FRESH YARN presents: Name Dropper... by Ray Cochran

FRESH YARN presents:

Name Dropper
By Ray Cochran

"Oh my God! I'm dating a guy who's a name dropper!" my boyfriend Peter said on our second date, as I stood in his living room, hot and flushed with embarrassment.

I can't remember what name I had lobbed at him, but I do remember fighting back. "I really think that's a little presumptuous of you to characterize me as such so early in the game," I said, puffing up like a blowfish. "I have worked extremely hard in this business for many years and have met a lot of well-known people during that time."

After I ran through my resume, making sure to include my years as an actor on Broadway, as well as the time I worked with Kathy Bates, he apologized, I accepted, and we went to dinner.

Months later, with an unspoken contract in place that I would continue to name drop and he would continue to ignore it, we were channel surfing and came upon Funny Face, a film starring Fred Astaire, Audrey Hepburn and the indefatigable Kay Thompson. Kay was this gangly Renaissance woman who wrote the children's classic Eloise at The Plaza, starred in movies, wrote songs and screenplays, had a very successful nightclub act in New York, and was Judy Garland's acting coach at MGM. As if that weren't enough for one human being, she was also Liza Minnelli's godmother.

As it just so happens… I met Kay while working with Minnelli in 1996. I had been hired in a "creative capacity" on a play aptly titled Not A Well Woman. The play was written by a blonde, fifty-something British actress named Sadie, whose claims-to-fame included some bad British television, a murky stage career in Australia, and an affair with Jimi Hendrix. (So far, that's Astaire, Bates, Hepburn, Thompson, Garland, Minnelli, and Hendrix, if you're keeping track.)

Sadie was Liza's childhood friend, and theirs was a co-dependent relationship. Liza showered Sadie with gifts to alleviate her feelings of longstanding guilt that she had become a star and Sadie hadn't. But instead of just getting her something useful like, say, a whiskey flask and a Value Pac of sippy straws, she paid for, and produced, a production of Sadie's play in New York City. Unfortunately, that's where I come in.

For one solid month, with the purpose of working on the play, we holed up at The Essex House Hotel on Central Park West. As I tried to steer the meandering conversations in the direction of the play -- script changes, casting, design, etc. -- an endless stream of fawning men, with names like Bruce and Brad, came and went. I watched as Sadie disappeared into her room for "rewrites" on the play that never came to pass. And finally, I watched as work on the play gave way to one big soggy trip down memory lane. I sat transfixed as a rambling, sweating Liza did jazz layouts in the living room, called me her "mentor," reminisced about Mama, talked incessantly about her love for Mylar, and organized 4:00 a.m. raids on the Korean market on 7th Avenue to get the ingredients for s'mores. I knew some sort of hazy deadline was approaching for the play, but I had become distracted myself -- by the ice cream sundae menu provided by room service. Oh, and did I mention the helicopter? There were helicopter rides to Atlantic City. I love helicopters! I'm a total whore for a chopper, a man with nice arms, and good luggage.

One afternoon, after four weeks of getting together and accomplishing exactly nothing, and with Sadie M.I.A., I traveled to the East Side to meet Minnelli at her apartment instead of The Essex House. The door opened to a penthouse filled with Warhols, Elsa Peretti Tear Drops, the scent of sandalwood Rigauds, and finally, the miniature Academy Award given to an adolescent Judy Garland for The Wizard of Oz. I'm not a big Garland hysteric, but this little relic was like the gay Wailing Wall -- I'd come all the way from the West Side, so who was I not to pay my respects?

As I picked up the statuette, a wave of sadness overcame me. It was so tiny and inconsequential. In Garland's era, they occasionally (and wrongfully) gave miniature awards to child stars instead of the regular size -- as if to say, "You'll always be a child in our eyes." They eventually discontinued that practice, but never replaced it with a normal-sized one. No wonder the woman drank.

Minnelli had a butler named Mohammed, the very same Mohammed who recently accused Liza of sexual harassment. A tall, Middle Eastern man in his 50s, he pulled me aside that day and said, "You be good to Miss Minnelli, she take good care of you."

As Minnelli and I stood in the kitchen pretending to talk about the play, and watching Mohammed make our lunch, an extremely old woman rolled by in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Minnelli looked at me, and in a tone reminiscent of a hateful thirteen-year-old girl talking about her mother said, "That's Kay. She lives here, so I live in a hotel. Go say hello."

Remembering her flamboyant persona from film, I rushed down the hall to the bedroom. I half-expected some crazy Auntie Mame décor -- leopard skin this or that, but when the nurse opened the door, I found a plain beige room with an extremely old woman propped up in bed watching the U.S. Open.

I introduced myself and we talked about tennis -- Kay's passion. We talked about Seles and Graf. We talked about whoever else was playing that I can't remember. We basically talked for 15 minutes about nothing but tennis, until she finally asked me about the play. My stomach became queasy, but I opened my mouth and lied. "Oh! It's going really well! Sadie is an extremely adroit, extremely gifted writer… and Liza! Well, who knew? Who knew Liza was such a producer! She's so on the ball. Incredible! Absolutely incredible! I think it's going to be really great -- an amazing experience that I will not soon forget!"

Kay looked at me out of the corner of her eye. And then she slowly turned to face me, her eyes focusing on me directly. I had her full attention.

"Young man, it has been my experience that it's really just about the work. Anything other than the work will just get you into a heap of trouble." And then she turned back to the game.

I sat silent. I felt my face flush, turning hot. I had nothing more to say. And when I finally had the courage to move, I stood and meekly said goodbye. As I headed to the door, Kay, with her eyes still on the television, muttered, almost under her breath, her famous line from the film Funny Face. "Don't forget to think pink."

I slipped out of her room and walked back down the hall. It felt like the moment you first leave a sauna and the cold air hits you. And it only took me about five steps to realize that I was ashamed and embarrassed. Ashamed because I had become the thing I feared most -- I had become nothing more than entourage. And embarrassed because I had been found out.

Ten years later, as Peter and I watched a very young, vibrant, Technicolor Kay dance her way across the television screen, I decided to keep the story to myself.