surprise it was a delivery man.
“You Bob Zmuda?”
“Yeah,” I said warily, as if my bad luck had manifested some forgotten misstep from my previous life.
“I gotta telegram. Sign here,” he said, thrusting his clipboard at me. I signed, and he handed me a sealed telegram. I went inside and looked at it for a moment, scared that it might be bad news, but also filled with excitement from the promise of my “voice.” I opened it.
BOB — CALL MY MANAGER GEORGE SHAPIRO IMMEDIATELY. SIGNED, ANDY
I stared at the message in my hand for a moment or two, almost disbelieving it. Andy was becoming a big star, he wanted me, and the “voice” had told the truth. The phone number was in Los Angeles. Hollywood. It was two-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and I ran in my bathrobe, screaming in glee, to a phone booth down the block. I got an operator who instructed me to drop some coins in. I was still dropping in coins when George Shapiro’s assistant, Diane, answered.
“Good afternoon, Shapiro/West,” she said.
“Uh, yes, may I speak to Mr. Shapiro?”
The sounds of the coins coupled with the naïveté in my voice caused her to shortstop me. “Mr. Shapiro is not in. May I take a message?” she said with the slightest touch of derision. I was crushed.
“Well, when will he be back?” I asked, still hopeful, but taken down a notch.
“Later. May I take a number?”
“Sir, you’ll have to insert another seventy-five cents,” said the operator.
Now Diane was really wondering, and when I said, “Sorry, I don’t have a number,” she dismissed me.
“I’ll tell him you called. Your name?”
“Bob Zmuda,” I said as I shoved my last three quarters in the slot, trying to keep the connection. Suddenly all hell broke loose.
“Bob Zmuda!?” she screeched. “You’re Bob Zmuda? George, George! It’s him,” she screamed to Shapiro. “It’s Bob Zmuda! We found him!”
The quality of life in Hollywood is determined by who takes your calls. I’d arrived. George Shapiro got on the phone, out of breath at the prospect of talking to the elusive Bob Zmuda.
“Zmuda? Bob Zmuda?” he asked, almost shrieking.
“Yeah, I’m Bob Zmuda. I got Andy’s telegram.”
“Where the hell are you? Andy’s been looking for you for weeks! What are you doing?”
“I’m in San Diego, working as a short-order cook.”
Shapiro turned to whoever was in the room. “He’s in San Diego! He’s a dishwasher!”
I don’t know how Shapiro got dishwasher from short-order cook, but to this day that’s my occupation when he tells the story.
George, repeat after me: short-order cook.
Shapiro returned to me and said, “Well, kid, your ship just came in. Andy told me you’re the greatest writer in the world and he wants you to fly to Hollywood to write his next show, a ninety-minute special he’s doing for ABC. I guess you’ll just drive up, huh?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The “voice” had been dead-on. “Yeah, I’ll drive. When do you want me there?”
“How about yesterday,” cracked Shapiro.
“I’m already there,” I said.
That telegram would change my life forever. But what about the voice? How did it know and whose voice was it? Back in Los Angeles, Andy’s phone was ringing. George was calling to let him know that they had found me. Andy, in a deep meditative trance, was oblivious to the noisy phone. Besides, he already knew.
Shelly and I packed up the Rambler and headed north. This time the squalid streets of Hollywood looked like they were paved with gold. That evening I saw Andy for the first time in months.
The first thing out of his mouth was, “I’ll bet you thought I forgot about you.”
I lied through my teeth. “I knew you’d call.”
Andy and I enthusiastically went back to work and were soon writing his special. One of the guests on the show, Cindy Williams, was also starring in
Laverne and Shirley.
Cindy loved the way Andy and I worked together and approached me one
“You Bob Zmuda?”
“Yeah,” I said warily, as if my bad luck had manifested some forgotten misstep from my previous life.
“I gotta telegram. Sign here,” he said, thrusting his clipboard at me. I signed, and he handed me a sealed telegram. I went inside and looked at it for a moment, scared that it might be bad news, but also filled with excitement from the promise of my “voice.” I opened it.
BOB — CALL MY MANAGER GEORGE SHAPIRO IMMEDIATELY. SIGNED, ANDY
I stared at the message in my hand for a moment or two, almost disbelieving it. Andy was becoming a big star, he wanted me, and the “voice” had told the truth. The phone number was in Los Angeles. Hollywood. It was two-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and I ran in my bathrobe, screaming in glee, to a phone booth down the block. I got an operator who instructed me to drop some coins in. I was still dropping in coins when George Shapiro’s assistant, Diane, answered.
“Good afternoon, Shapiro/West,” she said.
“Uh, yes, may I speak to Mr. Shapiro?”
The sounds of the coins coupled with the naïveté in my voice caused her to shortstop me. “Mr. Shapiro is not in. May I take a message?” she said with the slightest touch of derision. I was crushed.
“Well, when will he be back?” I asked, still hopeful, but taken down a notch.
“Later. May I take a number?”
“Sir, you’ll have to insert another seventy-five cents,” said the operator.
Now Diane was really wondering, and when I said, “Sorry, I don’t have a number,” she dismissed me.
“I’ll tell him you called. Your name?”
“Bob Zmuda,” I said as I shoved my last three quarters in the slot, trying to keep the connection. Suddenly all hell broke loose.
“Bob Zmuda!?” she screeched. “You’re Bob Zmuda? George, George! It’s him,” she screamed to Shapiro. “It’s Bob Zmuda! We found him!”
The quality of life in Hollywood is determined by who takes your calls. I’d arrived. George Shapiro got on the phone, out of breath at the prospect of talking to the elusive Bob Zmuda.
“Zmuda? Bob Zmuda?” he asked, almost shrieking.
“Yeah, I’m Bob Zmuda. I got Andy’s telegram.”
“Where the hell are you? Andy’s been looking for you for weeks! What are you doing?”
“I’m in San Diego, working as a short-order cook.”
Shapiro turned to whoever was in the room. “He’s in San Diego! He’s a dishwasher!”
I don’t know how Shapiro got dishwasher from short-order cook, but to this day that’s my occupation when he tells the story.
George, repeat after me: short-order cook.
Shapiro returned to me and said, “Well, kid, your ship just came in. Andy told me you’re the greatest writer in the world and he wants you to fly to Hollywood to write his next show, a ninety-minute special he’s doing for ABC. I guess you’ll just drive up, huh?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The “voice” had been dead-on. “Yeah, I’ll drive. When do you want me there?”
“How about yesterday,” cracked Shapiro.
“I’m already there,” I said.
That telegram would change my life forever. But what about the voice? How did it know and whose voice was it? Back in Los Angeles, Andy’s phone was ringing. George was calling to let him know that they had found me. Andy, in a deep meditative trance, was oblivious to the noisy phone. Besides, he already knew.
Shelly and I packed up the Rambler and headed north. This time the squalid streets of Hollywood looked like they were paved with gold. That evening I saw Andy for the first time in months.
The first thing out of his mouth was, “I’ll bet you thought I forgot about you.”
I lied through my teeth. “I knew you’d call.”
Andy and I enthusiastically went back to work and were soon writing his special. One of the guests on the show, Cindy Williams, was also starring in
Laverne and Shirley.
Cindy loved the way Andy and I worked together and approached me one
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