Good Stuff Page 11

  When asking Dad to reconsider my curfew, or to bend the rules and get a dog, I was a pip. Dad was totally against having animals at home. Dogs and cats were “unsanitary.” He said they brought a multitude of germs into the house. I was allowed to have fish and turtles. I was never that crazy about the fish, but I loved the turtles. I liked the feel of their little scratchy claws on my hand. We kept them in the pantry. Odd place for turtles, now that I think about it. Of course, our pantry was the size of my current kitchen, so it’s not as though the turtles were crammed in next to the condiments. I could sit there, play with my turtles, and watch Willie prepare lunch or dinner. Every few years I placed a new request for a puppy or a kitten. Denied!

  Lucky for me, Barbara was a coconspiratorial pip. It took her quite a while, but slowly she worked away at Dad, softening his resolve about pets. Her pip was patient. After they had been together several years Barbara got a cat. Hooray! EQ, short for the musical term “equalize” was a white cat with one blue eye and one green eye. Hence the equalize/equal-eyes pun. Since EQ went over well enough, shortly thereafter Barbara miraculously summoned her a friend named Sausage. One fine day a beautiful dark cat appeared at the front door. Barbara undoubtedly performed her best bewitching spells because Dad allowed the cat inside the house. Even more astonishing, Dad fell head over heels for Sausage.

  Of course, just then, in a Murphy’s law sort of way, the cat’s proper owner materialized. Barbara arranged a time for the owner to retrieve Sausage. However, at the arranged pickup, the ungrateful man sent envoys in his stead. Dad reasoned that if the man couldn’t be bothered to fetch his feline friend, fat chance he’d find him. Dad hid Sausage in the washroom. “Oops … he must’ve trotted off somewhere.” Pip. Finally they arranged a direct handoff. New tactics required. Dad was smitten.… He didn’t want to let go of sweet Sausage. Poppa and Missus Grunt outlined a plan. They would pay the sad, lowly bugger off. The man arrived in a Rolls and Dad’s heart sank. Negotiations began. The resulting deal was a truly Los Angeles agreement. Shared custody of Sausage. Lucky for Dad, a few weeks later the former owner gave up his rights entirely.

  I was in boarding school in northern California at the time, but whenever Dad and I spoke, much to my amazement, he never failed to mention Sausage’s progress. My father was absolutely transfixed by this cat. Sausage was a dark gray boy, with little white patches on his chest and front paw. I think he reminded Dad of himself, particularly in his youth; lithe, sleek, fun, and focused. Dad went from a staunch feline opponent to a cat lover, all because of Sausage. He spoke of his new friend with obvious delight: “He’s simply marvelous. You should see the way he jumps, and then waits, casually, silently, calculating his next move, until all at once he’s up and pouncing on some new target.”

  One sad day I called home and Barbara warned me that something terrible had happened. Sausage had gotten out of the house and been eaten by a coyote. Poor Dad was miserable. He relived it for months. He’d grown painfully close to the cat and could hardly bear it. It gave me some understanding of his begrudging us animals in the first place. Sure, he cited the germs, and eventually gave in “for Barbara,” but once the cats were inside the house, he surrendered completely. Perhaps he knew his heart was at their mercy. I’d never seen him so sad as when Sausage died. Still, Dad agreed that Sausage was worth the heartache. Thereafter we always had cats.

  Barbara generally played the pip to make us happy and give us a giggle. Though brilliant come game time, Dad was painfully nervous prior to speaking engagements. The nerves must have driven his performance because he was consistently magnificent and always overprepared for a speech. The downside was that 9966 was uptight for a day or two before, as Dad crafted his thoughts and carefully copied key lines for his note cards. Note cards that most often stayed in his pockets. The night of one somewhat tedious affair, Dad was introducing so-and-so at a very stuffy sit-down dinner. The still mingling meeting and greeting audience was obviously humorless. Well, Barbara would occasionally sidle up behind my father during the cocktail hour and, underneath his jacket, unbeknownst to all, “goose” him by quietly giving his privates a little squeeze. Dad would then turn, slyly smiling, and introduce his genteel wife. Well, this particular evening, while facing me, Barbara did her best, subtlest goose and received no response. My face went pale. She had goosed the wrong tall gray-haired gentleman. “So sorry!” Barbara immediately trotted off and made apologies to the man’s wife. Pip, indeed.

  Dad once outed me in fine pip fashion. Throughout my childhood I enjoyed various forms of dance. Baryshnikov was my near idol because of his particular blend of grace and boyish charm. Luckily for me, on the evening that the Kennedy Center honored my father, Baryshnikov danced. After the performance, Dad introduced me to the marvelous Russian dancer: “This is my daughter, Jennifer. She’s quite enamored with you.” I turned twenty shades of pink. Enamored? I’m thirteen! He’s hot! Now I look like a total doof. DAD! Pip.

  I liked to swipe Dad’s money. My father kept his cash in a bathroom drawer. I was quite familiar with Dad’s “money drawer” because I had a fascination with counting his money. It was all lined up in the same direction, smaller denominations to the outside. Once in a while I would steal from his gold clip. A five here, a ten or maybe even a twenty there … never anything that was detected. Or was it? I always wondered if he knew. Perhaps I was in utter disbelief that anything crept past his scrutiny. Perhaps Dad kept the closest watch on himself and allowed the rest of us a bit more room for trespass. Of course, I was given an allowance, so I never really needed the money. Pip girl just wanted to see if she could get away with it. Sometimes what Dad loved best about me was my “pip”…the part of me that messed up, that wanted what I wanted because I wanted it. Maybe his Capricorn goat Bristol boy could relate. Catching me filching a precious chocolate from his drawer, he’d smile a sideways loopy grin. “Dear, dear Jennifer.” My antics tickled him.

  We had a “You should see the view” view. Stunning. From downtown Los Angeles all the way to the beach—oh, but please don’t. All my life we had looky loos parking outside the gate and peering in through the metal bars. Our home was on the Movie Star Maps. Can’t blame people for wanting to see, really, but it was a disconcerting inconvenience. People would park their cars in our driveway, just outside the gate. Then they’d stand and gaze in and around the gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dad through the windows or in the backyard. Dad, Barbara, and I likened it to being animals in a zoo.

  One Sunday, when a family remained parked and leering for a particularly long period of time, using the intercom box alongside the gate Barbara asked, “Would you like some peanuts?” The tonal quality was akin to “Who the f—— do you think you are?” They startled, looking about for the voice’s source. Finally one bright soul figured it out. Not sure they delighted in our joke, but we wore Cheshire cat grins. One of my favorite pictures of Dad, Barbara, and me is a spoof on all of this. In the midst of a rarely held family photo session (perhaps our only one), we decided to get a shot of us at the gate, mimicking our imagined status as displeased monkeys, our cheeks puffed and heads pressed through the bars. Of course, we did choose the outside of the gate as the imagined cage. We quite liked our own confines.

  Our most problematic visitor used to lay himself across our driveway, forbidding our entrance or exit. Our entry toll was listening to his repeated sermon. According to him, Dad was his father by Queen Elizabeth. This man had been cheated of both his title and his fortune and he was outraged. He would block our driveway until we heeded his rambling homily, then we could freely pass. Must say, he didn’t look a bit like Dad or Queen Elizabeth. Though I was never there to witness it, a few times the police had to be summoned to physically remove him. Pre–Movie Star Maps we used the driveway and a patch of grass at the side of the house at playtime. I learned to ride a tricycle there. From ages three to six, I used the driveway to play catch with Dad and my favorite large, yellow, spotted plastic ball. Badminto
n took place on the grass during the summers. Post–Movie Star Maps, all activities moved into the front yard, where we were shielded from our own street.… Sometimes life’s a pip. An avid fan might imagine Grace Kelly, Dad, Hitch, and a group of pals cavorting on the lawn in linens with Pimm’s Cups … perhaps a stray shuttlecock would float over the fence and said fan could retrieve it and be invited in for the badminton game. No. Ninety-five percent of the time behind the gates meant family time.

  Monkeys at the 9966 gates, circa 1983.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dad and Me: Slow Like Stew

  A broad margin of leisure is as beautiful in a man’s life as in a book. Haste makes waste, no less in life than in housekeeping. Keep the time, observe the hours of the universe, not of the railroad cars. What are three score years and ten hurriedly and coarsely lived, to moments of divine leisure in which your life is coincident with the life of the universe? We live too fast and coarsely, just as we eat food too fast, and do not know the true savor of our food.

  —Thoreau

  7:30 A.M. NOVEMBER 28, 1970

  Daddy and Jennifer sing songs together over the telephone. We start with “The Hokey Pokey.” Daddy continues singing after I’ve stopped.

  JG: Tomorrow since you’re a silly Daddy I won’t have you on the telephone anymore.

  CG: Oh no! Please. I won’t be funny anymore. [Then] I don’t deny it, I will be quiet.

  JG [sings]: “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, his name is my name too, whenever we go out the people always shout, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.”

  CG [singing along]: “Da da da da da da dum …”

  A few moments later…

  CG: Happy Thanksgiving, my darling, my beloved. Jennifer, I wanted to tell you that the other night, in England, I met a man. The first man to walk on the moon …

  From the start, reliable as daybreak, Dad was there for me. He bared his all in love and held nothing back. From the day-to-day detail to life’s blockbuster moments, my father was there. This didn’t mean he was always pleased with me, but happy or not, if he could help it, he wasn’t ever going away.

  The Fabergé jet was at Dad’s disposal to visit wherever in the world I might be. Dad loved his job as a director and had a close friend in George Barrie, Fabergé’s president. If I was on school holiday, there was always the remote possibility of Mom bringing me to a movie set in some distant location. Dad wanted to be sure that he could get to me. Dad wanted me to know that men could be trusted to fulfill their promises. Though the location was never too terribly remote, Dad did bring the plane to fetch me in Paris while Mom was shooting The Last of Sheila. Of course, at age six, I had no idea to what lengths he’d gone to see me. I just knew that it was my time to be with Daddy, et bien sûr, he’d be there. Even when it wasn’t “his” time he made his presence felt. One of Auntie Sylvia’s favorite remembrances is Dad parking his car at a stop along my grade school bus route. That way we could have a glimpse of each other each morning. If only for an instant, we could see each other through the bus window and wave.

  My father’s love left reminders. When he went away, he sent thoughtful, cleverly worded postcards. At Christmas, each gift had a playful note attached. If he gave me a stock or a bond the note might read: “You’re sure to find interest in this …” For a book on horses, “Canter-very tales?” We said the words, too. Our family was big on “I love you.” Morning, afternoon, and evening. Dad wasn’t afraid to say it. In person, on the phone, in front of school, at the stables, alone, in front of others, first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. When heartfelt, those three words hold their meaning regardless of repetition.

  Dad and I liked to pal around together. We were chums. Dad’s seventies Colony house was just a few doors down from Mom’s. Both homes were on the beach side of the street. A two-minute walk from one to the other. That way when it wasn’t his time with me he could watch me at play on the beach. Dad often filmed passersby from his deck. Kids taunting the waves, horses trotting along the sand, lovers walking hand in hand, and skim boarders falling on their bums. In one of his home movies Mom and I briefly walk by at a distance. Doubtful anyone besides a trained expert would catch it, I’m surprised I did … but seeing the Super 8 gave me a sense of his loneliness. His longing. Some years later, his Colony house then a memory, he staged a Colony surprise for me. It was Halloween and I was about twelve. All the kids were out, running from house to house, doing their candy collecting, “egging,” and the rest. Word trickled down early that Dad was in the “big house.” The wooden barnlike one with the huge anchor thing on the front. Dad rented it for one night to surprise me. This is one of those if-only-I-could-take-it-back moments. I was embarrassed that he was there. Embarrassed that he would go to such lengths for me. I felt I was being hyperwatched. In a way, it was true. I ran up to the door and tried to pretend like it was just another house. Just a guy giving out candy. I took it and ran. If only … I’d drop my stupid pumpkin and jump into his bearlike arms right now.

  There were no cell phones then, and alone time had a different flavor. The technology of the day suited our family. We were the slow-cooking types. Like stew. Nothing instant about us. No TV dinners, microwaves, or e-mailing on a BlackBerry at a stoplight. Things took time. We had conversations. It was quieter in those days, fewer intrusions. Dad listened to me. He didn’t just take me along for the ride. Dad had the luxury of choosing retirement. Still, he was a prominent public figure and remained active in the business world. So Dad made me a part of that business world. If he had a meeting coming up, he discussed it with me. “Isn’t it amazing … Kirk’s planning on building this great new hotel in Vegas.” When he had board meetings, he made sure I had plans, too. I wasn’t shuttled along in the car and made to wait.

  In the larger scheme, Dad wanted me to have the sense of doing things for myself, without unnecessary loneliness. He was an only child, too. There are times when life seems quiet from that perspective. Generally I attended tennis or riding lessons on my own. One out of ten times, Dad stayed to see my progress on the horse or the court. When he was there, he’d heartily encourage my strengths and laugh at my foibles. I loved it.

  Dad let me take risks. Physical risks. At seventy-something, he confidently watched me be my best tomboy self and earn my gaming stripes. He knew he could pick me up if and when I fell. Dad photographed Lisa and me, age ten, tandem jumping from the rope swing at Carden Malibu School. The two tenacious girls high atop a platform full of boys. Looks fun! Supported by a huge eucalyptus branch, we slip our feet side by side into a rope noose and merrily swing out over the expanse of playground. Still gives me a chill. How did Dad stomach it?

  Dad’s trust encouraged my gently blithe sense of adventure. One fine afternoon in the archives I came upon pictures of me, eyes closed, practicing balance moves on the two-inch lip of the living-room couch. Dad videotaped it. But who is this entirely unflappable nonchalant creature blindly performing balance maneuvers, on one foot, atop a skinny homemade balance beam? How many times had he watched me fall? What was I thinking? Quite simply, I knew he’d be there, and, even more important, I could feel the confidence he had in me.

  Perhaps I can still meet him there?

  Dad taped me in the process of learning to ride a bicycle. Good-bye to the training wheels. Up and down the Colony I go. It’s a hoot to watch me starting and stopping, floundering around, unable to figure out a balanced start-up. My friend Rachel Culp dutifully runs alongside to get me going. Time and again my bike goes zigzagging down the street, eventually veering to a stop just short of hitting some nearby car or garage door. But just a video minute later the tape goes on to show me successfully balancing and merrily riding off into the distance. Hell, I could even turn! Today, riding my bike home from yoga class, something dawned on me. Perhaps the things I envision for myself but still haven’t mastered are like riding that bike. Expect wobbles at first (laugh if possible). But perhaps one day, I’ll merrily ride off into
the distance. So simple. The truth generally is. Thanks, Dad. Thanks for caring enough to watch. Thanks for recording. Thanks for reminding me that I can learn.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marbles Now or Horses Later?

  Dad chose unique methods of schooling me in finance. He realized my eventual inheritance required tools for proper handling. From age eight on, each week Dad and I had our Monday afternoon date. Each week he gave me a dollar to spend. I could blow it on candy or save up for something meatier. Many Mondays found us at the Brentwood Country Mart cruising both the toy store and the Brentwood saddlery. What a plethora of distractions. We’d fortify ourselves with hot dogs, fries, and lemonade before surveying the territory. The toy store held model horses, model cars, super Pinky balls, Legos, and Barbies of every description. The tack shop sported saddles, bridles, amazing silver belt buckles, boots, romal reins, roller bits, monogrammed horse blankets, chaps, brushes for applying Hoofbrite … oh my. One dollar. Saving for a Barbie took months. Romal reins? Forget it. The saddlery took birthdays to conquer. It’s Pavlovian, but I still salivate at the thought of Lexol saddle soap. So, the choice was to drool over the big stuff or to go for the instant gratification of marbles or jacks. Must be where my passion for super Pinky balls began. Excellent bouncers. However … what could eclipse the feeling of elation at waiting months for a prized plastic cantering Thoroughbred or Malibu Barbie? I’d done it! I’d saved! I’d staved off temptation and here were my rewards. I’d canter laps all around the house with the booty from my conquest.

  Dad reasoned it was never too early to learn economics. By age twelve I was well versed in the concept of tax brackets, percentages, and where our money went. I even signed my own quarterly taxes. Still, having a personal income was a matter of pride. My stash! Jobs varied from babysitting to clerking at the Pacific Palisades Village Store and checkout girl at Malibu’s Rainbow Grocery. My earnings meant empowerment. I could spend unhindered by parental forces.