2/19/23
Newsletter #252
The Crack of Dawn
I told the second half of this story 200 newsletters ago. I’ve grabbed that hunk, but will now fill in the first half.
Part I:
In 1985 I came down to the set of Evil Dead 2 in North Carolina to do a couple of bit parts in the film. We shot for two days in a gravel pit and it was about 110 degrees. We were all dressed up in full armor on top of black, thermal union suits. Without question, this was the hottest I have ever been in my life. I spent most of the day running around with twenty-five other extras in armor, all of us unable to see through the one-inch slot in our visors, and trying to avoid being run over by horses. Between shots I sat on a rock at a tiny little spit-pond at the center of the gravel pit and scooped up cups of tepid water and poured them on the back of my neck in a vain attempt to cool down. At the end of the day, Rob, the producer, also dressed in armor and doing his bit part in the film, said, “Tomorrow’s going to be a lot better.” Utterly miserable, I asked, “Oh, really? Why?” Rob grinned and said, “Because you know what you’re in for.”
Which was true. The only shade in the entire gravel pit was cast by the bus used to transport the extras. Between shots, I hid in this slowly moving shadow throughout the extremely long day. At some point the silhouette of a female crew member blocked the glaring sun in my face and she said, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth, the art director, you’re Sam’s friend, right?” I said yes, clamored to my feet in full armor, perfunctorily shook her hand, then quickly returned to my little slice of shade, where it was only 105. The silhouette returned to work.
A year later I was attending a party at the home of Kaye Davis, the editor of Evil Dead 2, in Santa Monica. There was a good crowd out in the backyard barbequing and having fun. I, however, was seated by myself in the living room, being a party pooper, and gloomily blowing smoke rings.
And then the most beautiful, sexy, wild-looking woman I’d ever seen came walking into the party. She was wearing a black leather biker jacket over a low-cut, short, little black dress, black stockings, black high heels, with long dark hair all over the place. She was drunk and teetering on her high heels. She quickly assessed the situation – the party was in the backyard – then turned and looked at me. Wow! She was a knockout. Why was she looking at me?
Very deliberately, she crossed the living room to me, looked down, breathtakingly beautiful, and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
She was ridiculously pretty. But alas, I did not remember her and couldn’t hide it. She hiked up her dress, sat down on my lap, put her nose right against mine, and repeated, “You don’t remember me, do you? I was the art director on Evil Dead 2.” Well, she was right. I didn’t remember her. I wanted to. She took the pen out of my shirt pocket, found a scrap of paper, wrote her name – Elizabeth – her phone number, and drew two stick figures dancing. She said, “Call me,” stood up, and walked right out of the party.
Part II: (This is the part I already told).
The prettiest girl on the Evil Dead 2 crew was the art director, Elizabeth. She had given me her number, so I asked her out. She said, “I’m art directing the Wilshire Theater for a tribute to some guy named Nunnally Johnson, ever heard of him?” I said, “Nunnally Johnson wrote the script and produced The Grapes of Wrath. He wrote, produced and directed How to Marry a Millionaire with Marilyn Monroe. Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Elizabeth was impressed, so that was good.
I arrived early and the interior of the theater was impeccably decorated in a black and white in the Art Deco style. Really good work. Elizabeth walked up in a stunning, tight, black and white dress, and though still beautiful, she looked really beat and tired and frazzled. She said that she’d worked straight through since yesterday morning and had been up all night. She gave me my ticket, said she had some last minute fixes, and would meet me in the theater. It was a full house of the most glamorous people in Hollywood. The only empty seat in the house – Elizabeth’s seat – was next to me. People sitting around me began to humorously give me shit, saying, “Have you been stood up?”
Lauren Bacall was the host of the show. She announced the guests: “Bette Davis, Charlton Heston, Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, Gregory Peck, Lee Marvin, Doris Day . . .”
Suddenly, Elizabeth dropped into the seat beside me, completely wiped out. I looked around at the friendly folks who had kidded me and all of them smiled and nodded, saying, “She’s so beautiful she was definitely worth waiting for.” I grinned. I was in the proverbial cat-bird seat. I’d made it; this was it; I was amongst my peers with the most attractive woman in the place.
Just as Lauren Bacall introduced Bette Davis, Elizabeth’s head dropped over onto my shoulder, and she was fast asleep. Oh well, she didn’t know who Nunnally Johnson was anyway. And then Elizabeth began to snore, loud. I shook her, she awoke and sat up, blinking her eyes. As Bette Davis took the stage, Elizabeth’s head once again dropped onto my shoulder, and once again she began to snore really loud. Ridiculously loud. I shook her again. She woke up with a start and yelled, “What the fuck!” then looked around the theater. Everybody was looking at her. She turned to me and said, “I have to go home right now and sleep.” I helped Elizabeth to her feet and escorted her out of the theater. As I glanced over my shoulder I saw Bette Davis step up to the podium, and she was just beginning to speak as we left.
Unsurprisingly, at least by my track record, after a few more dates, Elizabeth and I parted ways. C’est la vie.
It's a good “Meet Cute,” though.
I think a story a day keeps the blues away.