Binderama60for60

One morning in June, the legendary performer Dickie Smothers sneered at me, “shame on you.” I was late to pick him and his brother up at National Airport because I’d overslept after my buddy Chris Castle and I had roadtripped to Virginia Beach and back in the previous 20 hours, as one does at that age. The town car was parked a long way away from the terminal because I still hadn’t learned where the limo lot was; this wasn’t starting out well. Tommy Smothers sat up front with me and lightened the mood as I drove them to the Marriott at Tysons Corner. It turned out to be a fun few days.

Such was the summer of 1985. “Back to the Future” premiered, as did New Coke and the advent of wokeness with “We are the World” and Live Aid. Madonna was still hot and almost barely kinda “Like a Virgin,” Sting spoke for all of us with “I want my MTV,” and my parents were out of town a fair bit. All in all, it was a pretty damn good summer.

The Job

I can’t remember how I landed this gig but it was rad, as we said back then. I was a driver for Wolf Trap, a theater and national park in my hometown of Vienna, Virginia just outside D.C. My brother Mike had spent a previous summer working maintenance there, doing lots of manual labor in the hot sun. As I’ve mentioned in other posts: back in our youth, if Mike went left, I went right. There would be no sweaty manual labor for this chain smoker with soft, supple hands and too-often boorish behavior, and a penchant for celebrity fondling.

There were four drivers that summer, and we were assigned to fetch visiting artists (and their crews and sometimes gear) from Dulles or National Airport and deposit them to their hotels and to the theater. We also fulfilled the contract riders of the performers and their entourages, going on massive shopping sprees at the Giant store in Vienna on show days. Five pounds of brie, a veggie platter, two handles of Stoli, six pairs of tube socks, three roasted turkeys, a dozen scented candles, whatever was called for in the contract. And then we’d set it up in the dressing rooms backstage. On occasions when artists had tour buses, the trove would be cleaned out and loaded for the road even before the show had ended. But most of the time, the bounty was barely touched, so we might enjoy some of the leftovers in the kitchen backstage.

The rest of the time, we hung out in the organization’s low-key offices next to the home of Wolf Trap’s founder, Mrs. Filene-Shouse, or somewhere around the theater and backstage. We could watch rehearsals and shows almost every day and sit at stage door to watch the action come and go.

If you’ve followed this 60|60 series, you’ll recognize my fascination with fame. Once again, I’d found myself really close to the artistic fire without having to get burnt. And so it was, in the Summer of 1985, that I reveled in the magic of theater from the wings and at just over minimum wage.

My nostalgia gland secreted some recollections of some of that summer’s celeb encounters and weird moments. Yes, many of these characters might seem ancient to you now–it was 40 years ago–but think about it: Wolf Trap acts in the summer of 1985 had been huge in the mid-60s. Following that weak logic then, acts that were big in the aughts are probably showing up at Wolf Trap this summer. We also had a few fresh names like Billy Crystal, Randy Newman and Pat Metheny. Oddly, acts like Chicago, James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt never went away; they were there in the 80s and they’re still turning up at the Filene Center four decades on. Anyway, sorry if that sounds defensive or tortured. Here we go.

Opening Night

The opening night gala was historically star-studded with the board members Nancy Reagan, Elizabeth Taylor, Burt Reynolds, Beverly Sills and others serving as hosts. Scores of congressfolks and cabinet members were in attendance, along with D.C.’s old money and social elite. Air traffic was diverted from the area. The National Symphony Orchestra performed a special, much-anticipated program for the occasion every year.

But on opening night in 1985, the buses carrying the orchestra got lost. I was sitting at stage door when panic set it. There were no cell phones back then, so the only known was that the stage was set for a symphony and there was no symphony. While the curtain was held indefinitely, announcements were made, the audience grew restless and state troopers were notified to be on the lookout for a convoy of wayward buses somewhere in Northern Virginia.

Then, just like in the movies, the stage door suddenly burst open and in scrambled dozens of musicians in tuxes and gowns with their instruments already assembled. At long last, the 1985 summer season would go on!

A Name-dropping Potpourri (Oldies Edition)

My parents could have attended almost any show that summer. Pop, rock, opera, comedy, dance, symphony. The only one they requested: Ferrante & Teischer, the velvet-tux-wearing, hairspray-encrusted, canned-bantering piano duo from the 50s. Parents, amirite? Btw, not great tippers.

Frankie Valli emerged from the Holiday Inn on 123 and asked if the Four Seasons–whom I’d picked up earlier that day–had tipped me. I said no. He apologized and greased me a 20.

Peter of Peter, Paul and Mary pursued my stage door colleague (and my crush) relentlessly. To no avail. For either of us.

Pop star Laura Branigan, may she rest in peace, had to be carried by the bellhops from the lobby bar to her room.

Tommy Smothers closed the lobby bar every night he was there. He also asked me to procure a little contraband for him, which I did.

Wynton Marsalis’s piano player was flying into National. I was at the top of the jetway as the passengers disembarked (back when you could do such a thing) holding up my Wolf Trap sign. Our signs were discreet: no names, just the Wolf Trap logo. I waited until everyone had passed and still no piano player. I went to baggage claim and held my sign high. Still nothing. I paged him. Nothing. In the hour or so I paced and searched, I noticed an airport employee escorting a blind man wearing a walkman in circles around the terminal. I finally approached them to ask if his name was (whatever it was). The employee didn’t know and tapped on him to remove his headphones. Yep, this is my guy. Essentially, I’d been chasing a blind and deaf piano player. Wynton was happy to see him and he was good! (Stanley Jordan was the opening act. What a revelation.)

Some performers, especially comedians, asked about local affairs and hot buttons in order to make their material more topical for the audience. Yeah, my material never got on, I wasn’t very good at it apparently.

I shuttled Frankie Avalon, Fabian and Bobby Rydell over a few days. Their retro notoriety was probably about the same as N’Sync minus Justin or NKOTB is today. As we drove along Route 7 to the theater for the show, they were all bullshitting about real estate and the good old days. Frankie was sitting up front, trying hard to flirt with a young woman in the car next to us. At a stoplight, he rolled down the window to say something. She gave him the finger, quick and absolutely, and drove off. The other teen idol/heartthrobs had some fun with that. And then they went back to talking about investing.

When Fantasy on Ice skated through for a week-long stint, we had big barbecues behind the theater. Dorothy Hamill, Scott Hamilton and Tai & Randy (IYKYK). No tipping but I did end up with a pair of fishnets. No creeping. Stop it. (Anyway, they didn’t fit.)

I have no recollection of meeting Lou Rawls. But somehow I got him to autograph a program to my brother Timbo, welcoming him home from a trip that I do not recall him ever taking. And it would appear that, because this program is still in my possession ten years after Tim died, I never gave it to him.

Lost and at a loss for words

I’ve gotten too much mileage out of this one: Werner Klemperer, Colonel Klink.

He narrated for the National Symphony one evening in July. I was hanging at stage door when one of his handlers asked if someone could get him to Union Station early the next morning. I volunteered. The handler then went into a primer on how to handle him, most notably: do NOT even MENTION “Hogan’s Heroes.” He will fly into a fit if you do. That’s cool, I assured them. She followed up, because I guess this has happened before: If you do slip, immediately remark on how you enjoyed the satire of the series, the clever casting of Nazis as buffoons, etc. Me: I got this.

Because it was a short turn–seven hours or so–I hit the Amphora in Vienna with some of the crew for coffee and cigarettes until about 5:00 AM. Then I drove the town car east on I-66 towards the rising sun, blood red against a humid orange sky, toward D.C. It was Live Aid day and the coverage was already coming in from London. It was a big deal.

When I got across the river into the city, I needed to consult a real map–a folded gas station paper map–in order to locate the Georgetown boutique hotel where he was staying. The man bounded right out, unmistakably Colonel Klink, only, wearing a fishing hat with lures stuck in it. He jumped into the front seat with me and off we went to Union Station.

Problem was, I’d never been to Union Station. I knew the general direction, but this part of D.C. has a lot of one-way streets, a few of which I traversed wrongly. It was still early–not a lot of traffic–so when I was able to shift into reverse and try another route, no one noticed. Except my passenger. “Doug, do you know where you are going?” he asked with a very familiar and chilling accent? I could hear it in my head, the same way he would say “Hoooogaaaaan!” when he was enraged. “Biiindeerrr!” but with short ‘i’ and ‘a’ sounds: “Binnnn-daahhrr!”

That’s when it came out: my appreciation of his past work. I even uttered the words Hogan’s Heroes. He looked daggers at me, an expression I’d seen dozens of times on TV in my youth. I panicked, finally stammering out something about satire and farce and some other BS. It seemed to have assuaged his fury. But I was dizzy and we were still lost somewhere in northwest D.C.

Eventually and mercifully we got to Union Station in time for his train. I grabbed his bag, he thanked me and flipped me a tenner. Not bad for such bad service.

I used the money to buy beer and spent the rest of the day watching Live Aid and sharing my story of riling up a make-believe Nazi stalag commander with a thick accent in a floppy fishing cap just trying to get out of town.

I was a teenage shithead

Okay, I was 20. This blog post has me thinking: I was a pretty lousy employee in my youth. Irresponsible (e.g., I snuck friends backstage to nosh on leftover food and booze), inconsiderate (e.g., I smoked in the limo when I didn’t have passengers), unreliable (e.g., oversleeping and over-caffeinating). It’s no wonder I didn’t get hired back the following summer.

But that’s okay. My next job changed everything, starting in the winter of 1986. To be sure, I was still a shithead. But I became a different, much-improved shithead. I work on it to this day.

Tommy and Me

My days with the Smothers ended at Dulles, punctually. Dickie had flown out earlier, so it was just Tommy and me. As I’ve written in other posts, I had seen this person on TV my whole life, I loved this guy. As I’ve looked back on him and other celebrities I’ve encountered, I regret that I hadn’t come to appreciate just how daring and groundbreaking his work had been at the time. He was a pioneer. Brilliant and ballsy. In retrospect, I wish I was able and equipped to dig deeper. But it was my job to just drive him around and be professional (and score him a dime bag). Someone in my position doesn’t talk about being a fan, unless it’s with Werner Klemperer. Nobody wants a fan boy at the wheel.

I don’t remember why we spent a few extra minutes on the curb at Dulles. He taught me a few yo-yo tricks and let me keep it. And he tipped me $50.

It was the best tip (and trip) of the summer.