowing through it, traveling from her head, down her neck, over the breast bone between those two lovely… making its way to down to -- yes, it had been awhile since I had made that journey; so it was best to drain a sink right now.

Finally, Scott and I finished closing up and said good-bye to the bouncer and assistant manager. I helped Julie on with her coat. As she threw her hair back over the coat collar, I got a very open shot of it. The vein sat over her eye, heading north and south, like some third, suspicious eye, watching me.