Frozen Moments

How I Became
"The Lana Turner Man"
What interests people most about me is the fact that I spent the ten most productive years of my life, from age twenty-nine to age thirty-nine usurping my own ambitions to be a professional singer by becoming the personal assistant turned intimate confidant turned personal manager and, according to the media, slated to be "Lana's Mate Number Eight" of Hollywood screen legend, Lana Turner.

Although she's departed now, having succumbed to throat cancer at age 72 in 1995, her legend lingers as the sixteen year old high school girl who cut a typing class where she had been newly enrolled at Hollywood High in favor of The Top Hat Malt Shop just across the street at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Highland Avenue, a major intersection then and now. I'll go into it later in greater detail, but the bottom line is that Julia Jean Mildred Frances Turner, known then as Judy Turner, caught the eye of the only other patron in the malt shop. He turned out to be the owner and editor of the powerful daily show biz bible known then and now as The Hollywood Reporter. His name? Billy Wilkerson. His first line to Judy was, "How would you like to be in the Movies?" To which the amazingly beautiful but painfully shy young thing replied, 'I don't know. I'll have to ask my Mother", whereupon Billy Wilkerson handed Judy his business card with instructions to have her Mother call him, ASAP!

With the speed of a Fairy Godmother's magic wand, Judy Turner appeared on the Hollywood scene and screen in her first movie with a name change and short but important role in a movie with a prophetic title; "They Won't Forget". And they didn't. She went on to become the long-reigning Queen of the MGM lot for ten years during which her star shone brighter and ever brighter, playing opposite such leading men as Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Gary Cooper, Mickey Rooney, and every other male lead of that time.

But, "that time" began in 1937 and I wasn't born until 1940. The odd thing is that, when I first met Miss Turner and interviewed for the position as personal assistant in her white marble mausoleum sprawling over a hilltop near Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland Drive, as she escorted me from the white leather game table with matching white leather chairs across her white marble living room with wall to wall white, shag carpeting, she clapped her exceeding lovely hands together like a young girl and the gleam in her hazel eyes grew bright as she exclaimed, "And, now, for the big question!" A big pause lingered as I gulped and tried to remember any Felony's in my past. Stopping short and with a big smile and her pink, manicured finger poised in the air, she asked, "When is your Birthday?"

Relieved beyond belief, I countered, "February Ninth."

She gasped and replied, "A-hah! Mine is February the eighth!"

Not to be outdone, I countered, "I have a sister who is February the twelfth!"

She laughed her straight-from-the-gut laugh and won our little tit-for-tat by declaring, "My Mother is February the twelfth!", then neatly wrapped it up by adding, "Aquarius all ... aren't we wonderful?" What was there to say after that?

As they say in Movie parlance, CUT TO: Decades later. Lana is now living in her last and final residence, a lovely Movie Star condo on the twentieth floor of The Century Park East in newly emerging Century City located right next to Beverly Hills and right on the land that once comprised the back lot of Fox Studios. We are expected at a formal affair at The Hillcrest Country Club. A 'restricted' club for Jews only. Lana Turner was not Jewish by any measure but was one of the few non-Jews accepted and welcomed by Hillcrest's immensely successful and wealthy members.

There I was, alone in the living room wearing my tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and jacket without the pants. The pants were always put on just as we were to leave the building lest they become wrinkled or creased from sitting so long while waiting for "LT", the larger-than-life Movie Star to signal her readiness with the wafting combination of Leur de Temp cologne and perfume that preceeded her arrival. On this occasion, as on many others however, she emerged from her private quarters looking splendid but sans evening gown and appropriate sparkling jewelry. My heart sank as it did on all the other occasions when I knew we weren't going anywhere. Lana was often a no-show at the last minute and, though I knew and understood why and usually supported her decisions, for this one (and I know not why) I rebelled and said, "Well, I'd like to go!"

"Well, certainly, dear. Ring for the car. Everyone there knows you by now and you can give them all my love. My tummy isn't feeling well tonight. Go ... have good time."

Feeling stupid and guilty I went to my office, dialed the valet service below to bring up the impressive Cadillac Eldorado and put on my pants, which brought a smirkey, devilish look to Lana's face. She knew she had won again because I now had to go, without her, and face the inevitable inquisition from those assembled who were so looking forward to seeing the living legend make one of her by now famous entrances.

And so it was on that fateful night that every head turned and every smile wilted to a frown when they saw me walk in, alone, being escorted to the two empty chairs of a round table set for ten. There were two place cards noting Lana Turner and, to the right of that Taylor Pero.

As I approached everyone was deep in party talk and gaiety filled the air. Glumly I saw our empty seats and felt I shouldn't be there. A fabulous comedienne, TV actress turned socialite named Cara Williams saw me first and tried to alert the others but couldn't remember my name. Time was closing in on Cara because I was almost there. She felt obliged to say something. Our eyes met (we had hung out together at many parties before) and I saw her wracking her mental rolodex and coming up empty handed so she did the next best thing and gushed, "Oh, look! Here comes THE LANA TURNER MAN!"

That got people's attention. As I kissed the air of Rona Barrett and other assembled females, and shook hands with their husbands, escorts, and hairdressers I felt welcomed and began to relax. They hadn't thrown me out because I hadn't delivered the goods. The goods being Lana Turner.

As the chatter and frivolity prevailed the new joke at our table was that I had been dubbed The Lana Turner Man and everyone but me thought it was hilarious. I was the butt of many alcohol-churned jokes that night and graciously accepted them all, thinking it would all be over by morning, but such was not the case.

A few days later, while waiting for a red light to turn green at the intersection of Robertson Boulevard and Brighton Way, my peripheral vision caught sight of a super looking green-black Jaguar rolling silently to the left of me in my own Eldorado. It was a warm day and my windows were down as were those of the gleaming Jaguar. And then I heard it. From the female driver of the Jag I heard her sing out, "Oh, Lana Turner Man!" I looked as the light turned green and she drove off, making a left hand turn to my right hand turn and I never saw her again that I know of, but it was certain that the Hollywood Tom-Tom's had been beating and I had no choice but to accept my new title, thanks to Cara Williams and her inability to remember names.

Lana was by now a frequent no-show, preferring to remain inside her cozy cocoon in what she often referred to as "My Ivory Tower". Was she a 'recluse'? Hardly. More about that in greater detail as I progress.
(Monday, October 15, 2007)