Remember me, Mr. Redford?

[Adapted from my first book Twenty Years Behind Bars, Chapter 2]

Sometimes celebrity can really bring out the worst in people. Take a major celebrity and combine it with a new hostess, and it might just become an indelible mark on one’s memory. This actually happened during a film festival some years back, but the memory remains as fresh as the day it happened.

Our new hostess was a little odd. I remember thinking at the time that there was something not quite right about her. It was not just her unusual name – which was probably something that two deadheads thought sounded cool nine months after a summer tour. Nor was it just the Asian kanji tattoo on the back of her neck, clearly visible because of her short drawn short auburn hair. It was her attitude towards both.

“What does that symbol mean?” I asked her on her first day.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“You don’t know?” I said.

“Yeah, I just thought it looked cool,” she replied.

Now I don’t know about anyone else, but if I’m going to go through the time, expense, and pain of having a word in a foreign language tattooed on the back of my neck, I’m probably going to want to know what that word means. It’s times like these that you wonder how someone learns to make decisions.

On the young hostess’ first big night on her own, a rather significant celebrity had made reservations for himself and a small group. Mr. Robert Redford came into the restaurant infrequently, but his visits were often enough that our other hostess – an older, former schoolteacher – and he were on a first name basis. I remember one particular night when he held that older woman’s hand for a long moment, then gazed deeply into her eyes and thanked her for the best table in the house. If women still swooned, she would have probably hit the floor hard enough to cause serious brain trauma.

After he walked away, she looked at her hand for a very long time. I got the distinct impression that it was going to be sometime before that hand saw soap again. Unfortunately, for Mr. Redford and for our new hostess, the former school Marm, was not going to be there this particular evening.

One of the most important things about dealing with celebrities is not to make them feel uncomfortable. Calling the press and letting your friends know about their plans in advance is a big no- no. I remember a press agent for a major restaurant in San Francisco who lost her job for notifying local press about the arrival of the then President of the United States before a meal. When the President’s limo pulled up to the restaurant, there was a bevy of reporters waiting. The limo slowed down and then drove past, leaving the restaurant unbooked, and the press agent updating her resume.

About 10 minutes before the Redford party was due to arrive, a woman in her mid-50s sidled up to the bar. By the way that she kissed and hugged our young new hostess, I judged them to be well acquainted.

“I’ll have a hot water,” said the woman. Her dark long hair barely concealed the striking resemblance to our young hostess, minus the visible tattoo. Upon the arrival of the hot water, she produced a tea bag from her sequined purse and dabbed it into the hot water briefly before embarking on an elaborate ritual involving several napkins, a spoon, two packets of sugar, some lemon, and a package of vitamins. I watched the entire procedure with some interest.

“Take good care of my mom,” said the hostess to me.

“I’ll do my best,” I replied.

“Would you like to see a menu?” I asked.

“No thank you. I’m waiting for an old friend,” she said, looking sideways towards the door.

Mr. Redford soon arrived with his party and were quickly ushered to their table in the dining room. It appeared to me that he was looking around for our matronly hostess. His arrival signaled a change in the behavior of the woman at the bar. She waved me over.

“Can I get a cognac,” the mother asked.

I poured her selection into a snifter, tilted it on one side to make sure it reached the rim of the glass, a time honored if completely inaccurate way to measure brandy – snifters do come in all shapes and sizes – and then I set it down in front of her.

“Can you take this over to Mr. Redford,” she asked.

This sort of request puts a server in an awkward position. We are instructed not to bother celebrities, and we certainly cannot be the agent, or means, of another one’s bothering.

“I can’t really do that,” I said.

She looked at me in disbelief.

“Well, I’ll just do it myself,” she said, scooping up the drink and heading off towards the dining room. I scurried around the corner to find the manager. Luckily, he was able to intercept her. The next thing I saw was him herding the woman with two arms up and open hands away from the dining room. He was shaking his head slowly and firmly. Over the next hour, she repeatedly tried to get into the dining room, causing so much of a disturbance that Mr. Redford finally left through the back exit into the garden. We asked her to leave repeatedly, finally threatening her with police action. She finally abandoned her efforts, the proffered drink, and the restaurant after this. Giving the manager a big middle finger on her way out.

On the bar, she had left a folded napkin which she had apparently intended to give to Mr. Redford. On it were scribbled the words, “Do you remember that night long ago, under the big, full moon?”

 I doubted he did, if indeed it ever happened. But by then, I knew three things:

One, it was obvious exactly where the new hostess got her decision-making processes. Two, it was going to be a long time before we saw Mr. Redford again. And three, one tattooed short haired hostess was going to have to update her resume.