The Sunday Memory Drawer - Joe, A Hollywood Writer

Those who remember last Sunday's Memory Drawer tale of my first ever trip to California are hereby alerted.  I skipped one other hallmark event that happened during this trek.   It marked the first time that I had met a particular Hollywood writer who, on his best days, might be considered a friend.  And, on his ever-growing worst days, he would be considered anything but.

Yep, this is the saga of somebody who I will call, for the purposes of today's entry, "Joe."  Memories that go back several decades and really conclude just a few days ago.  Hell, even if something happened yesterday, it's still a memory. 

On my very first sojourn to California, I made sure that somehow during the trip to Huntington Beach I would venture up to Hollywood and meet face-to-face the only TV writer I had ever been in contact with to date.  Not to belabor how the original connection was made, it came mainly through a blind letter that I had sent in my attempts to "network" with the show biz crowd.  Joe did answer my letter, acknowledging our very prefunctory connection, and made the usual passing and empty gesture.

"If you're ever in Los Angeles, please stop by."

A throwaway for him.  A golden nugget for me.

Okay, well, I'm in Los Angeles now, sir.  Huntington Beach, really.  But, close enough.  Can I spot by?

That's exactly what I said when I cold called his office, which was at a popular sitcom of the day.  Joe was almost taken aback that I had suddenly appeared ready to pounce on his doorstep.  But, perhaps reluctantly, he scheduled an appointment to meet me at "the studio."  I felt like I was going to meet God.  He probably was simply worming me in between bladder-emptying visits.

On that first day, I got no more than five minutes of his time.  Begging off because, after all, being a story editor on a hit sitcom is so demanding.  I didn't know any better.  The show was on hiatus between seasons.  The only pressing notation on his desk calendar for the next six weeks would be lunch dates.

But, still, this was my first Hollywood connection.  And I was savoring every second of it.

Joe didn't count on the fact that I would actually send him a spec script written with my then-writing partner.  And I'm sure Joe definitely didn't count on the fact that our script would be terrific.  To his credit, he sent us a letter that just gushed with platitudes.  Our career prospects were bright.

Uh-huh.  So began my "friendship" with Joe.

In retrospect, I know now that Joe would be of little help to anybody's writing career.  But, back then, we cultivated him as if he was a prized orchid that we were proud to show off in our backyard.  We'd follow his career from show to show.  Eventually, he landed as the producer of one of the most iconic shows in television history.  We'd visit him in California, get shepherded around a set, have dinner with him and his girlfriend, and lunch whenever possible.

Oddly enough, we developed a relationship with him that transcended the business end.  He and I bonded exhaustively over baseball, so there was certainly more to the bonds than just the standard Hollywood emptiness.  He genuinely liked us.  We genuinely liked him.  But, in retrospect, there were facades up.  The relationship at the time was as phony as those fake walls you see on Hollywood movie lots.

But, we stuck with Joe, despite the growing realization that he would not be helpful to our writing prospects.  A telltale sign was very early on during one of our California visits.  We went to lunch with Joe at a Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset Boulevard.  This was, at that moment, a nest for show biz types.  That day, Joe ran into two other jokesters who were producing another sitcom.  He introduced us.  The two asked if Joe was showing us the ropes.  Joe's reply should have been a red flag to us.

"I'm showing them just enough so they won't be threatening."

Yep, that was Joe.  He'd be a friend for us.  But little else.

He bounced around some more from show to show and even from coast to coast.  I'd spend time with him and most of it was devoted to chatting up some baseball.  Meanwhile, I gravitated away from writing and then came back to it with a different focus and writing partner.  My "relationship" with Joe continued, albeit enduring long stretches of silence.

By the time I moved to California full time in the late 90s, I met up with other writers and producers who knew of Joe.  I started hearing other words used to describe him.

"Shithead."

"Drunk."

"Pill."

Hmmmm.

I guess I had seen all those traits myself, but it had been clouded by the congenial horsehide chatter.  Almost mystically, I kind of liked the guy.  Admittedly, he had screwed himself out of a thriving Hollywood career and burned more useful bridges than the Viet Cong.  And, as a result, he was quickly becoming a financial meltdown of epic proportions.

I'd connect with him from time to time and the dialogue was always bitter.  He was always focused on "some cocksucker who wasn't returning his calls."  His viewpoint of Hollywood was a decidedly cynical one.  I, however, had been around and seen enough to know that most of Joe's undoing was a direct result of, well, Joe's own undoing.

And then there was the boozing.

The alcoholism was evident on the various times where I tried to be a savior and introduce him to some new friends.  Joe would show up with a shopping bag that always carried his very special brand of gin and even a jar of olives for martini fixings.  The man traveled with his own personal bar.  When I brought him along to one of my church functions and he started to fix a cocktail during Bible study, I knew Joe was in the carpool lane for certain disaster.

And then the pleas for money started.

Joe never had any.

He'd dial for dollars through his Rolodex, looking for cash to tide him over with tailor-made excuses at the ready that would explain how he would pay you back.  There was always a residual check that was coming.  Or a pilot deal that was about to happen.  Money was just around the corner.  But he needed some cold cash today.  And you would always be the absolute last person he could ask.

I got suckered into coughing up small amounts twice, knowing fully well that it would never be paid back.  Yet, the desperate pleas for financial survival never seemed to change his extravagant ways from dining out at the finest restaurants Los Angeles had to offer.  Or that bottle of Gilbey's Gin that showed up everywhere Joe went.

Of course, while I provided a few bucks as a "friend," I soon discovered that my good deeds were going punished.  Whenever I would try to engage Joe on the phone or even perhaps suggest a dinner out, there was always something else that was slightly more important.  One evening, I was actually heading out to the restaurant to meet him, when Joe called and told me that another engagement had popped up.  Since he hadn't seen those folks in a while, he would prefer to dine with them.

I was blown off for Dick Gautier, who played Hymie the robot on "Get Smart" and Jack Riley, who had played Mr. Carlin on "The Bob Newhart Show."   I wondered to myself if either of those two schmucks had ever loaned Joe some greenbacks.

Ultimately, the only time I ever heard from Joe was when he wanted something.  There was never any interest in what I was doing in my career...or life, for that matter.  I had mentioned once a radio show idea that I was pitching to a producer.  Suddenly, he was engaged.  And called me every day for the next two weeks.  Had he turned over a new leaf?  Did he really give a shit about my project?

Ummm, no.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.  He wanted to work on this project.  For me.  The dynamic had completely turned.  I was now the adult in the relationship.

Naturally, when there was nothing in it for him, Joe took a powder.  Again.

Most recently, he surfaced.  He was down to his last buck and was about ready to have both his Direct TV and telephone turned off.  And, oh, yeah, could he have my credit card number so he could pay them?

Er, no, Joe.  I am not comfortable with that.

A week later, he rang up again with a telephone that was obviously still not disconnected.

Joe understood why I would not give him my credit card number.  He had an alternative solution that might be more amenable to me.  Could I call Direct TV and Verizon and give them my credit card number?

I considered this lunacy.  Given his bankrupt state, did I really want my credit card on record anywhere for his debts?

Er, no, Joe.

He begged a bit or really as long as I let him.  I tried to jump into the pleas.

"Come on, Joe..."

He went into attack.  As startling as it was venomous.

"Oh, yeah, Len.  Well, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you."

And click.

That was it for me.

A week later, he called my voice mail and apologized profusely and in a distinct slur.  Would I call him back, please?

Er, no, Joe.

I wrestled with my choice.  Here is a man who is obviously coming apart at the seams.  Literally and figuratively.  But, at what point does my help become a crutch?  Or sole support.  How much money does he owe other suckers all around town?  And what is the return on this investment in a friend?

Sadly, there is none.

The other day, the phone rang and I picked it up quickly.  Joe was on the other end.  Apologizing.  Announcing that he will never ask me for money again.  To him, our friendship was more important to him.

He then proceeded to list all the debts he had and wondered how he was going to deal with it all.  P.S., none of this is his fault.  His woes are all a direct result of the bastards that run Hollywood.

Uh-huh.

"But I'm not asking for your money."

And the music goes round and round and round.  Just like the water swirls around in this Tinseltown toilet. 

Dinner last night:  Sausage and peppers at Carlo's in Yonkers.