The idea of never working again pervaded my every thought. Lunatic Debbie was part of a big clique of very important casting directors—all single women for whom work was their lives—and I envisioned her speaking to everyone in town and talking smack about me. I ruminated on this 24/7 and developed a case of what would come to be called PTSD. I saw myself living under bridges as a hobo lady. I’d worked so hard on both my career and my sobriety and here was Debbie, the poster child for paranoia, ruining my career before it even left the station. And it was very important to both me and my mother that I had a career. My mother and I had an unspoken yet tacit understanding that no man would ever support me, so I had to do well on my own. I’d have glimmers of hope, then here come those tears again, to quote Jackson Browne. I was a broken wreck. I spoke to Debbie’s former assistant, David, to make sure it wasn’t just me—I wasn't the only one stricken with angst from working with Debbie. David told me he went through his own ordeal with her, but I got that he handled the whole thing much better than I and moved on much more sanely. He did say that if he met her in a dark alley and could get away with it, he’d kill her. My Debbie neurosis took the form of a recurring dream where I’m running her over with my car but she keeps popping back up like one of those balloon people with sand on the bottom so they rise back up if you try to knock them over. I’d developed an idée fixe about Debbie and it never left. Throughout my entire casting career I always feared her and expected her to call anyone I worked with and tell them not to work with me.
Then one day the curse partially lifted! I got a call from a wonderful, uncomplicated, casting director named Jean Frost who wanted to hire me to be her assistant on a pilot. Her office was right next to mine and Debbie’s so she’d seen my work.
“Are you sure you want to hire me?” I asked stupidly,
“Yes you’re the best!” Because she worked right next to me she knew how good I was at my job and didn’t give a rat’s ass about what Debbie thought. Jean was lovely. She was soft spoken and kind; a very tall blonde with a husband. They lived in an old Victorian house near USC and were very involved in the historical preservation of their neighborhood. In other words: Jean was normal and had a life.
Our offices for this project were in a nondescript warehouse building in a drab part of town. I had a windowless office and I loved every second of working with Jean. We’d go on to do one more pilot together and then, when she wasn’t working, I got a call from Jeff Greenberg, one of the most successful casting directors in the business. He’d called to offer me a job. He was casting CHEERS at the time which was in its last season and I jumped at the chance to work with him. He’d known me from the Taper.
Jeff’s office was on the Paramount lot where my father had worked under contract all his years in Hollywood which pulled at my heart. My first day at Jeff’s I stepped onto stage 25 and there was the CHEERS bar that I’d seen on television so many times in my youth. I was raised around famous people, but it was still a thrill seeing Ted Danson, Kirstie Alley, Woody Harrelson and the rest of the cast doing a run through on set. One rainy day I was going home disheveled, wet, and with an armful of files and photos when I came to the exit door of the building. A male voice from behind said, “let me get the door for you.” I turned around to see a very short man with long brown hair. He gracefully placed his arm around me and like a true gentleman, opened the door for me. I realized it was Tom Cruise. His offices were next to ours.
Being on the Paramount lot had me thinking about my childhood celebrity experiences. My breakfast with Cary Grant, when I was ten, came to mind:
First of all, my mother had had a lifelong crush on Cary Grant. She’d joke about him being her boyfriend and would say he was the “right shade of everything.” My mother and I watched movies together and she made sure I saw INDISCREET which she described as the most romantic movie ever made—and AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER. She always said the last line along with Deborah Kerr: “If you can paint, I can walk.” Because the line was so hokey. Deborah Kerr, in the film, had been hit by a car on her way to meet Cary Grant , and ended up in a wheelchair. Even at eight years old hearing my mother doing Deborah Kerr made me laugh and realize how corny the last line was, and whenever the movie was on we’d watch it and say “If you can paint, I can walk,” together. But it starred Cary Grant which made the whole movie worthwhile.
Flash forward, I’m ten years old and on vacation with my parents in Miami Beach. We’re staying at the Doral Hotel, a sleek thin black glass building with vertical white stripes running down it. It was the epitome of mid-century elegance and right on the beach. In those days a kid could wander through a hotel alone without a parent. At least this kid could. I was a solitary child who took solitary journeys. When I finished wandering around the hotel I went back up to our suite and who should be in the elevator with me? Yes you guessed it: Cary Grant, big as life and twice as gorgeous. The elevator operator literally dropped her jaw and stared slack-jawed at him the whole ride. I didn’t think people did that in real life. I couldn’t wait to get to the room to tell my mother that Cary (he was simply Cary to me now that we’d shared an elevator ride) was on the elevator with me and got off on our floor. This was the older silver haired Cary Grant who wore black rimmed glasses. He was still stunning to a girl of ten.
I burst in the door and announced to my parents, “Cary Grant was in the elevator with me and got off on our floor!” “Oh my god,” my mother said and my father said, “Cary’s here?” It turned out my father knew Cary from his early days in Hollywood and also from Wall Street as Cary now represented Fabergé. My father picked up the hotel phone and dialed the operator, “Yes this is Sam Coslow calling for Cary Grant,” Cary picked up and the conversation ended with, “Sure Cary we’d love to have breakfast with you, you’ll meet my wife, Frances and my daughter, Cara.” He hung up and said, “We’re all having breakfast with Cary tomorrow morning in his suite.”
My mother looked panicked. “No I can’t go, you and Cara go.” I said, “Come on mom, he’s your boyfriend.” My mother looked terrified ,“No no, I can’t go Sam.” She was afraid to meet her idol and wouldn’t go to breakfast. She was deadly serious, “Okay,” said my father, “Cara and I will go.” My parents accommodated each others insecurities and neurosis.
Later that afternoon my mother and I were going down for a swim. Frances was wearing a bathing suit with a chic brown cover up and heels, her hair was up and wrapped in a scarf. She looked gorgeous. Prettier than Deborah Kerr in her wheelchair. Well who should be walking down the hall but Cary Grant.
“Look mom, It’s Cary Grant.” My mother let out a geschrei (Yiddish for a scream) and ran back into the room. She was still that fat child from Blackwell Oklahoma and the thought of meeting her lifelong crush overwhelmed her.
My father and I went to Breakfast in Cary’s room the next morning. His business manager joined us whom my father also knew. All I remember of the conversation was Cary saying, “Oh shit,” then looking at me saying, “Sorry darling.” sounding every bit like Cary Grant. I giggled.
When we returned to Englewood my mother immediately made an appointment with a therapist. He asked her why she felt she needed therapy, she replied, “Because I can’t meet Cary Grant.” Which I’m sure was the weirdest response the therapist had ever gotten.
I am impressed with the fullness these installments are showing. It's not just about the addiction/recovery - it's the whole package, the fame, near fame, in fame, what fame does (and doesn't) what gay is what gay love is, what pain is what a therapist hears... keep going!
This is so wonderful and funny!! Love your stories!!