Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (34 page)

That night's episode was nothing short of fabulous. We brought a good bottle of wine and a battery-operated disc player so that we could listen to Beethoven and Mozart as we watched forest fires burning in different places on the wall of the Great Rift Valley. Paul, a little more worried about the lions than he was willing to admit, didn't get much sleep, but I had no trouble, and when I awoke in the morning, I put the Barbra Streisand concert album on the CD player. I loved that album, and so did the big baboons! At 6:00 a.m. on the dot, the sun came up, and the baboons came down. Just as we were preparing to leave, at least a hundred of them (those with good taste) sat at complete attention in a long line stretched out in front of us, their paws in their laps, until the last song was played. Not one so much as coughed. We stared at them, and they stared back, and it was clear they loved Barbra as much as I. I thought long and hard about calling her to say, “I've seen big baboons line up to hear you sing.” I feared she might not understand. (I am a big fan of hers; I think she is a great lady.)

I fell so in love with Africa on the first trip, I decided I wanted to celebrate my sixtieth birthday by climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. There was nothing to keep me from doing it, and no reason why I shouldn't treat myself. I already enjoyed hiking in Aspen, where I still owned a condo, and I thought I was as strong at sixty as I had been at thirty. (Not true.) I devoted the summer just prior to my birthday to getting in better shape. I did this in and around Aspen, where just about every week my friend Barbara Eisberg and I climbed a fourteen-thousand-foot peak. (Colorado boasts fifty-four of the monsters.) We also hiked to twelve and thirteen thousand feet the other days, and I regularly took my copy of the
New York Times
to the top of Independence Pass (12,095 feet) so that I could improve my lung capacity at the same time as I improved my mind.

Finally, on a bright, sunny September 6, 1996, I flew back to New York to drop off unnecessary luggage, quickly go through the mail, pick up my passport, and go for it. The plan was to be in Nairobi on the seventh, Arusha on the eighth, and be climbing on the ninth, lest Barbara and I lose even an iota of the valuable acclimatization gained on the roof of Colorado.

The night before the climb started we stayed at a modest hotel not far from the access route. Our chief guide, Capanya, visited us to introduce himself, go over details, tell us what not to pack, what we could expect, and what he expected from us. Our excitement was tempered by trepidation, and neither of us slept.

The next morning we joined the men who would take us up. They were all Masai: two guides, Capanya and Sekeyan (who both turned out to be incredibly capable), a cook, Manasee (who climbed carrying four large egg cartons in his hands so that we could have sauces), and ten fabulous porters. It looked like a small tribe supporting us: That's what we wanted and thought we needed, and that's what we paid for—first class.

The climb would take seven days: five going up, two coming down. We were starting out at ninety degrees Fahrenheit and ending at twenty below zero the night before summiting. This meant carrying a lot of food and clothing. Beyond fourteen thousand feet, there would be no firewood; therefore it was mandatory for the outfitter to supply stoves and fuel. There were two two-man sleeping tents: one for us and one for our guides, a dining tent, a lavatory enclosure, and a cook tent that would also serve as a dormitory for the porters. Some outfitters allow their porters to fend for themselves in the elements, but not our classy outfitter. Going first cabin meant that the guys who carried eighty pounds each for us all day would at least enjoy warmth and shelter all night. God knows they deserved it.

The two guides spoke excellent English, the cook could make himself understood, and the rest knew about five words each. Those words were “Bruce Willis,” “Arnold Schwarzenegger,” and “Nike.” This, however, did nothing to stop us from communicating. I would take my face creams and lotions into their tent each night and talk about everything from face-lifts to American politics—all of which they loved hearing about—and then, invariably, they would question me about their biggest concern: AIDS. They wanted—needed, really—to know how they could have a relationship with a woman—a woman they might one day marry—and not get sick. I told them how, and they never had any trouble understanding me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When they first caught sight of Barbara and me, I could see slight smiles on their faces, not smiles of greeting but smiles of gratitude. They were looking at two old ladies who were going to give them the weekend off with full pay. They figured—and this was confirmed to me later—that we would have a nice stroll for three days through the unique vegetation of the Shira Plateau, and when we got to “the rock” it would be all over, as in “Down we go.”

On the third night we made camp at the foot of “the rock,” the last enormous, very steep side we would have to climb to reach the top. Capanya gave us a pep talk at our first-class dinner, and got up from the table to demonstrate how he wanted us to walk the next morning. “Step, breath, step, breath,” he said, emphasizing the rest after each footfall. We had breakfast at 5:00 a.m., packed our gear, and hit the rock walking. And I mean just that. We were putting one foot in front of the other without a breath in between. (God bless Colorado!) I heard Capanya issue new orders at the lunch break that resulted in changed expressions and a great deal of chatter. Swahili is a language in which many syllables are repeated, (
tutu a nana
=
“See you again”), and at top speed it sounds like the language a child might invent, whimsical and lyrical. “What did you say to them?” I asked Capanya, although I thought I knew exactly what he'd said. Still, I wanted to hear him say it.

“I told them, ‘Pack everything tight. We're going to the top!'”

Yes! Yes! Yes! It was the moment of greatest victory for me, even greater than being at Uhuru Peak, the roof of Africa—not that there was anything wrong with that. “We're going to the top!” That's what it's always been about for me: taking risks, stepping off a cliff, attempting to get to the top, and having fun doing it. And I figured if I could climb Kili at sixty, there was nothing I couldn't do. I am happy. I am healthy. I have a beautiful family, and I do it all!

*   *   *

I remember closing my eyes and resting my head on the plane cushion as the 737 left Nairobi on the way to Frankfurt and then on to New York. I thought about the frightened girl who stood in the middle of a room in the Plaza Hotel and put out a small fire all those years ago. I also thought about the young woman who stood in the middle of Judy's life for a while and put out grass fires all over the place. The experience changed her. She was braver; she risked more. The grown woman now had the courage to fight fires wherever she found them, and putting them out allowed her to see the world around her more clearly, though she sometimes got burned.

The old woman's own raging fires have now cooled, and she no longer bears any ill will toward anyone. She owes Judy something for the changes. Gratitude? I'm not sure that's the right word. Whatever it is, it would have been a much lesser life without her.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Inclement weather almost kept me from a party where I enjoyed a serendipitous meeting with Sally Richardson, who bought this book shortly thereafter. Thank you, Sally. I now think of that cold, wet winter night as a sunny day. And thank you, Michael Flamini, my editor at St. Martin's, who framed every suggestion with such kind consideration. I want to include in my thanks the entire team at St. Martin's for their wonderful support. I'm grateful to my amazing agent, Al Zuckerman, for his caring and expertise, and I also owe a great deal of my good fortune to Richard Marek, without whose early attention this book would not exist. Finally, there is my close friend Albert Poland, organizer of the first Judy Garland fan club, which is no more than a coincidence in our friendship … or perhaps a sign of the universe at work. His understanding and appreciation for the gift Judy Garland gave the world gave me the encouragement I needed to keep the important things in focus.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

STEVIE PHILLIPS
began her career traveling with Judy Garland and became head of the theater and the motion picture departments of CMA (now International Creative Management) in New York. As an agent, she represented film stars, directors, and musicians of the first order, and was involved with multiple award-winning theater productions—among them,
Doonesbury, Loose Ends, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Nuts,
and
Open Admissions
—and film productions. She lives in New York City. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

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CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Introduction

Part 1 • Beginnings

1.
    Who the Hell Is Stevie Phillips?

2.
    What Do You Do with a Jewish Princess?

3.
    Girl on the Bottom

4.
    Can I Tell You About “Menial”?

5.
    The New Kids on the Block

6.
    How Good Is Real?

7.
    Have You Heard of Haddonfield?

8.
    Boston

9.
    Reality Checks

10.
  Love—or Something Like It

11.
  Vegas

12.
  Back in New York

13.
  A Vacation

14.
  One Kind of Husband

15.
  Endings, Beginnings, and Endings

16.
  A Very Sad Day

17.
  Sometimes

Part 2 • Success

18.
  The Liza Start-up

19.
  Flying Solo

20.
  Starring Liza

21.
  What Is an Agent?

22.
  Moving On

23.
  Crazy

24.
  Fun in the Sun

25.
  The Success Effect

26.
  Betrayal

Part 3 • Maturity

27.
  A Different Kind of Whorehouse

28.
  Broadway Gets a Whorehouse

29.
  Hollywood Gets Another Whorehouse

30.
  My Last Marriage

31.
  The Pieces

32.
  TGIF (Thank God It's Finished)!

33.
  Climbing the Mountain

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

 

 

JUDY & LIZA & ROBERT & FREDDIE & DAVID & SUE & ME …
Copyright © 2015 by Stevie Phillips. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein