The Time of My Life (8 page)

Lisa and I got a decent number of woodworking jobs, thanks to recommendations from friends and the dance companies. But we still weren’t making very much money, so every week we’d budget how much was coming in and how much we could spend. If we managed to have at least twenty dollars for food, that was a good week. And we always made sure we had a few
dimes saved, in case we needed to make calls. The only way we had been able to get the motorcycle, in fact, was by managing to get a MasterCard and then immediately maxing out our credit limit to buy it. We spent the next five years paying off that debt.

We got very good at saving money, doing our shopping at the meat market downtown and making dishes that would keep. Lisa became an expert at making turkey last for days— she’d make turkey casserole, turkey tetrazzini, turkey sandwiches, turkey soup. When we got sick of turkey, she’d make hamburgers, pizza—whatever she could with the meager cash we had.

Every once in a while, we’d land a cool job that paid well, especially compared to the pennies we’d made as ballet dancers. Lisa and I got hired to sing and dance in industrial shows— trade shows for companies like Ford and Milliken Carpets, where we’d get flown to other cities, put up in hotels, and paid what felt like a fortune. Sometimes the companies even gave us samples of their products. Milliken, for example, gave us high-end area rugs—so although our apartment was sparsely decorated, a little dingy, and often covered with sawdust, we at least had beautiful rugs.

Around this time, I got in touch with a talent manager named Bob LeMond. Bob was originally from Houston, and my mother had helped get him into the managing business. I’d known Bob my whole life, and had always thought of him as just a quirky little guy from Texas, a would-be dancer who didn’t dance nearly as well as he talked. But by 1977 he had become a big-time manager—he represented John Travolta, Jeff Conaway, Tony Danza, Barry Bostwick, and Marilu Henner, among others.

Bob’s office was in Los Angeles, so I didn’t call him the first couple of years I was in New York. But after rising in the dance world, and getting those musical theater credits under my belt, I decided it was time. I made an appointment through his secretary, and when we met in New York he had one question for me.

“Buddy, why didn’t you call me before this?” he asked. “Where have you been?”

“Well, Bob,” I said, “I wanted to wait until I felt I’d earned it. You know, I’ve always been Patsy Swayze’s son, especially to you. I wanted to make a name for myself before coming in.”

“That’s your first mistake,” Bob said. “You’ve got to use anybody you can in this business to get you where you want to go.” I just looked at him, but he wasn’t done yet. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again in your career,” he said.

Bob didn’t take me on as a client just yet, but he told me he’d help me out. Right away I knew I was in good hands. He knew absolutely everybody in the business, and his charming, rather fey manner brought people’s guard down. As one director I know joked years later, “You know, Bob and I would just talk, and he’s got that southern thing and is so friendly, and we’d have such a good time—and then he leaves and I realize I just got screwed.”

During the seventies, there was one show in particular that Bob used as a kind of breeding ground for his clients: the Broadway production of
Grease. Grease
had opened at the Broadhurst Theatre in 1972, and by the time I hooked up with Bob, it was on its way to becoming the longest-running Broadway show in history. I hoped I might become Bob’s latest protégé to win a role in the show—and sure enough, before too long Bob had arranged an audition.

As Lisa revealed in a letter to her parents, we were both incredibly excited:

Buddy is up for (I don’t know whether to say it or not) a role in Broadway’s “Grease.” It doesn’t reveal itself on paper, but over here we’re jumping up and down and screaming! He went to the audition and he’s asked to come in and work on lines with the stage manager. As far as we know, there are two other guys up for the job….

Physically Buddy is the best choice, his voice and appearance couldn’t be closer to what the role requires. He walked on stage and they said, “Danny Zuko!” They just have to see if he’s an actor now. I guess we all do. I’ve never seen him do anything before. He has done acting but it was quite a while ago.

It’s a very big part, the lead as a matter of fact. He’s perfect for the part, I know he could do it ’cause he’s always playing around here exactly as Danny Zuko does on stage. He just has to do it for them. It’s so exciting, I keep trying to stay objective and not start thinking of what it would do for him if he gets the part. I feel like
I’m
auditioning. Cross your fingers and we’ll let everyone know.

In that same letter, Lisa described the show she was currently in—a revival of
Hellzapoppin’,
which had been the longest-running Broadway musical back in the thirties and early forties. The revival starred Jerry Lewis and Lynn Redgrave, and Lisa was a featured dancer—but the New York critics savaged Lewis, who was politically unpopular at the time, and the show unfortunately never made it to Broadway.

Seeing her name printed on the programs, Lisa began to
wonder if “Haapaniemi” wasn’t too much of a mouthful as a stage name. As she wrote to her parents:

I like my name, it’s my name, but I’m wondering how seriously people will take Haapaniemi, or what will happen if they ever have to put it on a marquee. I don’t like the idea of people calling me another name, kind of like I like people to know me by Haapaniemi instead of only Swayze, but then what’s best? I thought of shortening the last name like Happi or Niemi. Lisa Niemi, sounds Italian doesn’t it?

This was the first appearance of “Lisa Niemi” on paper— and before long, it would begin appearing on playbills and cast and crew lists, as Lisa embraced her new name and budding career as Lisa Niemi.

I won the role of Danny Zuko in late 1977, and started on January 3, 1978. The movie version starring John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John hadn’t come out yet, but legions of theater patrons knew the story of Danny and Sandy from the show’s nearly five-and-a-half-year run on Broadway.

In fact, during my time as Danny Zuko,
Grease
passed
Fiddler on the Roof
as the longest-running show on Broadway. Critics reviewed the show when we hit that milestone, and my performance got good reviews. I was doing eight shows a week— slicking my hair back with a combination of Groom ’n’ Clean and hair spray, and singing, dancing, and acting my heart out. Although the schedule was exhausting, I loved being on Broadway—the excitement of the crowds, the adrenaline of performing live onstage. And for the first time, crowds started
gathering outside the stage door, waiting for me to sign autographs.

And there was another reason I was happy to be on Broadway: The paycheck was definitely bigger than what I’d been making. Lisa and I had been saving our pennies for so long, it was nice to finally have the cushion of a little more money. As soon as we found out I’d gotten the role, we moved to a beautiful two-and-a-half-bedroom apartment up on 115th Street, across from Columbia University. We still didn’t have any furniture to speak of, but we did buy an actual bed—the first one we ever owned together. No more sleeping on a mattress on the floor!

Lisa and I loved our new place, and we loved New York. But
Grease
began opening new doors for me, and soon enough Bob LeMond planted the seed of an idea. He told us we should come to Los Angeles, where he was based, to explore movies and television. At first, neither of us was interested. As I told an interviewer at the time, “I may love doing TV and movies, but I don’t want to leave New York—that’s where the training and creativity are.” But as my eight-month stint in
Grease
began winding down, we found ourselves thinking more seriously about a move to Hollywood.

Lisa’s theater career was just starting to take off, so this would be an especially hard move for her. But she knew as well as I did that we had to grab the momentum I’d gotten from
Grease
. There were far more jobs for actors in Los Angeles than in New York, so if we wanted to have a chance to seize that life, now was the time. We discussed it and made the decision together that all things considered, this was the best move.

Over the course of a few months, we saved up about two thousand dollars for the move. We called Bob to let him know
we’d be flying out to Los Angeles in a week or two. “Great!” he said. “Call me when you get here!” We booked our tickets, packed up our two cats and a couple of suitcases, and said good-bye to New York. Because we weren’t sure things in California would work out, we sublet our apartment in case we needed to come back.

And with that, we were off to find our dramatic fortunes in Hollywood. Unfortunately, our first few days there would end up looking more like a comedy of errors.

After Lisa and I landed at LAX, the first thing we did was call Bob LeMond’s office to tell him we’d arrived. Ivy Travis, an older English woman who worked at the agency, picked up the phone. She asked who was calling, and I told her “Patrick Swayze,” expecting she’d recognize my name.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Who did you say you were?”

“Patrick Swayze,” I said. “Bob just took me on as a client. My wife, Lisa, and I just flew in from New York.”

“I see,” she said. There was a pause. “Mr. LeMond is out of town and won’t be back until next week.”

This wasn’t good news—we’d thought Bob would be able to help us find a place to stay and get settled in, but now he wasn’t even going to be around. And in those pre-cellphone days, it wasn’t that easy to get hold of people. We had no clue where to go—neither Lisa nor I had ever been to Los Angeles before.

“Well,” I said, “would you happen to have any suggestions for a place we might stay? We don’t really know the city.”

“I believe most of our clients who come into town stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel,” Ivy said. “I will let Mr. LeMond know you called.” And with that, she hung up. Welcome to LA!

We made our way to the rental car counter, packed the cat carriers and suitcases in the car, and headed toward Beverly Hills. But as we drove along Sunset Boulevard by the Beverly Hills Hotel, we didn’t even bother pulling in—it was a gorgeous hotel, obviously way beyond our means. We had a total of two thousand dollars, which had to last until we got work. Staying in that hotel, our money would have been gone within a week.

Lisa and I looked at each other, and though we didn’t say it, we both were thinking the same thing. Had we made a mistake? We’d sublet our beautiful apartment in New York and left a wonderful life there, thinking Bob would take care of us. But he wasn’t here, and his office didn’t even know who I was. Had I misunderstood what he’d said?

We’d have to figure that out later, as right now we needed to find a place to stay. “Well, where should we go?” I asked Lisa.

“How about Hollywood?” she said. “That’s why we’re here, right?” So I took a quick look at the little map provided by the rental car company, and we made a U-turn to roll back down Sunset toward Hollywood.

Most people think of Hollywood as a glamorous place. And it is—but there are parts that are as seedy and run-down as any poor urban area. We pulled up to the first hotel we saw, and I went in to check on rates while Lisa waited in the car with the cats. I walked back to the car shaking my head.

“What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.

“Well,” I said, “they don’t rent by the day.”

She looked confused. “What does that mean?” she asked.

“Lisa, they only rent rooms by the hour,” I said. Her eyebrows shot up as she understood what I meant, and I got back into the car and we took off.

Unfortunately, we ran into the same situation at the next two hotels we stopped at. Apparently, the only people looking to rent hotel rooms in Hollywood were using them for, shall we say, business purposes. By now, we were getting desperate. Darkness was starting to fall, and the streets of Hollywood seemed to be populated with hookers and junkies. Our cats were meowing in the backseat, and we were tired from our cross-country flight and the frustration of having nowhere to go. We felt like hamsters on a treadmill, with no clue how to get off.

Driving farther along Sunset Boulevard, we saw the Saharan Motor Hotel on the south side of the street and pulled in. I walked into the office, asked the man behind the front desk if he had any vacancies, and told him how desperate we were. “We just need a place for a few nights,” I said. “Please, anything you’ve got.”

“Well,” he said, “I do have one lady who comes to town sometimes on business, and when she’s not here, her room is available. But I’ll have to call and ask if she’s allergic to cats.” I was ready to stand there while he dialed the phone, but he said, “Come back in an hour or so, and I’ll have an answer for you.” Reluctantly, we got back into the car and drove around some more. But when we came back, the man said the room was ours. Lisa and I had found our first “home” in LA.

At that time, the Saharan was the kind of place where you didn’t want to walk barefoot on the carpet. It also was never quiet, even at night; you could hear the Laundromat next door, the sounds of prostitutes doing business in their rooms, and the occasional scream from the alleyway outside. Almost every night you’d hear somebody arguing, and sirens going by. But although the Saharan was pretty dire, the guy at the front
desk was always smiling and kind. When we finally checked out a week or so later, after we’d found a place to rent, he said, “Come back and see us after you make it in Hollywood! You’re welcome any time.”

We managed to find a really nice apartment for cheap in the Hollywood Hills, in the lower half of a house owned by two women. It had a kind of bohemian glamour, and because it was built on a hillside, we had a fabulous view of Hollywood. The women upstairs were real characters, and one of them seemed always to have a tumbler of Scotch in her hand. Lisa and I both loved the apartment—but now we just had to find some work to pay the five-hundred-dollar-a-month rent.