Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life (3 page)

In the Theatre Arts program you had to finish a year maintaining good grades before you were eligible to be cast in one of the productions. The teachers would watch you carefully in your acting class and in T.A.4, a class that was open to the entire student body. It was held in the main theater and once a week the best scenes from all the acting classes would be presented before this audience while teachers took notes for casting possibilities for the plays they were going to direct. Lynne and I were selected with a scene from
Waiting for Godot
. This time we got a triple A!

There was another actor at City College who also became my friend. His name was Vern Joyce. Vern was breathtaking on stage. The entire Theatre Arts department was in awe of him, including the entire faculty. He could play anything. From Puck in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
to Willy Loman in
Death of a Salesman
. A testimony to his greatness is that years later when he had auditioned for the Actors Studio and made it through all the rounds and down to his final audition, he asked me if I would be his scene partner. I was thrilled! I always wanted to work with Vern. We chose a scene from
Petulia
, a movie that starred George C. Scott and Julie Christie.

The scene could
only
be three minutes long, and that included entering and setting the furniture and props, using what was already available on stage. Lee Strasberg himself would be one of the three judges watching in the darkness. We had rehearsed long and hard and the scene was excellent. I was only slightly nervous because it wasn’t my audition; it was Vern’s. Vern had explained to me that no matter where we were in the scene after three minutes, they would say “thank you.” We would stop, say “thank you,” and exit. And that’s how it went.

A month later I got a call from a friend who was a member of the Actors Studio. He told me they had posted the names of the new members. There were nine of them. Not only had Vern made the cut, but they had made me a member also. Robert De Niro and Sally Field were also among the nine. I have my Actors Studio card and that honor is one of the greatest in my life, and a great big nod to the talent and brilliance of my friend, Vern.

By the summer of 1968 I finished my courses at LACC. Mr. Blunt was almost right—the class I began with had dwindled down to thirteen students instead of twelve! I was proud I had made it, and have always thought of myself as the thirteenth student. I stopped working at the International House of Pancakes and moved in with some friends to an enormous old mansion on Los Feliz in Hollywood. It had once belonged to W. C. Fields. I took the “maid’s room,” which was already furnished with a comfortable mattress on the floor. My needs were simple at this point in my life. With four of us sharing the rent, I needed to get another job immediately. I found one on Wilshire Boulevard, once again, waiting tables in a restaurant called Ye Piccadilly Deli.

At this time I had no car so I would walk up to Hollywood Boulevard to catch the bus to and from work. I liked this job! The owners were very nice. They introduced me to Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. I had a good time working there—for two weeks! Then, one of my friends told me they were hiring cocktail waitresses at the Whisky a Go Go on the Sunset Strip, and I should call to apply. I knew I had a good job, but this would be a
great
job, working around live music and fascinating people. I called. I was given a brief interview over the phone and asked to come down to the club that day. I met with Mario Maglieri, one of the owners of the Whisky. He asked to see my driver’s license to make sure I was twenty-one, since I would be serving cocktails. He hired me on the spot. Mario told me that I was to show up at 4 p.m. the next day for training. I asked him about uniforms. He said they didn’t have uniforms. The girls wore their own clothes. He looked me over and added, “Like what you’ve got on is OK, I guess.”

“What I’ve got on?” I thought.

I was wearing the only skirt I owned, a beige wraparound, with an ill-fitting white blouse and cheap, shiny black pumps. That was as far as my wardrobe went unless you counted a pair of worn-out bell-bottom jeans, a couple of pullover tops, moccasins, and some love beads! I had hoped for some sort of uniform, a black apron or a T-shirt perhaps, with the club logo on it. At the House of Pancakes, we had bright orange outfits, stiff white aprons, and little white hats plus sensible shoes. Somehow I would have to make it work, because I wanted this job.

I left the club elated and headed straight to a payphone. I now had the difficult task of quitting my job at Ye Piccadilly Deli. I stood at the phone for a few minutes thinking of what to say. I felt bad. It was like leaving a childhood sweetheart for the lead singer in a rock-and-roll band. I took a breath and dialed. The manager answered.

“Hi, it’s Cindy,” I said.

“Hi, Cindy.”

Get it over with, I thought.

“I’m sorry but I have to quit.”

Silence.

“What? You have to quit? Why?”

“I had an accident. I broke my arm.”

Silence.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, yes I did. I’m so sorry. I know you’ll have to hire someone else and I understand.”

“How’d you break it?”

“Bus accident.”

Silence.

“A bus
hit
you?”

“No, I fell getting off the bus.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Dead silence.

“I did!”

Awkward silence.

“OK, Cindy, but I know it’s not true.”

Hideous silence.

“OK.”

“Bye, Cindy.”

“Bye.”

I felt so bad, I’d disappointed these nice people and to boot I was a horrible liar. Good at the concoction, but not at the execution. I vowed
never
to lie again.

(A little lie I told myself.)

Two

Love, Peace, and Happiness

In 1968 the Sunset Strip was a wonderland of music, neon lights, love, peace, and happiness. A magical place, and I had just landed a magical job there, waiting tables at the Whisky a Go Go.

It’s my first night and Chicago Transit Authority is the headliner with the Flying Burrito Brothers opening for them. I can hardly believe my good luck—working around live music! The day before, a girl named Maggie and I were trained by one of the seasoned waitresses. Among other things she showed us how to hold the tray; shoulder high, palm up, fingers back. This way you had a natural swivel when you brought the tray around to serve. (While I worked there, my hand tended to stay in this position even when I slept.) We were given a tour. The go-go cages had been taken down two months earlier. I was a little disappointed, I have to admit.

The stage at the Whisky was elevated above the dance floor. On stage, to the far right, was a ramp that performers took to travel on and off stage. If you followed the ramp from the stage and kept going, it would end up backstage where the dressing rooms were. That meant whoever worked the upstairs bar also worked the backstage area. Those girls would serve all members of the bands, plus friends and family. The upstairs was referred to as “The Peanut Gallery” because along with a bar, a small dance floor, and a couple of tables, it consisted mainly of benches similar to bleacher seating. People in the Peanut Gallery were exempt from the standard two-drink minimum, which was imposed in the downstairs area. Kids would head upstairs right away because they knew they could pay the cover charge and get an inexpensive drink to last all night while they listened to incredible music. No one ever tipped up there, and I Do Mean No One!

To compensate, Mario would always give whoever worked it ten dollars at the end of the night. Most nights before the club opened, as we prepared our trays and lit the red candles on the round tables, Mario would, cigar in-hand, give a little speech regarding the acts, reminding us to enforce the two-drink minimum, and any other tidbit he thought we might need to know. On my first night I’ve been given the VIP section in front of the red leather booths. How lucky could I get? The slide show was beginning with random images of current events, Richard Nixon, Russia, hippies protesting, love-ins. Psychedelic images are underscored by the fabulous music of the day: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Buffalo Springfield, Simon and Garfunkel, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Burdon and the Animals. The doors opened and people flooded into the club. Suddenly I see people sitting at a table in my section. I happily approach, noting three pretty blond girls and a long-haired man sitting with his back to me. I greet them saying, “Hi, what can I get you?”

Each blond girl says, in turn, “Tom Collins, Tom Collins, Tom Collins,” and I write it down.

“Tom Collins, Tom Collins, Tom Collins.” I turn to the guy who still has his back to me and ask him the same question.

“What can I get you to drink, sir?”

He turns to face me for the first time and that’s when Jim Morrison asks me to bring him a bottle of Jack Daniels to the table. I was stunned by how beautiful he was; everything about him glistened. He took my breath away but I pretended not to notice it was him. After all, I had been a drama major and was trained in the art of pretending. I wrote down “bottle of Jack” and hustled off to the bar to put in my ticket.

As I started to leave, Tony the bartender shouted at me, “Hey new girl, wait a minute.” He was calling me back.

“What the hell is this?” he asks me holding up the ticket. “Three Tom Collins and a bottle of Jack? Is Morrison in the club?” he asked.

I ran back to him trying to conceal my excitement. “Yes, Jim Morrison’s in the club! The bottle of Jack is for him.”

Tony looked at me and said, “You know perfectly well we can’t serve a bottle of Jack at the table.” Well, I didn’t know perfectly well we couldn’t serve a bottle of Jack at the table. Someone must have left that part out when they trained me. Then Tony says, “You go back there and tell him, I’ll pour him a single or a double but no bottle of Jack at the table.” I hesitate.

“Go!” he says and I hustle back toward my table with the three blondes and Jim. I notice that the customers at my other table—two tall black gentlemen, one wearing a purple suit; both wearing big hats, and their nicely dressed dates are staring at me. I give them a smile and scurry past them.

I get back to Jim’s table and deliver the message, “I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but I’m not allowed to serve a bottle of Jack at the table. I can bring you a single or a double.”

He looks at me and asks, “Is Tony tending bar tonight?”

“Yes, he is,” I answer.

“Well, you go back there and tell Tony that he’s served me a bottle of Jack at the table before and I want a bottle of Jack at the table tonight.”

I turn tail and rush back to Tony. The Flying Burrito Brothers are playing “Do Right Woman.” My shoes are killing me!

Tony’s waiting for me.

“Spare me the sob story, what’s he asking for now?”

“Same thing. He says you’ve served him a bottle of Jack at the table and he wants one tonight!”

“That son-of-a-bitching liar! You go back there and tell him he’s a liar, and he’s not getting a bottle of Jack at the table and that’s that!”

“I can’t call Jim Morrison a liar!”

“Go!” he says.

I jump. I head back, ignoring the big-hat table still beckoning me. The second I get to the table, Jim looks up.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Morrison. It seems I’m really not allowed to serve a bottle of Jack at the table. Would a couple of doubles do?”

“Not really. Do me a favor, go back there and you insist for me!”

I’m kind of upset now, and my feet are really starting to hurt from my cheap shoes. I say the only thing I can think of, “OK!”

I head back to Tony determined this time to get that bottle of Jack for Jim. As I approach, I see that the blond girls’ Tom Collins drinks are sitting on the bar. I quickly put them on my tray. Tony looks at me but before he can speak I say, “He wants his bottle of Jack and he means it!”

And then I take off before Tony has a chance to torture me with his bartending manifesto. As I’m going back to Jim’s table, the two black guys make eye contact with me. They want to know when I’m going to be over there, I give them a nod as if to say “be right with you.” I get back to Jim’s table and gingerly place a Tom Collins in front of each of the girls. He looks at me as if to ask, When? Bottle? Jack?

I say as calmly as I can, “I’m working on it.”

The Flying Burrito Brothers have ratcheted up the music. If only I could enjoy it. If only I could enjoy anything about my first night waiting tables at the fabulous Whisky a Go Go, which right now is not so fabulous. Gypsy Boots, an actor and alternative lifestyle guru, has taken to the dance floor with his dancers (girls who looked to be around the age of fourteen, dressed in chiffon and gauze with flowers in their hair). Music swirls around me in the club as I make my way to the “big hat” table, wishing for the good old days, back at the International House of Pancakes (home of the bottomless coffeepot).

“What can I get you?”

The two women look at me and each say in turn, “Tom Collins.”

Hmm, I’m seeing a trend here. Ladies like their Tom Collins. I wondered what was in them. I turn to the men and they look at me and each order a Zombie. Now a Zombie is a drink with triple liquor and while I was being schooled the day before, I was informed we had to charge double for them. I take their order and head back to Tony who is waiting for me in the sixth ring of hell. I put my new order up on the bar. Tony glances at it.

“Zombies, ha-ha, I
like
to mix Zombies! Make sure you charge them double. What about Morrison?”

I look him straight in the eye as boldly as I can and I say these words: “Bottle of Jack.” I can practically see smoke coming out of his nostrils.

“You go back there and tell that fucker I’ll have the bouncer throw his ass out of here! I don’t care
who
he is!”

“You jerk!” I think, as I start to cry and stumble my way back to Jim’s table for possibly the last time. I hear Jim singing “The End” in my head.

“I’m
so
sorry Mr. Morrison, but I really can’t bring that bottle of Jack to the table. Can
I
buy you your double?”

Jim Morrison responds by taking my hand and looking me in the eyes, “What’s your name?”

“Cindy.”

He gently says, “Well, Miss Cindy, bring me that double. We’ve just been playing with ya!”

I look around and see all the waitresses, plus Mario and Tony, laughing at me. Could it be? Could it be a practical joke? Has Jim Morrison played a practical joke on me? I felt honored and humiliated both at the same time. I realize that Jim is still holding my hand. He squeezes it and smiles at me. I smile back. I’m too weak to squeeze his hand. I stand there a moment, letting the adrenaline subside. And now I can really feel my damn cheap pumps pinching my feet. I reluctantly let go of Jim’s hand and trot off to the bar where Tony ruffles my hair and laughs. I see that my Zombies and the other Tom Collins drinks are ready to go. I put them on my tray, take a deep breath, and head off. I set the Tom Collins down in front of the girls and the Zombies in front of each of the men. As I start to walk off, one of the men taps my arm. I turn around.

He looks at me and says, “Light ’em!”

“Light ’em?”

“Yeah, light ’em. If these drinks have triple the liquor, they’ll catch afire!”

I had not been trained in this customer request either. But if he wants his drink lit, I’ll give it the old junior college try! I set my tray down and grab one of the official Whisky matchbooks off the table and, inwardly trembling, do as the gentlemen requested. I light his drink afire, holding the match over the Zombie.

Boom
! It goes up in a majestic blue flame, as does the other one.
Whoosh
! I’m thinking, “Bravo, Tony.”

They smile at me, but not in a Jim Morrison way. I retreat from the table back to the bar. Tony is waiting for me. He says, “Those guys actually thought we had cut them short with the drinks, but I love mixing Zombies.”

“Yes,” I said. “But you should have warned me about the fire thing!”

The Flying Burrito Brothers have left the stage and now, “Sympathy for the Devil” is blasting out over the club speakers with the light show going full-bore. Gypsy Boots sways and circles one of his little girl dancers and others join in. Good God, you could see right through the gossamer! They circle each other with liquid arm movements—hands and fingertips moving in front of their eyes, bodies swaying in some sort of slow-motion whirling dervish. I thought, “This is the kind of dancing you might witness if you had lived a past life in Atlantis!”

I was always fascinated by this and years later would mimic these moves in a funny dance we did on
Laverne & Shirley
.

I checked on Jim’s table, and he was gone! They were all gone! One of the waitresses said, “Don’t worry about the check. The club took care of it.”

What about the tip? Did Jim leave me a tip or maybe a note? I wanted to ask this, but I didn’t dare. Besides it really didn’t matter. The experience with him was more important than any tip. But still! I scurried to my Zombie table and asked if everyone was doing OK. Lo and behold they were, and now they wanted Zombies all around plus cheeseburgers and fries. I wrote down the new order. I started to make my way back to the bar to put in my order when Maggie, the other new waitress, came to me crying.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

She said she had tripped and spilled her tray, then she had messed up an order, and now she was being sent upstairs to the dreaded Peanut Gallery.

“Poor Maggie,” I thought, but then maybe it was for the best. After all, downstairs was just too challenging for some people, and I couldn’t help but think that with all of my waitressing experience it came as second nature to me. A thrilling blast of horns rang out. Chicago Transit Authority had taken the stage!

The next night
I
was relegated to the Peanut Gallery, where they had intended me to work in the first place. I didn’t really mind, I was still kind of flattered by the whole Jim Morrison thing. I kept my job at the Whisky for another two months, serving everyone from Duke Ellington to Joe Cocker. I could tell many fantastic tales about working the Peanut Gallery at the Whisky, and maybe one day I will.