Working For Adventure

 Summer, 1963 -- My friends Sean and Stan and I had just completed our first year of college.  I knew a girl in Hollywood, Stan had a car, and Sean just came along for the ride.  We would go look for summer jobs in L.A. But what we really wanted was... adventure!
    After two days of checking out ads in the Times, we succeeded -- sort of -- in a hardware factory: Voi-Shan Industries.  But after another two days of standing there with little magnetic wands and kicking a pedal to stamp a little "vs" on each of 5000 tiny rivets -- one at a time -- we moved on.
    Now, this girl I knew had a mom who knew a guy who was a regional boss at the L.A. Standard Oil facility.  He lined us up with jobs as gas station attendants at Standard Oil company-owned stations in Hollywood -- we would be "pump jockeys."
    The three of us agreed that now we were really getting somewhere.  Standard Oil gave us physical exams, sent us to school for a week, where we learned proper regimented behavior, service protocols and paperwork, joined the compulsory "company union" -- and gained some knowledge of techniques used by short-change artists, which was cool.
      The uniform, with the silly little white hat we had to wear every single minute on the job, was definitely not cool. 
    We were placed in three different stations in downtown Hollywood.  I went to the one at Sunset Blvd. and Wilcox, the biggest gas station in town, with 24 pumps. 

    Our clientele this summer is mostly hordes of cars full of families, all rubbernecking tourists.  Management orders us not only to clean the windshields, as is customary for all gas stations these days, but also to swipe unto sparkling every single window surface of every car we serve, so the swarms of sightseers can stretch and strain, shouting to share every sighting of some simpering star or starlet's salacious smile.  Standard Oil is pushing service very hard in TV ads, so management is deadly serious.  This soon gets old for we who wield the squeegees, but the tourists are grateful, especially the kids gawking there in the back seat. 
    On my third day, a big guy rides in on a little tiny scooter, no longer than his leg, of a style I've never seen before, its tiny tires bulging flat under his weight: he just needs to get air!  I recognize the man himself right away.  He is a bit-part character actor from probably twenty movies I've seen.  Someone says his name is John Doucette.  He's the first of dozens of such unnamed people I eventually run into in Hollywood.

John Doucette

    I got a large dose of American popular culture during my nine-month stint at Sunset and Wilcox.
    We three pump jockeys rented an apartment together and could actually afford the rent and still have money left over to stay up all night and wander around Hollywood soaking up the 24 hour a day life-style: all-night movies, the Hollywood Ranch market with a deli that never closes, people on the streets till all hours.  But, aside from my new girlfriend in my private bedroom, of course, working at the station was where I found most of my adventure.

    One night a car full of pushy fat girls drives in, parks sideways across the pump lanes, blocking any other access, and immediately starts yelling for me to give them service.  I walk up to the driver's window, whereupon the sullen woman sitting there gives me a quarter and commands me to go get her some cigarettes from the machine.  Her accomplices sit there inside smirking at me in my plight.  Standard's TV ads are trumpeting that the customer comes first;  maybe they are thinking it would be fun to use me to try the limits of that claim.  Though no one else ever so imperiously makes such a request, I bite my tongue, pad subserviently to the cigarette machine, and  return to offer her the pack, in her stony silence.  Without a word, never meeting my eye, she snatches it from my hand, starts to roll the window up as they drive away laughing.

    I think I was more mystified than offended about why a person would choose to be so rude to a complete stranger.  I was starting to learn about Hollywood.  Later, the other guys would chuckle about me and the "excellent way I serviced that car full of butches".  But until later I had no clue of what they were actually talking about.
    Then there was John Abbott.  One week I went on loan to a different station over on Melrose.  The clientele consisted less of tourists and more of the Hollywood locals.  I didn't know it until later, but the guys I was going to be working with knew all about John Abbott. 

    So here I am, standing around waiting for a customer, and this old Jaguar sedan pulls in.  Now nobody else is going to go attend to this guy --  they all just sort of turn their backs and start talking amongst themselves -- leaving the task to me.  No problem.
    I walk up to the open window and recognize him instantly, because he is a very well known character actor since the 30s, and still winning roles in movies -- roles of executioner, undertaker, butler, or king. He is a veteran of over a hundred movies by this time: long, tall, thin, and veddy, veddy English.  I try to maintain my decorum.  I don't bat an eye.
    He asks for five dollars worth of gas, and then gets out of the Jag and stands back to observe.  I get the gas going and start to clean the windshield.  From behind me I hear him ask, "Excuse me, young man, but would you be so kind as to change the air in my tyres?"
    I think to myself that this is the dumbest request I ever heard.  But dutifully, I comply.  I move to each tyre in turn -- pssssssst as I empty it, and phhhht, phhhhhhht as I refill it.  He follows me from tyre to tyre, standing back, watching me.  Finally I finish up with the gas and collect the money, half-expecting a tip, which is not forthcoming.  He just smiles at me, pays me, hops back in the Jag, and promptly takes his leave.
    I turn around to face the local crew, still standing gathered together there, only now thay're all looking at me, grinning.  I walk over to the group to ask who is that guy, and what is it with the changing air in the tires? 
    The laugh goes up.  "That's John Abbott," someone finally fills me in, "He always asks for that -- I think he just likes to stand behind young men and watch them on their knees while their backs are turned!"   Then someone else says, "Nah, I asked him, and he said he just likes to listen!" which is met with a chorus of guffaws.

John Abbott

    Another time, back at the Wilcox station, I walked up to a big shiny brand new Lincoln Town Car to ask the driver what he needed.  Now I do know this guy's name: Andy Williams, a singer, very famous, with a TV show of his own.  Little tiny guy, big smile, red eyes.
    He requests a fill-up, and while the tank is filling, I ask him, "Check the oil?"  He looks at me and hesitates, speechless, finally just nodding at me.   I pop the hood and check the oil, then return to his open window.
      "It's down a quart," I say. 
    "What's that mean?" he says, quizzically.
    "Well, you're low on oil." I reply.
    He looks at me like I am the man from Mars or something.  "Is that bad?" he asks.
    I nod.
    "Well, um, uh, what should I do?" he wants to know.
    I offer to put a quart in, to which he readily agrees, then he pays me and drives out like a flash.

    I did puzzle over that for a long time, because he simply was not acting completely normal, though he did not behave or smell like he was drunk.  Only a few years later, after I joined Hippiedom, did I come to understand what he had probably been doing before I met him that night, red eyes and all:  ah, Hollywood.

Andy Williams

    That Christmas, my girlfriend had splurged and bought me a gift that bowled me over, because I had never seen its like before, and it was so cool: a palm-sized portable Sony AM-FM radio, the smallest ever yet made, and the first to come out with transistors.  I loved it. 

    This holiday season I'm scheduled to work graveyard shift the midnight to 8 AM shift for one week.  The graveyard shift is pretty lonely, even in Hollywood, so I figure I'll listen to my new radio here in my solitude.  Then, on the third night, long about 3 AM, the station phone rings.
    "Standard Stations. May I help you?"
    "I can hear your music," some guy replies, "And it sounds real good.  What's your name?" he asks.  I tell him.
    "Well," he begins, "I saw you earlier, and I think you are really a handsome guy.  Would you like me to come and keep you company on such a lonely night?"
    I pause.  Then I think of John Abbott.... "Um, no, thanks, I am not allowed to visit while I am working."  The phone is silent.  I start to hear the sound of heavy breathing, so I just hang up.  Then, there in my naivete, I think to myself, "Here I am, a GUY, getting an obscene phone call.  I bet that's never happened before."  Right.
    One afternoon a week or so later, I'm sitting at a stoplight on the Strip waiting for the light to change.  I've outfitted my old Pontiac with a floor shift, but I am only a poseur -- that car is a ten year old tank, but it does okay as a fake hot car. 
    So, up next to me pulls a brand new Ferrari, very hot and sporty, not uncommon to see here, but I can't let it go, because who do I see at the wheel?  Ernest Borgnine, who is an Oscar winner, now on TV playing McHale of "McHale's Navy."
   Well, I can't let this opportunity pass: I gun the engine a couple of times, and peer over at him through my window.  He turns his head slowly over to look at me and smiles his famous wicked grin.
    The light turns green and we are off... er, well, HE is off.  But even though my Pontiac is floor-boarded, it just sort of groans and roars and lumbers, waddling along behind, while the Ferrari shrieks on ahead of me, dwindling in my sight until it vanishes from view. I don't care.  I have a story to tell. I laugh. And Ernest enjoyed it.

 Ernest Borgnine

    Now, I always hated that damned silly little white hat we all had to wear, and would never be caught dead wearing it -- unless I had to because I was at work.
    One Saturday night on Sunset Boulevard I was driving home from work and needed to stop for cigarettes. I pulled into the next Standard Station and jumped out to buy a pack from the machine.

    So I get the smokes and look around. This station is hopping, a car at every pump, and now with even more cars lining up behind them. I spot James Garner.

        He's been parked, waiting at a pump for awhile, and now he's getting out of his new white Caddy convertible, and he's starting to look cranky. He looks around and says, "What's going on around here?" to no one in particular.
        Then he spots me in my Standard uniform, so he looks at me and says "I would sure expect better service than this from you Standard Station guys."
    But I'm game, and I say, "Fill her up?"
    "Five dollars worth," he says.
    I pump his gas while I wash the windshield. It turns out he is in a big hurry, he gives me the five bucks, says thanks, and guns that Caddy out of there.
    So now I have to go find whoever's running the station's till. I've never seen the guy before, and when I start to hand him the money, he just looks at me: I don't work here, he doesn't know me from Adam, and I'm not wearing a white hat.  He finally looks at my Standard uniform, gives me a funny look and just takes the money.
    I love this thing of being the poseur -- the only one who actually knows what all the players are doing.

 James Garner

    Now, though I thought Garner's remarks about Standard Station service were pretty corny, to me he did come off as the kind of man who has a strong character, is used to the best, and who appeals to the best in others: an Oklahoma gentleman. His demeanor reminded me of Marine Corps drill instructors.
    As I recall, the dominant feeling I had that night was... defiance. I was on my own time, a civilian kid making one guerilla transaction, with no oversight, no permission, and no damned little white hat, for my own small pleasure of being able to assist this man, to take the measure of him, and give a little payback for all his good work. He never had a clue, and everyone came away happy.
    But the best story I got from Hollywood happened one quiet night at the station.  I was working swing shift, and my friend Stan had just gotten off his shift down at the Gower station.

    So he stops by to show off his new guitar, sitting in the office while he plays and we sing some folk songs. Then, in drives this normal-looking guy in an old Chevy, who pulls right up to the office because he's not interested in getting gas: he was driving by and he spotted Stan playing the guitar. 
    Stan is already pretty good on guitar and knows quite a few songs.  The guy just stands at the door, leaning against it, listening to Stan play.  We invite him to come sit with us in the office where it's warm. 
    "My name is Roger," he tells us.  He admires Stan's guitar and starts describing the one he has at home.  Stan offers his guitar.  Roger smiles and starts to entertain the two of us for the next half-hour.
    These days, he tells us, he writes his own songs.  His lyrics are funny, wry, clever.  He asks us to please listen to a couple of tunes he is writing.  The first one is named "Dang Me (They Oughtta Take a Rope And Hang Me)."  He has another unfinished one; it is titled "King Of The Road".  He's eager to hear what we think of his stuff.  We love it.

      We only learned his last name a year later, after his songs started playing on the radio.  Today, you can hear his music in movies such as "Brokeback Mountain" and "Into the Wild".  His name was Roger Miller.

Roger Miller

    I heard a few stories about other celebrities. It was said that Johnny Mathis hung out at the Hollywood YMCA, lusting after the boys there at night. Somebody else recounted that one night up on Mulholland Drive they were sitting in a car smoking pot, and someone walked up to the car and said, "Is that marijuana I smell? What's chances of smoking a little of it?" They obliged. It was Robert Mitchum -- who was later the subject of a scandal about smoking weed.

    I was truly going through some kind of rite of passage at this time, and being tested fairly often and discovering my limits by events unfolding around me, and being thrown into unfamiliar situations, sometimes by chance, sometimes by my own behavior.

I could go on and on about the stolen credit card scam, or the bright red purplish-veined besotted naked faces of Dana Andrews or Macdonald Carey;  or the time I caught the station manager trying to steal gas from me at four in the morning; or the Hungarian named Tibor, and the German, Dick, that I worked with while they were waiting to get acting auditions, in their own quests for their own adventures as actors; or even the Pacific Cinerama Dome Green Stamps scam. And then I might mention the fact that my friend Sean eventually turned out to be gay -- or that at the end of that nine months, my girlfriend wound up pregnant.
    But these stories are all for another day.