A Star is Born (18 page)

And besides, the money they were offering Bill was mind-boggling. Bill, the little country bumpkin from upstate farm-country New York, the guy who had driven a falling-apart car that was totally undependable, the man who had lived in hell for years, him, that Bill, was offered $150,000 per episode. While growing up, Bill could never conceive of ever having $150,000 total, let alone earning that each week, guaranteed, for twenty-two weeks. Now, give me a minute to do the math, carry the zero, um, that’s a lot of money. Everything that Bill had to say about doing the series was driven from that point on by the fact that it was a good idea that people loved and that he was going to get paid a boatload of money to do it.

Talking Derrick into the idea took some doing, and in the end it was Moira who got him lined up to seal the deal. (I never knew what she did to convince him, and she probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.) The two men signed their contracts for a guaranteed twenty-two episodes. Production started almost immediately to get a few episodes “in the can,” as they say in the TV biz. (See how I’m picking up the lingo?)

Weekly television was grueling and rigorous. They started on Monday morning with writers, to go over the script for that week’s episode. The cast read through the script and worked out changes everyone agreed were necessary. The actors learned their lines (one scene at a time, in most cases), and they started rehearsing, running through all the different segments producers brought together to make into a near-twenty-two-minute half-hour sitcom for weekly television—twenty-two minutes to allow for the addition of eight minutes of commercials plus opening credits, closing credits, and sneak peeks of the next episode. Filming was wrapped up by Friday (hopefully), and then the whole thing started again on Monday morning. Over and over and over again.

I lightened my course load that quarter at school so that I could spend more time with Bill at the studio while the guys worked. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust them—well, no, actually that was exactly how I felt. Actually, I mostly trusted Bill. Derrick, however, was still another story. I enjoyed being with Bill, watching him work. The man really was a natural. He had a talent that was truly remarkable. And Derrick wasn’t half-bad either, although I wouldn’t tell him that.

The way the two of them worked together was just so smooth, so fluid. I wouldn’t be lying if I told you that I was a little jealous. No, a lot jealous. They had a comfort with each other on set that was what most couples aspire to have in a relationship. I was jealous, but I would never tell either of them that. I know that they were just acting, but they did it with such ease that it didn’t seem like it was work for them.

The show premiered in a prime time slot on network television and was instantly a hit. The love of the movie carried over into the series. I had personally not been sure that something like this would hold people’s interest week after week, but the writers had so far come up with some incredibly winning storylines and fantastic dialogue. I had my doubts that a story from the big screen would translate to the smaller screen, but after the first few episodes it seemed to be clearing that hurdle with the greatest of ease.

The guys kept working, filming new episodes every week.
A typical television season featured twenty-two episodes. Finishing
one episode a week translated—let me do the math—into twenty-two weeks of filming. The remainder of the year was then free for them to do other projects, such as movies. And there was a constant supply of scripts and offers appearing on our doorstep. Well, not literally on our doorstep, but you know what I mean.

The Cost of Television

T
HERE
was one unexpected issue for us once the television series started to get noticed, not that it had been ignored before: Bill was recognized absolutely everywhere we went. Before, he would be recognized frequently. Now? Constantly. Everywhere. Every day. Constantly. We couldn’t go anywhere without someone coming up to him and nearly peeing themselves with delight.

It happened so frequently the last time we tried to go grocery shopping together that I started to say to Bill, “Cleanup on aisle five,” whenever another one approached. In his good-natured way, Bill always smiled and talked briefly with the person, but even he found it tedious after a while.

When he stopped to put gas in the car, he was besieged. When he stopped at Starbucks to buy a coffee, he was surrounded. When he went to the local drugstore to buy something, he was inundated. Even his disguises didn’t work anymore. He was becoming somewhat frazzled. He absolutely didn’t want to give up his life. He did not want to have to live as a prisoner of his own fame, never able to go anywhere or do anything. Unfortunately, that was exactly what was happening. Anytime he wanted something, he would tell me and I would go pick it up. He hated this aspect of his fame more than anything else. It was no fun whatsoever to be captive to something that others craved with every fiber of their being. Regardless of how much money the studio was paying him, Bill was rapidly losing patience and beginning to question continuing in his present line of work.

One night we were sitting by the pool following dinner. “I’ve been thinking,” Bill said.

“That’s never a good thing.”

“Bite me. As I said, I’ve been thinking. This is where you play the loyal, dutiful spouse and ask, ‘Yes, dear, what has been on your mind?’”

“Yes, dear. What has been on your mind?”

“Good.” He nodded in approval. “I’ve been thinking that no amount of money in the world is worth the way I’m forced to live at the moment. I’m a prisoner. During the day I’m a prisoner of work. At night I’m a prisoner at home. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without being mobbed by fans.

“Do you remember back when I was just out of the hospital after my adventures in Australia? Remember how I was trapped at home day after day by those torrential downpours? Do you remember that?”

I nodded.

“It was like the world was seeking to rub my nose in rain wherever I went. First in Australia and then back here in California.”

“Yes, I remember. You were not a happy camper. Do you have any ideas on how to handle this at the moment?”

“No.”

“I have one possibility. We hire someone to take care of the things that are giving you trouble—basically anything out in public, like buying groceries, putting gas in the car, going to the ATM, things like that.”

“Mark! We’ve always done for ourselves. I’m not one of those egotistical Hollywood people who needs a staff of sycophants to do everything for them.”

“Did you ever think that maybe they hire those people, not because they want to but because they have to, in order to have any sanity at all?”

“No, I had not thought about that. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’d still basically be a prisoner in my own home.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“Explain.”

“Rather than just stay home all of the time, we could go out in the evening to eat. If we warn the staff of whatever restaurant we go to that we need them to run interference for us, I’m sure they could be persuaded to help us out… for the proper incentive.”

“Bribe, you mean.”

“No, tip. You’d be paying someone to perform a service for you.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t ask if you liked it. You asked for an idea. I’m giving you one.”

Staying home was not always a foolproof option, as we had discovered a few weeks earlier. Somehow, some fans of Bill’s had tracked us down and found out where we lived. They had all assumed that we lived in the big house in front, never imagining that a big, huge star would live in a small servant’s quarters apartment in the far back yard of someone else’s house. Moira had quickly and efficiently chased them all away, telling them in no uncertain terms that Bill did not live in that house and that she wished people would get their facts right. For a time she had gone so far as to hire a guard to chase people away and to make sure that no one wandered out behind her house and actually found us.

How Could This Happen?

A
S
THE
guys neared the end of filming on season one, I was awakened one morning by the sound of my cell phone ringing. Cracking open one eye enough to figure out where the noise was coming from, I saw that it must be very early (or very late) because there was no light outside the windows.

Whoever was calling at such an appalling hour rolled over to voice mail. I closed my eyes, telling myself that I would check out who called when I woke up at a more civilized hour. But less than thirty seconds later the phone rang again. This time I got out of bed, found the phone, and checked who was calling. Seeing my mom and dad’s name pop up on the caller ID, I quickly answered.

“Hello?”

“Mark?” I heard my dad’s voice, but there was something else in his voice, something beyond the usual.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, son.” There was that nagging something in his voice again. There was definitely something up.

“Dad…,” I started.

Before I could go on, though, I heard my dad crying.

“Dad! What’s wrong?”

“Mark, do you think you could come home?”

“Dad! What’s happened?”

By this point, Bill had woken up as well and was aware that something was wrong—very, very wrong. “What’s happening?” he asked. I shook my head and shrugged, telling him that I didn’t know yet.

“Dad, what’s going on? Where’s Mom?”

“Mark, something’s happened. It’s your mom.”

Bill saw something change in my appearance or my body language or both and was immediately by my side.

“Dad, what’s happened to Mom? Is she okay? Where is she?”

“Mark, I need you to come home. Can you come home quickly?”

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s happened, Dad?”

“Mark, your mom’s been hurt. She’s in the hospital. I’m there now. I really could use your help, son.”

“Of course, Dad. I’ll be on the first plane out and be there as fast as possible. What hospital are you at?”

He told me so that I would know where to go when I got there.

“What happened, Dad?” I asked with surprising calm.

As I listened to him answer my question, I could feel the blood drain away from my head. I started to feel woozy and was momentarily concerned that I was going to pass out. Reaching out to the wall, I backed into it and slid down until I was sitting on the floor, braced against the wall.

While my father talked, Bill was by my side. He didn’t
know the details, but he knew that something major had happened
.
He left my side long enough to grab his own cell phone. He
placed a call—don’t ask me to whom—and had a brief conversation. He nodded a lot and said “yes” a couple of times. He was finished with his call before I was. He placed another call. I couldn’t hear the details—I was too focused on what I was hearing.

When I hung up after telling my father that I loved him, Bill helped me to my feet and pushed me toward the bathroom.

“I got us onto a flight that leaves LAX in two hours. Get into the shower and then get dressed. I’m right behind you.”

I did as directed. When I stepped out, I saw that he had already grabbed our backpacks and had thrown some essentials into each. I added a couple of other things, more by habit than because I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking at the moment; I was simply moving.

Bill was back by my side, and we both threw on some clothes and grabbed our bags. Giving our home one last quick check, we turned off the lights and locked the door, heading to our car. I thought of it as “our” car, but at the same time I thought of it as my mom’s car, since it had been hers before they gave it to us to bring west with us.

We were basically quiet on the drive to the airport. Bill drove. I leaned my head against the window.

“Is she dead?” Bill asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Will we get there in time?”