I’ve stood on stage with Jerry Garcia, Michael Caine, and Kenneth Anger. I’ve played baby sitter to a drunken Robert Mitchum, chatted brightly about wisdom and age with Sidney Poitier, rubbed elbows with George Clooney, Warren Beatty, Susan Sarendon, chatted with Governor Schwarzenegger in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt when he was out of shape, performed for thousands in stadiums, parks, grandly balconied theaters, upscale lounges and rowdy saloons.
I wasn’t smitten by love or lust, but fame, especially when well-deserved, can be, well… awesome.
I’ve been captured on film, television and in the recording studio, but in all my time I’ve been an actor, a musician, a professor, an author reading from my own work, et cetera, I’ve never been famous.
I’ve had your standard pre- and post-adolescent dreams of glory — rock star, doo wop singer, maverick cowboy, rebel with a cause, rabble rouser, revolutionary hero, world championship racing driver, elegant bassist with the Modern Jazz Quartet, but the limelight has eluded me. Unless…
I put this query to you, dear reader. If one is embraced by a gorgeous and gregarious young film star, if said young glamour puss wraps one lanky, lovely leg around you and draws your lips to hers in a wet and enthusiastic smooch… And if, after the explosions of light and sound and scent die down, she asks you to take that kiss to a friend…
If one becomes a kiss messenger, a kissinger if you will, does that qualify one for fame?
I had been hired as a writer and — I suppose, as the credit enables your producers to hire you for less money — ‘associate producer’ by an ambitious duo of documentary makers. We had already made a feature-length documentary on John Huston that was well-received. Plenty of stars to interview there.
Now, we were producing a documentary on Steel Magnolias, still in post-production. Julia Roberts, fresh from her success in the indy feature Mystic Pizza, played the ingenue in this genteel but rollicking tale of Deep South ladyship.
On one sunny day, we arrived with our crew on the studio lot to interview Ms. Roberts. As we set up, an open-topped dusty Jeep with a roll bar roared around the corner of a massive sound stage and screeched to a stop beside the tiny Star Wagon where Ms Roberts was presumed to be preparing. A Medusa-like mass of reddish curly hair writhed around the features of a lanky young woman who yanked herself out of the Jeep.
“I’ll be right with you,” she shouted with a slight twang as she dashed up the Star Wagon stairs and slammed the trailer door. Moments later, Ms Roberts emerged, as composed as a young starlet can look in a peasant blouse, short jeans jacket and skirt, and cowboy boots.
The interview went well. Ms Roberts was bright, articulate, and forthcoming about her role in Magnolias, her acting approach, and even the politics of the day. She was not a Reagan fan, who was finishing his term when we spoke.
We chatted afterward. Something does happen beyond sex appeal to people who are feeling the flush of fame. Ms Roberts carried her success well. Neither falsely humble nor arrogant, I liked her effortlessly. She was warm and physical, reaching out to touch without pretense. I wasn’t smitten by love or lust, but fame, especially when well-deserved, can be, well… awesome.
The conversation drew to a close. The crew was packing up. I rose with Ms Roberts. In passing, I mentioned I planned to meet a friend of mine, a fairly well-known leading man whom I had known since our days in the underground of San Francisco theater.
“You know So and So???” She threw herself at me, wrapped her arms around me, and hiked one cowboy-booted leg up the back of my legs. “Please,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “Give this to him.” She then delivered the above-described kiss, deep, lasting, delicious. When she uncoupled, she patted me on the shoulder and said, “please let him know I look forward to seeing him again soon.”
I have no current recollection of the next beat. I have only the sense memory of feel and smell of hair and lipstick and some faint scent that fell somewhere between desert cactus and French boudoir. By the time I got my bearings, Ms Julia Roberts had disappeared back into her Star Wagon. And that is how I experienced fame that day: as a kiss messenger to the stars.
Charles DegelmanWriter, editor, and educator based in Los Angeles. He's also played a lot of music. Degelman teaches writing at California State University, Los Angeles.
Degelman lives in the hills of Hollywood with his companion on the road of life, four cats, assorted dogs, and a coterie of communard brothers and sisters.
This is truly a perfect story! It has everything. The tantalizing intro that hints of your many other star encounters. (Can we coax those stories out of you eventually too?) The play on words of a kiss messenger being a kissinger. And then the wonderful description of young Julia Roberts, newly famous and enjoying it, beautiful and charming, and the amazing kiss she gave you. Even if it was directed at someone else, you still got to be the lucky recipient. I am so glad you shared this story with us!
Thanks, Suzy. The story rolled out in one quick draft, leading me to realize that the ‘perfect’ nature of the story lay in the tale itself. As I read now, I want to give a tip of the hat to Sidney Poitier. We didn’t kiss, but I learned a great deal about celebrity as a gift and a fruit of labor. Poitier gave off a deep sense of power well-used.. He seemed to celebrate every word we exchanged, every gesture. He had worked so hard to get where he remain and, beyond enjoying this position, he gives from it with deep, good humored serenity. And then there was Lithgow, a college pal, Alfre Woodard, Danny Glover, all of whom radiate different aspects of fame worn well.
I would say just having the interview with Julia Roberts (love your description of her) would qualify enough, but to get that kiss, even though you were only the intermediary, is quite extraordinary! And you describe it SO well. Yummy! Not quite Cyrano, but almost. Yes, you’ve had a wonderful brush with fame, thanks for sharing it. And welcome back after too long a silence, to Retrospect! Missed you, babe.
Thanks, Betsy. It was fun to write. It was almost as if a muse arrived and reminded me of that episode. I was startled at how long ago the story took place (terrifying!) but vivid is as vivid was. I haven’t been away from Retro by intent but by default. It’s been a busy, busy summer!
Fabulous story, Charles. I have no doubt that Julia Roberts knew exactly the effect her warmth and casual touches and more-than-friendly kiss would have on you. I also suspect she was perhaps a bit attracted to you as well, since she could easily have told you simply to give your friend her regards, but chose instead to give you The Kiss. But you left us hanging! Did you in fact deliver the kiss to your friend? Inquiring minds want to know!
Inquiring minds indeed, John! Still laughing. I haven’t been deeply physically attracted to large men in their 40s then, although I haven’t put that to the test recently. As I recall, I did mention to my friend that Ms Roberts had asked me to pass on her regards, probably long after any infatuation remained. But I quite deliberately kept that kiss all to myself!
What a great story, Charles. I love how well you describe a young Julia Roberts. I could picture your encounter so clearly in my mind. Being so close to some famous folks qualifies you for what Suzy calls Fame by Proxy.
Thanks, Laurie. Great to hear from you. Proxy fame, a great phrase. Before the lockdown, we used to go to restaurants. Remember that? We kept running across a perennially sheepish Al Pacino, always dressed in the same baggy black suit with too much stuff in the pockets. He always looked as if his girlfriend had kicked him out of her car saying, “… and don’t call me again!”
Wow Charles, on stage with Jerry and kissed by Julia – you’ve been to heaven and back!
I’m good with Julia. I’ve always considered Jerry Garcia a criminal noodler, a musician’s term meaning someone who just doodles along without saying much with his “ax.” I do, however, think the Grateful Dead as a collective entity does take its place in the world of great American ritual… as long as you’re loaded ;-)!
My son’s the real family Deadhead, in fact he plays percussion with a GD tribute band.
My own rock idol is Mick and years ago we had fabulous seats for a concert thru a friend with MSG connections. We were literally at the bottom of the ramp and I leaned over the rope to touch my man as he pranced off stage, but I missed and settled for touching Keith Richards instead.
(Hadn‘t washed that hand until Covid when I had to!)
Keith Richards, eh? Wonderful musician, wonderful man. Betcha got a contact high off Keith. That’s why you didn’t wash.
Oh no Charles, I never inhale at rock concerts!
Yes, Dana, but you did touch Keith R. Hence, the high probability of a contact high 😁
Ah yes I have a foggy memory …
Whoa, I just got a contact high from reading about that kiss [swoon]! Thanks so much for sharing, Charles!!
I saw Pacino in Larry Edmunds bookshop on Hollywood Blvd. and he looked exactly as you described him.