Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (16 page)

From my left was a shout. A New York City police officer was trotting towards me, carrying (I’m not making this up) a cup of coffee and a doughnut, in each hand. The cop ran from a corner deli shouting “Hey, hey, cabbie, can’t you see my car there?” The car, like I said, was parked perpendicular to the cross walk on Lexington, on the middle of the street, empty, without any lights on. The cop was in his fifties and breathing heavily when he finally made it to my driver’s window. “Are you blind?” He scolded. “You almost hit them.” “Yeah,” I thought, but at the moment I still couldn’t make words yet.

The cop placed his cup of coffee (in one of the blue and white Greek diner cups) on the hood my car and carefully put his half-eaten doughnut down beside the coffee. Then stood in front of me, yelling at my stupidity and how I could’ve killed someone. Like I didn’t realize it already, the imagined sounds of metal crumbling, brakes squealing, glass is shattering, and the crash probably killing me. I realize in some circles I would have been a hero but I was glad that I was sitting there in my checker as one of New York’s finest berated me for not heeding his inconspicuously parked car. Eventually, the cop pulled himself together and let me go with a warning. For the rest of the night every single intersection I came upon, I could see the flashing red and blue lights out of the corner of my eye.

Reagan would avoid another assassination attempt a short time later, I wish I could say the world was better for it but I’m still glad I didn’t barrel into his motorcade. But I would be back out on these garbage-strewn streets, picking up fares and listening to my inner-soulful saxophone play in my head, as I drove my cab around the sleeping city.

U2 Moves in Mysterious Ways

A
t the Sunset Marquis, we had many bands stay with us; Metallic, The Black Crows, Cheap Trick, The Bee Gees, Genesis, Depeche Mode, we were after all the “Rock and Roll” hotel. The only time it would ever really get crazy was when U2 moved in.

First, every time they stayed, there were about dozen people stationed across the street, some sleeping there for days. One time; Bono, went out to talk to them because the band had noticed that many of the kids had been there for more than a week (they were in town for business for a few weeks and not touring). Bono went over and explained that they understood people hanging out when they were on tour but this living across the street was worrying him. He offered to sign or have his picture taken with everyone, as long as they would leave.

He courageously went along for pictures and autographs, but unfortunately, more people were arriving. It was obvious that some of the squatters were now contacting their friends and telling them to come down quick, Bono was there hangin’ out. Soon the whole street became stopped up with looky-loos and U2 fans wanting pictures and autographs. Finally Bono’s bodyguard urged him to get back into the hotel. For what it was worth, there was now a much larger contingent of fans waiting for Bono to come out again. A good portion of the fans stayed the full two weeks. I got the feeling that Bono considered this a huge failure and he didn’t try it again.

The only other act to have people sleeping across the street was Morrissey and it was nowhere as large. Though, his fans were much more fanatical about trying to find him in the hotel. Occasionally, the odd U2 freak would sneak into the hotel. One time, I was passing a large bush, carrying lunch to one of my villas when the bush whispered to me, “Where’s Bono?” Taken back a bit, I told the nosey bush what we told most of the people who stopped us on our way into the employee’s parking lot, “He’s staying at the Mondrian -- Mr. Bush” (that was the lie we used whenever someone wanted to know who was staying at the hotel). I continued on to my way to the villa and reported the butt-in-ski bush to the first U2 security guy I passed.

That was the one good thing about U2, they always brought their own security people when they were on tour (When they came for business those two weeks, they had a few bodyguards). Another time, I came upon one the U2 bodyguards restraining the girlfriend of a very famous Latin music star, the girlfriend was enraged, trying to get to the Latin star. The Latin star was very disheveled and showed prominent scratches on his face, neck and arms. The bodyguard asked me if I knew who they were. I told him that they were guests.

Finally, the bodyguard calmed her down and she stalked off, followed by the Latin star, pleading in Spanish. I asked the bodyguard what happened. He told me that he found them fighting in the garden and she was beating the shit out him. I asked him if he had any idea what it was about, he said he didn’t, but if he had any advice for the Latin star, it would be not do whatever he did again.

It was almost constant; every day there was always something going on. I mean the people with the band were very nice and few were ever a problem, it was just everyone else. One thing you did learn when you wait on a lot of celebrities; it’s not usually the name that’s the problem -- most of the time it’s the people with him. For some reason, many people who are friends with celebrities decide this is the moment to step out of their shadow and complain about the food, the temperature, shoddy service or even, food presentation… Many times you can even see the celebrity bothered by it, but some for reason these people get into this, “Do you know who this is?” outrage. U2’s friends were never really the problem; it was always the people trying to get access to them.

Part of my job was to make frequent trips down to the front desk to pick up and deliver any items left the guests. One morning, I picked up three beautiful books of Hollywood by Vanity Fair, each addressed to Adam Clayton, Bono and The Edge but nothing for Larry Mullens, Jr., U2’s drummer. We were under standing orders that anything that came in that wasn’t in portions of four should go straight to Paul McGuiness, the band’s manager.

I walked the three books to Mr. McGuiness, who gave a gruff growl. I told him that there were only three copies; Vanity Fair had not sent one for Larry. McGuiness told me that it happened often since Larry was the quiet drummer playing along with the three front men. The problem was that Larry is the one who actually started the band, hiring the other three. Anything that didn’t include Larry went straight to McGuiness.

Even the hotel committed this crime. Once, when the band first checked in we were asked to set up large fruit bowls and flower arrangements for Bono, The Edge and Adam Clayton. Larry got a measly little fruit bowl. Larry arrived after the other three, because he was traveling across the country on a motorcycle (with a single bodyguard). When he did show up and dropped in on Bono, to find this fruit stand of fresh fruit and a beautiful bouquet of flowers in Bono’s villa -- naturally, he wanted know why he got the shitty little fruit bowl. I did some fast dancing and explained to him that we were not sure of when he would arrive and so this was just a failsafe in case he showed up before we were ready -- which he did. I assured him that I would go down and get his “real” fruit bowl and have them bring up his flowers. From there, I emptied the fruit walk-in refrigerator into a large bowl and my supervisor called a professional florist to bring in their best bouquet. Larry, if you’re reading this -- they didn’t order one for you. The hotel management didn’t think you were significant enough.

But the hotel worked that way. They wouldn’t listen to anyone but the idiots in charge. A U2 example case: On the service request for U2’s arrival, it states that after each show, every room assigned to someone on the tour will have “chips” placed in each room. I get to the butler’s pantry and there’s a dozen of bags of Frito-lay chips waiting to be dispersed to the villas.

I’m an American, but I lived with a lot Irish people on Martha’s Vineyard, and to them
chips
were what we call French Fries, not chips (those are called
“crisps”
). U2’s
Actung Baby
Tour, took up about ninety percent of the rooms at the hotel, almost every room were getting
chips
. I went down to the Food and Beverage Manager and told him that I think they had the wrong idea of what a
chip
was. This F & B manager was an idiot -- one of those, his-father-was-friends-with-someone-and-he-got-the-job-kind-of-idiot. The F & B manager brings out the rider and shows me the “chips” request in it. I tell him that our “chips” are not their “chips.” He tells me, patronizingly, “Chips are chips.”

When U2 came back from their show, at 2:00 that morning, we were all very busy -- but I think the busiest person was the poor graveyard cook trying to make over a hundred orders of French Fries. The F & B idiot didn’t even come in; he was probably asleep at home, dreaming of candy-canes and unicorns. What was worse -- we did the same thing during the
Zoo TV
tour, even after I reminded them what had happened on the previous tour.

It was always exciting having U2 stay but on the other hand, it was incredibly disheartening watching the management of the hotel continue to shoot itself in the foot… and then let its staff deal with the consequences.

Donny Baseball

I
had a friend who tended bar at a place called Sam’s, in mid-town Manhattan. When you tend bar, you become part of a fraternity of bartenders all over town. It’s a fun frat but there are rules, one of which is that bartenders don’t pay for their drinks (or at least some of their drinks) but you must reciprocate when they visit you.

I get done with my day shift and decide that I will stop in at Sam’s, on my way home to Brooklyn. Sam’s is a bit classier place than where I worked, a lot of suits and some of the women actually wear skirts. The only dress code my bar had was that we were a non-lederhosen establishment (where there is lederhosen, there’s sure to be Swiss). Sam’s is what they call in New York, a classy-joint. One of the owners was the actress Mariel Hemingway, now I don’t know about the name Mariel but the name Hemingway makes me want to drink (and at times misogynist-i-cally over-write).

Clyde was busy at work at the bar, when I saddled up onto a bar stool. I said “hi” and ordered a beer. We kind of held a pseudo-conversation, as he worked a very busy bar. The last time that I visited Clyde, Bobby Short came in and bought a few rounds (I said it was classy). I ask Clyde if Bobby’s been in lately, he says he hasn’t seen him in months, then trots away to take care of some waitresses in the waiter’s station.

I’m left alone. I survey the rest of the bar and notice the guy sitting next to me; he’s dressed in a tuxedo. But beyond the tux, he looks very familiar. Tux guy gives me a familiar nod, I say “Hi.” God, he looks familiar -- but as we start talking, I still can’t place him. For some reason, I feel that he has something to do with where I work.

Tux guy introduces me to his friend, Paul, also wearing a tuxedo. We start talking. They’re both very friendly for two guys that could be a successful centerfold of GQ. We start talking about the recent film,
Fatal Attraction,
with Glenn Close and Michael Douglas.

The whole time that we’re talking, all I can do is roll through my memory rolodex, trying to remember where I’ve met this guy. At one point, Tux Guy and Paul turn away and talk. Clyde slips over, “Good guy, huh?” “Yeah, sure is,” I say, but all I can think is, Great, even Clyde knows that I know him… and I can’t remember where from. While Clyde is here, I ask Tux Guy One and Tux Guy Too, if I can buy them a drink. They tell me they have a tab open and ask Clyde to buy me a drink.

Clyde returns with my Heineken and the boy’s drinks. I’m begging my memory to pull it together. Jeez, if these guys were customers, I hope I took good care of them. We tap glasses (I was drinking out of the bottle -- the place may have been classy, but it doesn’t mean that I was cow-towing to it). We continue talking, while I quietly agonize over where I met this guy -- if it wasn’t work, then where? He’s obviously too together to be an actor, so it wasn’t some audition…and since he was still talking to me, it wasn’t someone I auditioned for. They didn’t look Italian, so I don’t know them from the Brooklyn neighborhood I lived in… another bar, maybe? I don’t know -- it has to be from work, where else would I know him from? It could be from the bar I worked, though both guys seem to be a grade above the crowd we get (or the grade that our crowd likes to think they are). It doesn’t matter -- so I can’t remember who he is -- he seems cool with it. Until…

A guy, having dinner at a table, gets up and walks over to us. Tux guy is telling a story about this asshole boss of his (though tux guy doesn’t call him an asshole, the boss sounds like an asshole) the guy from the table stands and waits for Tuxedo Joe to finish his story. I figure, the guy from the table must know him -- here’s my chance to get his name. Maybe that will remind me where I know this guy from.

Finally, Mr. Tux finishes his story about his loud-mouthed, asshole boss and turns to his friend from the table. His friend becomes openly nervous and says, “Don, my kid thinks you’re the greatest.” Before the guy can ask him for his autograph, I realize “Shit, I don’t know this guy -- this is Don Mattingly, first baseman for the New York Yankees.” As Don Mattingly writes out the autograph to table guy’s kid, I put it all together.

Yeah, he’s Don Mattingly, who, because I didn’t fawn all over him, must think that we have met previously. Reinforced by the fact that I haven’t asked him a baseball question or commented on his boss, we must be friends. Oh, and Paul… I realize now that it’s Paul Molitor of the Twins -- I’m sitting with two Hall-of-Famers (or should-be-Hall-of-Famers).

After Don finishes with the table guy and his autograph for his kid, Don turns back to me… and realizes that I know now… also, realizing that he doesn’t know me. We kind of smile -- where were we? I don’t know what to say now. Don looks to Paul, and says, “Think we should get going?” Paul agrees. Don signals Clyde for the bar bill.

Don turns to me and offers me his hand, “We’re going to this dinner. Nice talking to you.’’ “Nice to meet you, Don,” I say. I shake Paul’s hand. Don pays the bill, he and Paul leave.

Clyde comes over, “Really good guy, huh?” I nod and take another drink of my beer. Table Guy slips up next to me. “What a good guy,” he says, showing me the autograph on the Sam’s cocktail napkin in his hand, “My son is going to flip when he sees this.” Clyde looks at the napkin, then looks up at me, “But you’re a Red Sox fan?” Table Guy looks at me like he’s relieved that I didn’t shank Donny Baseball with a fruit knife. “What a good guy,” exclaims Table Guy, still in adulation. “Yeah,” I agree, “….For a Yankee.”