Hollywood Walk of Fame | "Cars for Sale. Cheap!!"

We bid a fond adieu to Kansas City. We watched as the moving packers swept through our apartment like locusts on the Kansas plains. The last thing to be loaded onto the moving van was our new 1973 Chevy Vega Kammback Wagon. I was nothing if not a company man. I gave the keys to my free KC car to my replacement. Dick Byrne was giving me his Impala company car. We landed at LAX and went directly to the Franklin Arms. This was old Hollywood at its stylish. The residents were all “entertainment people” who would rent a unit on a month-to-month basis. Lots of ice plant and palm trees. A large pool in the centre of the units provided ample tanning area for folks to maintain their healthy Hollywood patinas. It was about a half a mile from my office. Fortunately, each unit was air-conditioned, as it was 104 degrees when we arrived. I told my wife to enjoy the pool as I went off to work. Our furniture wasn’t expected to arrive for another five days. After the first day of having nothing to do from 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM but sit by the pool and read, she informed me that she was getting bored. Uh oh! I suggested that she walk down Hollywood Blvd, maybe visit Grauman’s Chinese Theater which was next to my office. She wasn’t too keen on that as long as the temperature was above 100. I told her that I’d try to come up with something for her to do all day.

This all changed on the evening of the second day. My wife had met a friend at the pool. Chita Rivera! Ms. Rivera was the first Anita in West Side Story on Broadway. Her show stopper was the song “America”…”I like to be in America, OK by me in America, Everything free in America.” She and my wife struck up a conversation and became pool buddies. Whew!! On the third morning, as I was checking for any mail, a French couple was checking in. I don’t really recall what he looked like, but his wife/girlfriend/mistress/lover was striking. Think of Catherine Deneuve with long dark hair. That afternoon I received a call from my wife. She was quite upset. “What kind of place is this? Around noon, a French woman comes out and takes her top off and starts sunbathing in front of everyone!!!” “No!!!,” I exclaimed. “Tom, I want you to call the manager and complain.” I replied that I’d “get right on it.” When I got to the apartment that night she asked if I had called the manager. “He was out, so I left a message.” The next day, at noon, I got another call. “She’s back! This isn’t France. Call the manager” About ten minutes later I surprised my wife by joining her at the pool. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I brought you some lunch, Dear,” as I dropped an egg salad sandwich in her lap, while I frantically scoured the lounge chairs. “Uhhh, where is that French trollop?” “Oh, she left about ten minutes before you got here.” Hmmmm. The next day I brought a tuna salad sandwich…at 11:00. No luck. I guess someone else had called the manager.

Being the LA Field Guy was the greatest job in the world. Even though I protested that I didn’t, all of the TV and radio stations, newspapers and outdoor companies in LA and San Diego thought I could help them get on a Chevrolet media buy. I quickly learned about Chasen’s, Perino’s, The Brown Derby, The Polo Lounge, Trader Vic’s, Tail O’ the Cock, and Scandia to name a few. I learned that the big outdoor companies, Pacific Outdoor and Foster & Kleiser, would barter space with Las Vegas resorts and airlines to provide trips to clients. I quickly realized why Dick Byrne had refused to go work in Detroit and stayed in this job for 17 years. If I played my cards right, I could stay in this job for at least 39 years. I quickly became used to the lifestyle. The one thing that I had yet to master, and found out that I should, was golf. The landed gentry in England went fox-hunting, the Germans went boar-hunting, LA Ad Guys played golf. A wonderful man named Harley Humes “adopted us.” He was a rep for Pacific Outdoor, and was already well into his sixties. My wife and I would often have dinner at his house in La Cañada. He was “old LA.” His father was one of the founding members of Wilshire Country Club in 1919. Harley came into my office one day and announced to me, “Tom, I’ve gotten you a membership in SCAGA!” This was the Southern California Advertising Golf Association. Rich ad guys who were good at golf. “I’ve put you in our foursome for the next tournament at Lakeside County Club,” he said. Another old line club, a short distance from Warner Brothers in Burbank, Lakeside was founded in 1924 and had as it’s members Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, W.C. Fields, Oliver Hardy, Gene Autry, among others. On the day of the tournament, and with my Sears golf clubs, I arrived at the club. A man about the same age as my father approached me and asked if I was Mr. Cavanagh. I was, I told him. “Hi, sir. I’m Sam. I’ll be your caddy today. Why don’t you just give me those clubs and meet your friends in the grill.” OK. Not too shabby. I met Harley, who was sitting at a table with two other gentlemen. The first was introduced as Jim Davis, who owned a photography studio. The other was introduced as Neal Reagan, Senior VP at McCann-LA. I tried to lighten things up. “Hey Neal,” I asked summoning all of my 26 year-old hubris, “you any relation to our actor-governor Ronald Reagan?” “Why yes,” he intoned,”Ron is my brother.” Uh oh!! I felt retribution on its way.

As we walked toward the first tee, Harley pulled me aside and whispered, “We’re partners in this foursome. Don’t let Neal get under your skin. He’ll try to ride you, but he’s really a good guy. We’re not betting that much.” If this hasn’t happened to you, you have NO idea the terror of being the new guy in a golf organization as you walk up to the first tee which is surrounded by golfers waiting to see what the “new kid” can do. I casually asked Sam for my driver and sauntered to the tee. The quiet was deafening as I began my swing. Keep your head down! Keep your head down! The ball left the tee with a mighty crack. It was about 100 yards out when the ball’s right turn signal began flashing and it veered into some brush on the right side of the fairway. Whew!! At least I got off the tee. “You’re OB, Tom!” Neal crowed. “Tee it up again, you’re lying three!” Mortified, I walked over to Sam for my 3-wood. Just hit it straight. Again, the turn signal. This time the ball wasn’t as far right. “OB again!!” Neal observed. “Tommy, you are now lying 6!!!!” I walked over to Sam and asked for my 9-iron. At least my slice would be limited. By this time the throng had dispersed, shaking their heads and chuckling to themselves. My shot went all of 60 yards, but I was off the tee.

The rest of the round wasn’t too traumatic. That evening at the awards dinner, Neal sat with me. The evening was kept buoyant by gallons of vodka martinis. Well into the evening he turned to me and said, “You know Tom, you took my ribbing well. You’re a fine Irishman…like me. It’s a pleasure meeting you. Now I have to go the bathroom. I’ll be right back because I want to talk to you.” He ambled off to the mens’ room. After 30 minutes had gone by, Harley and I became alarmed. We asked the waiter if he had seen Neal. “Oh” he said, “Mr. Reagan got into his car about 30 minutes and drove home.” There were giants in those days.

Next: The Case Of The Missing Cars

Hollywood! I was 26 years old and working in Hollywood. I knew nothing about California except for what I saw out of the cab window on my way to start my first day of work. Dick Byrne greeted me and took me back to his (soon to be mine) corner office. He brought me up to date on what was going on in the two zones I would be covering. He introduced me to everyone in the office. I asked him about his retirement. He was going to live in his condo in Apple Valley, near Victorville in the Mojave Desert. His wife was already out there, and Dick was living in a motel for the next week until his retirement became official. He couldn’t wait to start playing golf every day. Dick then took me to lunch. As we walked out onto sidewalk, I immediately realized that I was on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Treading lightly on the names of long-deceased celebs, we soon reached the Musso & Frank’s Grill. I had never heard of it. I will never forget it. Opened in 1919, the dark interior features red leather and mahogany. The waiters, many of whom have been there for years, sport red jackets and black ties. Faulkner used to go behind the bar to mix his own mint juleps, Fitzgerald would sit in a booth and review his writing. Their nonpareil martinis are served in carafes. Gore Vidal described the place, saying, “Coming into Musso’s is like stepping into a warm bath.” It was during lunch with Dick that I saw my first movie star: Cornell Wilde! He was sitting alone at the next table, quietly eating his Shrimp Louie. He was probably contemplating whether or not to appear on “Dean Martin Presents The Goldiggers.”

As our lunch was finishing, Dick asked me where I was planning on living. I told him that since this was my first trip to LA, I didn’t have a clue. He suggested the Park LaBrea complex. “It’s very close to work. My wife and I lived there for 22 years. You should really consider it.” I told him that I would. When we got back to the office, Dick went off to make some phone calls. Some of the other staffers also asked me where I was going to live. I mentioned Park LaBrea. “Noooo!!,” they said as one. They explained that even though Dick and his wife had lived there for 22 years, when his lease term was up the first of April, he had to either renew for another year or move. They didn’t allow month-to-month leases. They moved out, with Dick’s wife going to the desert condo, and Dick staying in a cheesy local motel. On top of that, there was no central air conditioning at Park LaBrea, and window air conditioners were prohibited. Since it was 102 that day, Park LaBrea was crossed off my list. Just then, Dave Koontz, one of our TV producers came up with a suggestion. Dave’s wife, at the time, was Christina Crawford of “Mommy Dearest” fame. “Hey man, do you have any kids?” We didn’t at the time. “You should check out a place called Marina Del Rey. It’s on the water, and it’s a non-stop party place.” That sounded very good to me.

The next day I drove to the Marina and visited one apartment complex: Mariner’s Village. It was right on the main channel into the Marina. It truly was a village, or at least my imagery of one. It even had its own on-site dry cleaners!! The two bedroom unit they showed me was perfect. The living room sliding glass door went out to a balcony with a breathtaking view of the water. Sailboats slowly cruised by right on front of me. “I want it,” I screamed. “I’ll be back in 48 hours with my wife to sign the lease.” I ran to the nearest pay phone and called my wife in Kansas City. “I have found the promised land! It’s an apartment right on the water. I’m flying home tonight to start packing, and then we’ll fly back here tomorrow. You’ll love it”

Timing is, truly, everything. Bad Timing Item #1: When we got off the plane in LA, it was 104 degrees with a Stage 3 smog alert. I think Stage 3 meant that your skin would start blistering if you were outside for more than ten minutes. My case for moving to LA wasn’t helped by the fact that my wife’s eyes were burning and she had developed a nasty hacking cough in the last ten minutes. Bad Timing Item #2: When we got to Mariner’s Village, I found out that my dream apartment had been leased to someone else that morning. “But I told you I was coming right back,” I sobbed. “Sir,” they officiously scoffed, “we don’t ‘hold’ units without a deposit.” “Is there another one?” “No, they said. We have no more vacancies. We’d be happy to put your name on a waiting list.” I stormed out. There had to be other really cool Marina apartments for rent. After driving around for three hours, I found that there weren’t. We stopped for lunch. My wife bought the current issue of Newsweek. When I returned from the bathroom to join her at our table, she threw the magazine at me. “Now I know why you want to move to LA!!!”

Bad Timing Item #3

The cover story of the current issue of Newsweek was an expose on the anything-goes, swinging sex scene lifestyle found in a place called Marina Del Rey. To top it all off, the cover picture was taken at the pool at Mariner’s Village, the place I had been dying to make mine. “You can move here if you want. But I’m not coming with you.” Hmmmm. I realized that I had some selling to do. And I only had 24 hours to do it. I desperately suggested, “Let’s drive around for a while. We might find something.” I was clutching at straws. I managed to get lost as we drove in ever-widening arcs away from the Marina. “Why don’t you give up? We’re not going to find anything we like,” she said. Just then, I saw it. The sign that said “Luxury Apartments and Townhouses just ahead.” Last chance. I pulled into Raintree. It was just off Jefferson,east of Overland in Culver City. MGM was selling off many of their backlots. Raintree was no exception. Many of the exteriors from the Elizabeth Taylor movie, Raintree County were filmed on this lot. MGM left the small lake which was now the centerpiece of the complex. The units were brand new, unoccupied. We could have our pick. Once you passed the guard gate, the air was cooler, cleaner. Large willow trees shaded the walkways. The resident managers were from Ohio, and spoke Midwestern. They told us that Telly Savalas and Isabel Sanford (The Jeffersons) were residents in the townhouse section of Raintree. My wife said, “This will do.”

Next: Chita Rivera Saves The Day

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Chita Rivera Saves the Day

“Have You Met Any Movie Stars?”