A Story Almost Told

A Story Almost Told

By

Rick Karlsruher

Copyright 2008-2015 by Rick Karlsruher

All Right Reserved By Author

Table of Contents

Prologue

1. In The Beginning

2. Let The Insanity Begin

3. The First Time All Hell Breaks Loose

4. The World Changes

5. The Calm Before The Storms

6. It Started Innocently

7. The Odyssey's Foundation Is Set

8. Life Starts Getting Complicated

9. Coincidence After Coincidence

10. The Explosions Ensue

11. Going International

12. Hell On Earth

13. Seeing The Real South Africa

14. Spiraling Out Of Control

15. The Walls Come Tumbling Down

16. Deja Vu All Over Again

17. Is It Real Or Memorex

18. Greg Helps Out?

19. Back To The Status Quo

20. Home Sweet Home

21. Is It Over

22. A Dark Cloud Returns

23. It's The Same Old Song

24. Something Happening Here

25. On The Road Again

26. Happy New Year

27. Salsa Anyone

28. Going To New Orleans

29. Finish Line

Epilogue

Prologue

This is the story of a trying to make a dream of having my screenplay produced come true and how it turned into a nightmare that would haunt me for decades.

A blink of an eye that seemed to last a lifetime and touched so many lives. It was an odyssey that traversed three continents. The array of friends, politicians, stars, police, wannabes and crooks came together without being aware of their participation in it. As bizarre as it may seem later, all those named herein did knowingly or unknowingly play a role. Some were totally innocent others intentionally not.

I started innocently on a path to make a dream come true. Destiny played a series of sick tricks diverting my original path in unimaginable ways. I still don't understand how or why any of this happened.

So much was lost on the way to this day. More than a quarter of a century has passed, yet I am unsure whether this is ending a chapter in my life or creating a new highway from a winding path.

Are these words and pages cathartic or reopening deep and old wounds? Being honest, I don't know the answer to this question. Only finishing the task at hand can lead there. We'll all learn together.

Let me assure you, everything you are about to read really did happen. It happened to me and around me. As unlikely as it will seem, it is so. I wish I could be creative enough to lay out such a complex novel. This is non-fiction. I wish to hell it weren't.

I had to decide whether to clean up the language and make this prettier than it was or is. I can't do that.

This tale was lived by the seats of my pants Buckle up, it's not for the faint of heart. Hell, there are times Stephen King would have screamed like a little girl.

Thanks for becoming part of my story.

Chapter 1 – In The Beginning

This mess started several years after I graduated from college. My early twenties had been a continuum of family tragedies leading me to question every aspect of life, faith and the future. If the world was going to keep kicking me in the balls then bludgeoning me to the head, what would give this disaster meaning?

These feelings conflicted with how our generation grew up. We didn’t believe everything you could dream could happen. We saw it happen. We had living proof in King, The Beatles, standing on the moon. It seemed like every month there was a new country gaining its freedom. Horizons disappeared. Reality changed daily.

We saw walls come tumbling down. Winters, Pryor, Sellers, Laugh-In and SNL challenged the world with comedy. I identified with the sensible lunacy they evoked.

Working 9-5 didn’t make sense. What was happening in my life didn’t make sense. The Cold War and the world made little sense. Could I do something that would be worthwhile?

There was bad television, awful political writing, and terrible movies. I could do better. So it began. Had I known where this would lead me would I have started down this path?

As is the case with most adventures, my screenplay, Standoff, started innocently with a pen, some paper, an idea and a dream. I knew this was a long shot. I understood this would be like hitting back to back Big Es on two dollar bets each night. Let’s go.

I had no clue how to write a script or what to do with one once I finished. How to get started? What should it look like? How long should it be?

The characters were so real I could see, hear and touch them. Real and fake places melded into each other. The story was hilarious. Adrenalin propelled me forward to write the entire script in about a week.

Now what the hell was I supposed to do with it? My uncle had been in the music business for many years. I asked him what I should do. It was obvious he wanted to dissuade me from continuing down this path. He pointed me towards several publications and told me to start learning a little bit then come back and ask more intelligent questions. I think he was more amused than uncaring. He wanted me to get a little bruised before he jumped in to help me.

Go buy some trade papers and magazines, look some stuff up at the library, it sounded like a piece of cake. Had a drunken Edgar Alan Poe, Rod Serling, a tripping Hunter S. Thompson and a wasted Lenny Bruce, they couldn’t have come up with the horrors and adventures that were about get started from that simple advice.

I followed the instructions. There was an ad in Variety for a film consultant who had an office at Cream Magazine. I was new at the film business, but Cream was very successful. They wouldn’t have a scumbag or thief using their offices. This guy had to have some credibility. I decided to take a shot.

After the first call, I decided to take the train from Philly to New York and meet him. Cream’s office was right on Park Avenue. This was looking good as did the gorgeous receptionist. There was lots of action in the office as I waited for the Consultant. The receptionist led me into an office. The door had a title on it and instructed me to wait. She brought me a soda. I was getting nervous as I waited. Where was this guy? To me, making someone wait was rude.

The door opened. The fucking Munsters walked in. The guy had brought his wife and teenage son. What the hell was this? Maybe they just lost big time in the gene pool lottery. I took a deep breath and figured I shouldn’t judge a book by the covers. Man, were these covers fugly. On the other hand, look where his office was. He had to be a stud in business. They wouldn’t be here with all the beautiful and cool people if they weren’t. Could they?

I got it together and gave off a cocky, self-assured vibe. It was time to listen. They were the experts. I was told that comedy is the toughest area to break into and it’s the hardest thing to write. He wanted to read what I had finished to see if he would take me on.

The cynic in me understood from the jump that he would take me on as long as my checks would clear. I gave them Standoff and headed back for the train.

After almost a week passed with no contact from my guy in New York, I asked myself if I was wrong. Did he have some ethics and wasn’t really just after my check? Wait a second. What he was going to charge me wouldn’t have bought a lunch for three at the Carnegie Deli each week. I needed to focus. Should I call him? Should I rewrite Standoff? Do I suck?

Magically the phone rang. As soon as I said hello, the goofiest laughter I had ever heard erupted from the other end. They used words like inspired, genius, hit and incredible. I was told I had to get to their office the next day if I could. They wanted to get started yesterday. I was intoxicated.

Man, this was easy. Experts loved me. The semi-rational me appeared for the last time thinking a plan had to be formulated. I had to think. A buzz had to be created. I decided to listen to whatever they said to do. If they told me to strip naked and run screaming down Park Avenue, I would do it. They had chosen me. I wanted it so badly. I could taste fame. Could I taste the receptionist?

I was so excited that I could barely stay in my seat on the train. When I got to Penn Station, the juices were flowing so wildly I almost ran to Cream’s office. I must have punched the up button twenty times waiting for the elevator. The receptionist had almost nothing on, but I was so focused on my meeting that I barely drooled.

The consultant was effusive with praise and spittle. His wife was bizarre but complimentary. They talked very quickly. If I had been thinking clearly, I might have thought it was gibberish. But I wanted it so bad and it looked like they knew where it was. They gave me tasks to do before our meeting the following week. Come up with ideas for a director, lead actors and lots of other stuff. Oh yeah and don’t forget a check. I had no problem giving him the check.

I did my homework. The next week we discussed who should be the leads and if I had my check. Similar things happened for several more weeks. My frustration was starting to show. Why was I paying him? Logic was starting to creep into this endeavor. I thought hmm, let’s give him a little more rope to hang himself with and then start a real life.

Damn, I wonder what would have happened if I listened to my inner-me.

By this time in my life, my good friend Juan had invented the term doing a Rick. What this meant was that shit just happened around me for no apparent reason. I’d run into a famous person doing regular things. I’d get a seat for sold out a concert without knowing the concert was even happening. A girl would walk up to me and give me her phone number while selling beer at The Vet for no apparent reason. Well I was about to do a Rick that would change my life forever.

The Consultant sensed that we were hitting a wall and I would soon be looking elsewhere if something didn’t happen soon. Something had to be pulled out of his hat. I was restless that afternoon. I could smell the desperation in the air when he reached into his overflowing and decrepit briefcase. As he reached to hand me a book, he smiled knowingly.

That is hard to find. Don’t tell anyone I have it.

I looked at the soft-covered volume to see it was the Directors Guild of America’s membership book but was puzzled by his secretive nature.

Why shouldn’t I tell anyone about this?

Only members and producers are supposed to have it.

I got excited when I saw contact info for Coppola, George Roy Hill and Hitchcock on its pages. Maybe the DGA didn’t want bozos like me having this. As I flipped through the pages, he smiled.

Who should we target?

How does this work?

As this was long before email and faxes, he said, We can send out letters and hope someone is interested enough to get back to us.

I suspected this was a way to get a bunch more checks out of me. My next action put all you will learn about later into hyper-action. Had I known asking my next question innocent had the potential of turning Bobby McFerrin into a manic depressive, serial killer, I would have shut up. Naively, I found contact information for one of the fathers of modern comedy, Dick Martin.

I asked the Consultant if he would talk to Martin’s agent to see if I could send him a copy of Standoff hoping Dick would direct. He had been directing lots of TV shows. No one would fit the craziness of Standoff like he would.

Nearly all of today’s comedy has direct contacts to Dick Martin. Goldie Hawn started there. So did Lily Tomlin. Flip Wilson was a regular. Richard Dawson and Arte Johnson were as well. The writers wrote most of the comedy we saw for the next decade. Lorne Michaels had even worked for them. I had to try this.

Why don’t you call his agent? I asked.

He stammered for a moment. The color left his face. Well you’re supposed to send a letter first.

Why?

That’s the protocol. Maybe you should call and find out for yourself.

I was getting pissed. What a pussy this guy was turning out to be. I’m paying you to do this.

You are paying me to lead you through the film business and I’m telling you to follow the normal channels. You’ll do better. If you want to call him, here’s the phone.

I knew perfectly well he didn’t expect me to take him up on his offer. That pissed me off. What went through my mind in that instant was that I had very little chance anyway. If I made the call, he’d have to act more directly on my behalf.

Give me the damn number. I barked.

This caught him completely off-guard. He hesitated before handing the book back to me. I glared. It frightened him. The book was back in my hands. My life would never be the same.

I mean really how the fuck could anyone ever know making this would change my life so dramatically?

Nervously, I dialed the agent’s number. It rang once. I almost hung up. It rang twice. The Consultant looked arrogantly at me. After the fourth ring, someone picked up.

Hello?

That voice was so familiar, but I was so nervous I didn’t think about it until later.

Are you Dick Martin’s agent?

What?

Are you Dick Martin’s agent?

No, I’m Dick Martin. Who are you?

I told him.

How the hell did you get my number?

From the Directors Guild Directory, this number is listed as your agent’s number.

Shit. Can you hold on for a minute?

In the background I heard him yell to his wife Dolly to get his DGA book. Then I heard her laugh. Then he laughed.

Jesus, I’m an idiot, he said.

I remember laughing. The next thing I remember is him asking me if I played golf and would I like to join him the next day. After I told him I was in New York, he asked me if I would do him the favor of not telling anyone that his phone number was so public. I told him he had nothing to worry about. He thanked me. Finally he got around to asking me why I called.

Thanks for thinking of me.

He was thanking me? Where was this going?

Dick was genuinely interested in Standoff. We talked for 20-30 minutes. He was as gracious and as funny I thought he would be. I think the conversation would have continued for a while longer had Dolly not screamed that their guests had arrived. Before hanging up he gave me his home address and told me to send him the script. He said he loved the story.

The Consultant was stunned but tried to take credit for it. Even his arrogant BS couldn’t pierce my elation. I immediately demanded the Consultant make a copy of Standoff and send it FedEx to Dick’s home.

I loved making that cheap bastard use my money to pay for this. It was the cherry on top of this great sundae.

I remember going to the oyster bar at Penn Station to chow down on a pile of shrimp and washed them down with lots of bourbon. It was a great train ride home.

WOW!!! I don’t think the smile left my face for a couple of days.

A few days later the phone rang. It was Dick. His pure love and joy in life came through his voice. His booming and electric laugh was evident when he asked me, Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Give me the bad news first.

I have absolutely no idea what you sent me. It isn’t a screenplay, but you can fix that. I’ll send you one to use as a model.

If that was the bad, I was psyched. Hell, I was about to have a wet dream I was so excited.

Thanks. That would be great.

Now for the good news. That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve read in years. It has all the elements to make a great movie. Are you sure you want me to direct it?

Holy shit! Holy shit! He loved it! I lost it for a minute and said something like, Am I sure? Are you fucking kidding me?

Then I heard both he and Dolly roaring with laughter. I guess that’s a yes. Thanks.

I came back to Earth and asked if I said what I thought I said.

He laughed again, said yep and they loved it. We chatted for a couple more minutes, leaving it that I had a lot of work to do.

I saw the Consultant a few days later. He said we should produce the movie. Why not?

Man, this was easy. These would be hauntingly famous last words. Havoc, madness and disaster would follow.

Chapter 2 – Let The Insanity Begin

I got Dick’s package and was able to change forty odd pages of people talking into about one hundred ten pages of a movie. As I did the work, I felt self-conscious. There was something to lose. Before it had been a shot in the dark and failure was expected and acceptable. Now, there was pressure. My uncle used to say, Doors open on the way in and bolt on the way out. I was beginning to understand this concept.

Although I was starting to realize my Consultant was of dubious value, I kept him around. What I didn’t realize was how major his impact on my life would be.

Nostradamus would have been driven to drink had he been asked about me all those centuries ago. Actually, if asked, I think he would have taken the easy way out. I see nothing about some guy who will want to be a writer. No need to waste my time.

I finished the full script and sent it off. I felt good about how Standoff came out. The visuals were hilarious and I was sure Dick would like it. A couple weeks later I got a call from him telling me he liked it and wishing me luck in taking the next steps.

As this was happening, my mother had her fourth or fifth recurrence of cancer in seven years. She had to go through another eight weeks of chemo. This was before the world knew pot could help with the side effects. We could have helped with the pain.

There was a short recovery. A few months later there was the last relapse. The only good part of this was that her last illness was over quickly. The toughest part was giving the go ahead to increase the levels of morphine to quell the pain.

After the funeral, reality came crushing down. I wasn’t even thirty and my entire nuclear family had died. Was I going to be next? When? How? If not, what was going to happen? Was it me? Am I a jinx? Was this home a death trap?

It took a couple of months to clear up all the paperwork. The most difficult aspect was convincing Social Security that she was really dead. I got a check and returned it telling them she was dead. The next month I got two checks. I sent both back with a copy of her death certificate. Even bozo bureaucrats could figure this out. Nope, the following month, I got three checks. I sent them all back with the death certificate, a picture of the grave and a note saying sending any more would be tantamount to