was very funny, my mother replied, “Well, I’m funny, too. Would you like to give me a job?”
As I recall, we were supposed to go shopping the next day, but I showed up late after getting a callback for a commercial. When I walked in, she was typing a letter to Ronny—she was still always typing. I read over her shoulder and saw she was catching my sister up on the latest events, including my love life. “She’s still sleeping with the guy from William Morris,” she wrote. “He’s among a few others, but I can’t say anything. Did I tell you she goes to his beach house in Malibu? I’m sure the neighbors tell his wife, but Pen doesn’t care.”
“Ma!” I exclaimed. “Why are you telling Ronny all about my personal life?”
“What?” she said, perplexed. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 16
I Made Him Sick
Penny and Rob Reiner in 1973
Marshall personal collection
W HEN ROB REINER and I were children, we lived across the street from each other in the Bronx. We never met because the Grand Concourse was a busy street and we were too young to cross it. One time I saw his father, Carl, in the tiny grocery store in our building. Then one of the stars on
Your Show of Shows,
he was the most famous person in our neighborhood. He was also known for giving out the best Halloween candy.
In 1963, my brother and Jerry Belson worked for Carl as staff writers on
The Dick Van Dyke Show,
and I knew about Rob from hanging out with comedy people. The name Reiner stood out in Hollywood. There was one degree of separation between us for so many years that when we finally met, it felt like destiny was completing a circle that had been drawn years earlier.
It was a summer night, and I left Just in Time’s acting class. I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and walked into Barney’s Beanery, a late-night bar and restaurant popular with actors, writers, and musicians. I spotted some people from The Committee at a table, and Rob was among them. Someone invited me to sit down, and Rob and I immediately looked at each other.
“So you’re Garry’s sister,” he said.
“So you’re Carl’s kid,” I replied, not missing a beat.
Rob and I were instant friends. I hung out at the house on King’s Road he shared with what seemed like half of The Committee: Chris Ross, Carl Gottlieb, Larry Hankin, and John Brent. They were all creative—and nuts! John, who had made the comedy album
How to Speak Hip
with Del Close, kept an array of pills in a large flashlight. Every so often he dumped them out on the coffee table and said, “Let’s see, two of these are equal to one Nembutal.”
I liked Rob because he wore pajamas and didn’t do drugs. He had already gone through his wild period and now focused on his work. He wanted to write and direct. His closest friends included his high school buddies Albert Brooks and Richard Dreyfuss and his writing partner, Phil Mishkin. They cranked out TV and movie scripts, as well as a play,
The Howie Rubin Story,
which won an L.A. Drama Critics Circle Award in 1970.
They were funny. Together, they would trade stories and twist them until they had spun them into comedy gold. I remember laughing one night as they recalled how they got out of the Vietnam draft. Albert had a bad shoulder and he did a whole bit on how that would have been bad for the war effort. Ricky Dreyfuss was a conscientious objector. Rob had a letter from his doctor saying he wasn’t fit for military service, and then when he filled out his draft papers he checked every possible box on the page, including the one that indicated that he was a homosexual—which earned him a warning from the draft board that he would never act or write in Hollywood.
We would have dinner with Rob’s family, including his younger siblings, Annie and Lucas. These were warm occasions that Carl livened up with games. I remember him once handing out kazoos for all of us to play. He would call everyone a genius when of course he was the only real
As I recall, we were supposed to go shopping the next day, but I showed up late after getting a callback for a commercial. When I walked in, she was typing a letter to Ronny—she was still always typing. I read over her shoulder and saw she was catching my sister up on the latest events, including my love life. “She’s still sleeping with the guy from William Morris,” she wrote. “He’s among a few others, but I can’t say anything. Did I tell you she goes to his beach house in Malibu? I’m sure the neighbors tell his wife, but Pen doesn’t care.”
“Ma!” I exclaimed. “Why are you telling Ronny all about my personal life?”
“What?” she said, perplexed. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 16
I Made Him Sick
Penny and Rob Reiner in 1973
Marshall personal collection
W HEN ROB REINER and I were children, we lived across the street from each other in the Bronx. We never met because the Grand Concourse was a busy street and we were too young to cross it. One time I saw his father, Carl, in the tiny grocery store in our building. Then one of the stars on
Your Show of Shows,
he was the most famous person in our neighborhood. He was also known for giving out the best Halloween candy.
In 1963, my brother and Jerry Belson worked for Carl as staff writers on
The Dick Van Dyke Show,
and I knew about Rob from hanging out with comedy people. The name Reiner stood out in Hollywood. There was one degree of separation between us for so many years that when we finally met, it felt like destiny was completing a circle that had been drawn years earlier.
It was a summer night, and I left Just in Time’s acting class. I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and walked into Barney’s Beanery, a late-night bar and restaurant popular with actors, writers, and musicians. I spotted some people from The Committee at a table, and Rob was among them. Someone invited me to sit down, and Rob and I immediately looked at each other.
“So you’re Garry’s sister,” he said.
“So you’re Carl’s kid,” I replied, not missing a beat.
Rob and I were instant friends. I hung out at the house on King’s Road he shared with what seemed like half of The Committee: Chris Ross, Carl Gottlieb, Larry Hankin, and John Brent. They were all creative—and nuts! John, who had made the comedy album
How to Speak Hip
with Del Close, kept an array of pills in a large flashlight. Every so often he dumped them out on the coffee table and said, “Let’s see, two of these are equal to one Nembutal.”
I liked Rob because he wore pajamas and didn’t do drugs. He had already gone through his wild period and now focused on his work. He wanted to write and direct. His closest friends included his high school buddies Albert Brooks and Richard Dreyfuss and his writing partner, Phil Mishkin. They cranked out TV and movie scripts, as well as a play,
The Howie Rubin Story,
which won an L.A. Drama Critics Circle Award in 1970.
They were funny. Together, they would trade stories and twist them until they had spun them into comedy gold. I remember laughing one night as they recalled how they got out of the Vietnam draft. Albert had a bad shoulder and he did a whole bit on how that would have been bad for the war effort. Ricky Dreyfuss was a conscientious objector. Rob had a letter from his doctor saying he wasn’t fit for military service, and then when he filled out his draft papers he checked every possible box on the page, including the one that indicated that he was a homosexual—which earned him a warning from the draft board that he would never act or write in Hollywood.
We would have dinner with Rob’s family, including his younger siblings, Annie and Lucas. These were warm occasions that Carl livened up with games. I remember him once handing out kazoos for all of us to play. He would call everyone a genius when of course he was the only real
Similar Books
