Summer is ending. So is our family vacation in LA. It has been super great. I happened to see Clint Eastwood having dinner across from us at Gibby’s. There were six at his table. My wish was to just go over and say, ‘Good evening, Mr. Eastwood,’ but my husband Phil, somewhat shy, denied me that thrill. In order to leave, we had to walk past Mr. Eastwood’s table, so I paused for a moment, gave him my best wink, blew him a kiss and walked faster, afraid Phil was going to clobber me.
I’m not positive, but think I saw Angelina Jolie in Ralph’s the next morning buying pate’ de frois gras in Gerston’s while I was ordering turkey breast and Swiss cheese for sandwiches to take on the plane with us. Mom thinks the airlines are overcharging us for everything (and I agree). The sandwiches I make are going to be much thicker, tastier than the refrigerated ones on Virgin Air, at 2/3 the cost. As my turkey is being sliced, I keep my eyes on Angelina. My god she is beautiful, but so are lots of ladies in LA. No one is walking slowly around her, asking for autographs, so I guess my guess was wrong.
‘Yo, Mom,’ that’s Governor Schwarzenegger for sure. He and another hunk just went in Siggy’s Cigar Shop. Let’s watch them through the front window.’ They smell each cigar the owner brings them and put them down on the counter. The clerk gets two large boxes from his stock room, puts each in a mannish shopping bag and they walk out the door, right past us. I can smell the stinky cigars without even breathing.
‘Funny,’ I say to my mother. ‘I’ve seen a few famous people and you nerds haven’t spotted a soul. Mom, Mom, look, that must be Michael Jackson. That’s him, right? He wears his white glove all the time.’ Fast as a bee can sting, Mom snaps, ‘ No, Goofus, that isn’t Michael Jackson. He’s dead!’ I feel really stupid and have to admit to her I made a mistake.
Dad is splurging for our very last night here in Wonderland. He’s taking us to Pierre’s for dinner. We are all dressed decently but not Voguish. I don’t know about the others, but I feel somewhat like a third class citizen. Oh, the quiet elegance of this place. A harpist harps. The handsome maitre d’ seats us. There is no rush. I glance at the gorgeous china on the next table, am aware of the spotless crystal, don’t hear the discrete bread boy put warm, breads, rolls in front of us. My poached salmon can’t be salmon. This is surely fish from heaven, not the Yukon. Dinner is totally relaxed. Until we come to dessert. That is when we almost have to duel for the largest bite of each wonderful selection. Suddenly poof it is over while the evening is still young.
We have one more stop to make. Dad has kept it a secret. The Brick Wall awaits us. Comedians of little repute entertain here. I’m not much for jokesters and expect little. We are all amazed at the size of the theater. Hundreds, maybe more than a thousand people, are flooding in. Seats are not reserved. How or why we are lead to a table at center stage with a perfectly clear view of the performers is a puzzle.This can be a stinko seat or a great one. I don’t mention it and wait to see what happens, watch others shuffling around, trying to find decent seats.
Dad orders a bottle of Merlo from one of the waiters in orange jeans. Egads, what a gruesome color but it serves its purpose. The crew can be spotted by all thousand of us. The wine comes, is opened unceremoniously. I make the first toast to my family, to a safe trip home. We make individual toasts and sip to each. I double sip. By the time I finish my second glass of wine, I am having a great time and the show hasn’t even started. Dad orders another bottle of Merlo. I’m on my third glass and am as happy as the turkey that gets its reprieve from death when brought to President Clinton for Thanksgiving.
The audience lights go out. Stage lights come on. An Emcee I never saw before dances out of the wings. He introduces himself but I pay no attention to his name. He blabbers and blabbers, names each entertainer. No one applauds. Already I think Dad threw out his money. The Emcee raises his hand, asks for quiet, leans toward the drummer and indicates a ‘drum roll, please.’ Spot lights go on. The Emcee smiles and announces, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. We are honored tonight to have President Clinton’s wife, Hillary, in our audience. Give her a big hand!’ The Emcee is crossing the stage. The spotlight follows him and stops–stops, turns on me and almost blinds me. I hear applause and whistles. He points directly at me when he says, ‘Please stand up, Mrs. Clinton.’ I look at my family watching me, put my hand over my mouth and tell the Emcee he is crazy.’ My mind is befuddled by the wine and the foolishness but I stand, smile, wave in all directions. I wave and wave until Phil literally pulls me back into my chair. The applause stops.
The spotlight moves to a clown-like man with a red rubber nose. Of course, he squeaks it and I cringe. I turn him and all the other performers off.
Dad pays the check and we start to follow the crowd to the entrance. Four ushers surround me, guard me as I am asked over and over again for my autograph. My father hands me a pen and I sign programs, menus with only Hillary C. ‘ I am sane enough not to want to go to jail for forgery. We make it safely to our rented car, to our morning plane for Newport.
In retrospect, I remember being Mrs. Clinton and wonder as the years fly by, was that really Clint Eastwood I winked at?
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