I went to college in Los Angeles ... long, long ago. One of my fellow ROTC students hooked many of us up with jobs as extras for the movie industry, so I got to see quite a few TV and movie stars.
My own favorite story has nothing to do with being an extra.
It's midnight at Tommy's on Rampart. For those who don't know, Tommy's is a tiny little place that makes some of the best chili-cheeseburgers on the planet. This particular Tommy's is at the corner, surrounded by a medium-sized parking lot that's just not big enough for the traffic. Running around the outside of the regular businesses on the opposite side of the parking lot is a long wooden bar. This is where everyone stands to eat their sloppy, runny, wonderful Tommyburgers. Late at night, the parking lot is full and so is that wooden bar. Most folks end up parking across the street, trying to find some way across Rampart (not so easy).
I'm there with maybe 3 college friends, trying hard to keep the chili off my pants. A loud sedan comes rumbling down Rampart and turns into the lot across the street. The usual squadcar parked down Rampart takes notice since it's a beautiful, refinished muscle car (a Cuda, if I remember right). A tall man with wide shoulders and cowboy boots steps out. He walks directly to the curb and starts across Rampart. Naturally, one of the policemen pulls out a ticket book and heads for the sidewalk on our side, ready to hand out his usual jaywalking ticket. Most of us are watching to see the new guy get his "Tommy's Tax."
Halfway there, the cop stops and turns around. Heads directly back to the squadcar and starts talking to his mate.
The tall man, untaxed, walks right toward Tommy's. People start backing away, and now we are
all creeped out. You have to wait 15 minutes to get a burger; that's just the way it is.
We can't hear him clearly, but he gets his order -- fast. Two Tommyburgers with extra chili; you can tell by the extra mess. And a large Coke. He heads for the rail about 10 feet down from us.
People clear away. Well away. He gets a large safety zone on each side. He leans against the wooden bar and calmly, quickly downs both burgers with that Coke. He gets extra credit for cleanliness and he's gone in 10 minutes, returning exactly the way he came.
It was Clint Eastwood.
He didn't talk to any of us, he didn't make a big fuss or stare anybody down, but it was him, alright. It may seem funny to you that nobody walked over to him, nobody said anything to him, nobody asked him for an autograph. Even in the early seventies, everybody knew he was more than just another actor ... and you could tell, just by the way he walked and the way he looked, that he wanted his privacy.
He got it. And we got a memory that has lasted, for me, a lifetime.
