Harris was very entertaining. He’s one of those people who could tell a story like no other. He would always have something to talk about while I was setting up his dinner or lunch and they were always a lot of fun to hear. One night, while at home watching David Letterman, Peter O’Toole was Dave’s guest. You could tell that Dave loved having either O’Toole or Harris on because of their stories, most of the time about each other.
O’Toole tells this story about he and Harris, it went something like this; “We were going to a party with a lot of pretty girls. We hail a cabman and he takes us to the house where the party is at. It’s on the top floor of this building, something like three stories high. Harris and I get out of the car and go to the front door. We can hear the party from above because all of the windows were open. We ring the doorbell and no one answers -- so we ring it again. Still no one answers. I tell my friend, Mr. Harris, that I will climb up the drain pipe on the side of the building, drop into the flat and open the door for him. I shimmy up the drain pipe and climb into the room but Harris decides to follow me. While Harris is climbing up the pipe it suddenly breaks away from the building and Mr. Harris is left hanging until the police arrive to get him down.” Dave loves the story and O’Toole obviously loves telling it.
The next day at work, I bring Mr. Harris his tea and just for something to say I announce, “I saw your friend, Peter O’Toole, on Letterman last night.” Harris drops what he was doing and stands, yelling “Peter O’Toole is a LIAR!!!” “Oops” I’m thinking, “What have I done?” Mr. Harris runs over to me, livid. I’m still standing, with his tea on the tray, on my shoulder. “Mr. O’Toole would not know the truth if bit him on his arse!” Harris exclaimed. I’m so regretting bringing this subject up, I was actually hoping that he wouldn’t hit me. “I’ll tell you what happened that night -- not the cheap fabrication of O’Toole’s imagination.”
I started setting up the tea, hoping that I wouldn’t end up being scolded with it. “Mr. O’Toole lies! There were not a lot of pretty girls in that flat -- there wasn’t even a party. There was one very beautiful girl and she was to see me. But while I was paying the cabdriver, Mr. O’Toole jumped out of the car and climbed the water pipe. When I climbed it to follow him into the flat, he shut the window and called the police on me. He is a shameful liar.” Having made his point, Richard Harris sat down and I poured him a cup of tea. When I left him, Harris was still steaming “Liar, that’s what Mr. O’Toole is… he’s a liar.” It was a really good story and I enjoyed it as soon as I realized that he wasn’t going to physically attack me.
On one of Richard Harris’ stays at the Marquis, a terrible thing happened. One of his dogs got loose, slipped under the hotel’s fence and ran away. Mr. Harris was inconsolable -- of course, I may have made it worse when he asked me what happened when the bunnies got under the fence (the hotel had a herd of them. They started with two small rabbits, but I guess they never heard the “breed like rabbits” simile. It’s true -- they did and now there is a herd)? Not knowing where he was going with it, I answered, “They usually run into the street and get hit by a car.” This sent Harris into a deeper state of panic. “We’ve got hundreds of them,” I said, trying to console him about the rabbits.
The hotel put together a group of employees to go and search for Harris’ dog. The Sunset Marquis bellmen also put up flyers in the neighborhood offering a reward for whomever found the dog (and some guests, even Gene Hackman, who was staying with us since he was nominated for an Oscar and was going to ceremony for his role in The Unforgiven , with Harris, was also out in the bushes looking for the dog).
I went downstairs to pick up some things
O’Toole tells this story about he and Harris, it went something like this; “We were going to a party with a lot of pretty girls. We hail a cabman and he takes us to the house where the party is at. It’s on the top floor of this building, something like three stories high. Harris and I get out of the car and go to the front door. We can hear the party from above because all of the windows were open. We ring the doorbell and no one answers -- so we ring it again. Still no one answers. I tell my friend, Mr. Harris, that I will climb up the drain pipe on the side of the building, drop into the flat and open the door for him. I shimmy up the drain pipe and climb into the room but Harris decides to follow me. While Harris is climbing up the pipe it suddenly breaks away from the building and Mr. Harris is left hanging until the police arrive to get him down.” Dave loves the story and O’Toole obviously loves telling it.
The next day at work, I bring Mr. Harris his tea and just for something to say I announce, “I saw your friend, Peter O’Toole, on Letterman last night.” Harris drops what he was doing and stands, yelling “Peter O’Toole is a LIAR!!!” “Oops” I’m thinking, “What have I done?” Mr. Harris runs over to me, livid. I’m still standing, with his tea on the tray, on my shoulder. “Mr. O’Toole would not know the truth if bit him on his arse!” Harris exclaimed. I’m so regretting bringing this subject up, I was actually hoping that he wouldn’t hit me. “I’ll tell you what happened that night -- not the cheap fabrication of O’Toole’s imagination.”
I started setting up the tea, hoping that I wouldn’t end up being scolded with it. “Mr. O’Toole lies! There were not a lot of pretty girls in that flat -- there wasn’t even a party. There was one very beautiful girl and she was to see me. But while I was paying the cabdriver, Mr. O’Toole jumped out of the car and climbed the water pipe. When I climbed it to follow him into the flat, he shut the window and called the police on me. He is a shameful liar.” Having made his point, Richard Harris sat down and I poured him a cup of tea. When I left him, Harris was still steaming “Liar, that’s what Mr. O’Toole is… he’s a liar.” It was a really good story and I enjoyed it as soon as I realized that he wasn’t going to physically attack me.
On one of Richard Harris’ stays at the Marquis, a terrible thing happened. One of his dogs got loose, slipped under the hotel’s fence and ran away. Mr. Harris was inconsolable -- of course, I may have made it worse when he asked me what happened when the bunnies got under the fence (the hotel had a herd of them. They started with two small rabbits, but I guess they never heard the “breed like rabbits” simile. It’s true -- they did and now there is a herd)? Not knowing where he was going with it, I answered, “They usually run into the street and get hit by a car.” This sent Harris into a deeper state of panic. “We’ve got hundreds of them,” I said, trying to console him about the rabbits.
The hotel put together a group of employees to go and search for Harris’ dog. The Sunset Marquis bellmen also put up flyers in the neighborhood offering a reward for whomever found the dog (and some guests, even Gene Hackman, who was staying with us since he was nominated for an Oscar and was going to ceremony for his role in The Unforgiven , with Harris, was also out in the bushes looking for the dog).
I went downstairs to pick up some things
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