It’s Been a Privilege

In the summer of ’86, I played it cool.

At the ripe age of 18, I had worked in Manhattan at a Fortune 50 company. Was in between my freshman and sophomore years of college with no marketable skills, and yet I was already making bank. Rewind, I was making what seemed like a truckload of money for a guy who had just been mowing lawns and walking dogs for a few coins not that long before.

So, you could say I carried a college swagger to the party that steaming day in August. I was really into wearing Oxford shirts. It wasn’t a thing my peers were really doing. It made me feel more sophisticated and at times got me into bars despite my youthful face.

Maine was our family’s vacationland every summer growing up. My grandmother owned a sweet cottage on a private island that held just a hundred homes. Some might call it exclusive, snobby, WASPish. They wouldn’t be totally wrong. But since a relative of mine by the name of William Pierce Frye was one of the founding families of the island, seven generations ago, I couldn’t snub the family legacy.

In fact, the young man in the pinstripe shirt would chase opportunities as if every door was intentionally opened for him. The world was his butler and personal valet. Oh right, that was me.

I had been drinking only one or two beers before she arrived. I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself, like most of the kids on the island did without rules or restraint. The big buzz was that Ashley was coming to the party, but I can’t recall if I heard that from her cousin Audrey who had a crush on me or if it was just one of those rumors that ruffled through the room like a gentle tidal wave.

In any case, the room danced with electricity. The curtains shimmied in the evening breeze. Conversations crescendoed, drifted, then rose again with spirited ideas about who was going cliff diving later that night. And then the screen door squeaked open and slammed on its own, as she made an entrance. Laughter and screams ensued.

I turned my head away from the excitement that gathered. Not only was I playing it smooth, but I wanted the introduction to be a lightning moment of discovery and awe. So, when she approached, I turned, our eyes and smiles made contact, as if hugging each other, though we just met. I had no idea who she was, but the exchange was comfortable even as my heart rate was racing. Her social energy bolted out of the gate. She was sharing stuff about her summer - horseback riding and prepping for her final year of high school and lots of other stuff. And what?

Oh yeah. Well, it never occurred to me that she was too young for me. She was more accomplished in conversation and maturity than most everyone at the party, including myself. So yeah, she seemed naturally compatible. It was only later in the night, when my arms embraced her on the float, when that feeling was cemented. The group of revelers stripped down to one layer of clothes and swam as fast as we could through the freezing cove. It was a daring thing, holding a heartthrob in my arms with nothing more than an oversized shirt and boxers between us.

I guess we made the most of that week or two, ‘cause she sobbed when I had to leave. We held each other for an entire James Taylor song. That was a first. So, when I got back to school, I received love letters on a regular basis, sometimes 2 or 3 in a week. Maybe she didn’t want me to forget her and date some college skank. Or maybe she just liked me too and what I stood for – the possibilities of a fun and loving relationship.

Our words grew fonder through the weight of correspondence. It was hard to keep up with her letter production, but you know it was probably good practice for her…to do well in AP English. As time crawled along, she reeled me in closer and welcomed me into her family. To make a gargantuan impression, she invited me for Thanksgiving to her famous uncle’s farm. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

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Not that it would have made a difference, but I wish I had seen more of his movies before I met Robert Duvall that first time. I would have had so many questions. I also wish I had told him about how my mother acted with Brando on Broadway for a few years before he did Streetcar. We could have connected over that. I had only seen him in Apocalypse Now at that point, but his stellar reputation was all I needed to know. I wouldn’t get much of a word in anyway on this occasion. I was the fly on the wall.

Ashley’s extended family was tight. She was an only-child. Bob had no offspring, and she had only a few cousins. Nonetheless, the holiday was like a circus of a dozen characters at her Uncle’s estate in rural Virginia.

Some were in the industry. Some were professional football player friends. We threw the ball in the yard during one intermission. I ran some button hooks and got the pig skin drilled into my gut by a Houston Oiler. That was painfully fun.

The kitchen floor was cleared at one point when Bob and his girlfriend demonstrated some samba or tango moves. It was all Greek to me, but again not your typical turkey day for a college kid. Bob gave his brother Jack an early Christmas gift – a Lincoln Town Car and you’ve never seen anyone so lit with joy.

The only other thing I recall, was walking the property. I’m not sure if we were looking for holes to cover for the horses or whether we were just out for a family portrait with the moody Blue Ridge mountains serving as a scenic backdrop. In any case, they didn’t make me take the photo. I was in the picture.

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By the next summer Ashley and I had fallen out of love. Despite all her honors and extracurriculars, she wasn’t accepted into her top college choice – UVA. They suck. And I suspect she thought I was being unfaithful at college or moved on. Truth is, I wasn’t as cool to fellow collegiates as I was to a high schooler on a fantasy island in Maine. I’m not sure where my loyalty was, looking back, but I hadn’t been seeing anyone romantically. Sometimes things just fall apart with time and distance.

I wasn’t done seeing her family though. That summer, a friend and I were blessed with a dream apartment on the upper west side for a steal. David’s boss was looking to sublet this 2BR, 14 ft-ceiling apartment on West End and 84th for like $700. That was dirt cheap, even for 1987. Somehow through my breakup with Ashley, I kept touch with Uncle Bob who also had a place on the UWS at 86th.

Coincidentally, I ran into him and a buddy walking on Broadway. We yelled with surprise and exchanged bear hugs. Then we chatted briefly before exchanging phone numbers. I couldn’t believe he remembered me, but thought wow this could be a great opportunity. In the back of my mind, I had been thinking about one day writing screenplays. My dad probably drove home the point, that he would be a great contact. Ha.

My two subsequent visits were extraordinary, not in some weird way for a guy who no longer dated his niece, but in a rather normal down-to-earth yet impressionable out-of-this-world way for a lucky kid with simple movie-writing dreams.

The first call beckoned me for a family-style meal in Chinatown. A group of his inner circle gathered around one of those giant lazy-Susan tables and fired off war stories about their productions and travels. Bob let others do most of the talking as he’d look down and listen, but then erupt with laughter and contribute some pointed detail and memory, followed by more laughter.

A bill for the meal never surfaced, at least I never saw a hint of one. So, on the cab ride home, I pulled out my wallet and tried to pay the fare. I was making big bucks again. This time I was working on Wall Street. All right so it wasn’t 10 million dollars a picture, but I wanted to show my gratitude. Bob would have none of that. “No no no. You’re money’s no good in this town. Put that away.” I just laughed and followed orders. Yes sir Santini / Kilgore! Take your pick. I wasn’t going to argue.

At this stage in his successful career, Bob said his accountant told him he could afford to produce his own movie. He had a personal interest in preachers at a time when there was a wicked rise of snake-oil preachers on television. He had been doing research visiting places throughout the Bible Belt in preparation to play The Apostle.

I kept bugging the star to take him out to lunch until he finally invited me over to his place and made these fabulous soft shell crab sandwiches where the melted butter kind of dripped down the sides of my mouth and his girlfriend made this blueberry buckle to die for. I could eat that meal every day for the rest of my life.

He asked if I wanted to see what he was working on. He’d play some video clips of research for his latest movie. We’d pause and analyze the behavior. I pointed out observations. He listened and was excited by the whole review. I think he absorbed each subject, filtering to see the humanity of each person. I believe he does that with every character he plays. He is a master of capturing truth with nuance.

That was over 30 years ago and despite how uncool I’ve become; I’ll never take those privileges for granted.