Once upon a time, I worked in a nightclub owned by a famous actor. During the day, I stocked the bar, fixed things broken by other movie stars the night before, and did odd jobs for the talent booker and the office manager.

One of the oddest jobs was answering the phones.

As private and exclusive and childishly secretive as the place was, they couldn’t have an unlisted phone number; there was Southern Wine and Spirits on Line 2 wondering where there money was. Someone from William Morris was on Line 4 with a band looking for a showcase - and they’re ready to pay! Of course Line 1 may very well be Renda R., escaped from the nuthouse again.

As the phone number was a matter of public record, so was it a strongly held belief among the delusional fanatics of the nation that it was a perfectly good contact number for the aforementioned movie star. As the low man on the totem pole, I had to field the calls from the freaks and froot loops. Along with Renda, Frank M. stands out in my memory.

Renda merely sucked me into her weird world; like a skilled telemarketer, she wouldn’t let you off the phone, yet never quite gave you cause to slam the receiver down; Frank, however, was downright terrifying.

Convinced that he was betrothed to be married to the famous owner, he would periodically call and ask why J––––– wasn’t returning his phone calls, why the credit card number he’d been given was refused by the airline, and that he was having a lot of trouble getting from New York to Los Angeles… for the wedding. Fortunately we knew that he was safely on the other side of the country, and that he’d never get it together to fly out to L.A., since he obviously couldn’t even afford his meds.

This was all a big (and creepy) joke until the calls started coming every day. Now he had a date: he’d be arriving Friday, and he was calling every day to make sure the wedding was all going according to plan; that there’d be someone to pick him up from the airport, etc etc. Also, he was concerned that his fiancé may be strung out again and didn’t want to spend their honeymoon nursing him back to health.

Now let me digress with a sidenote on our movie star and the day-to-day operation of the club. I’d met the owner years earlier, through a mutual acquaintance back in my rockabilly days. We’d run into each other many times before I started working at his club, and a few times since. But in the whole year that I worked there, I did not see him once. Not one single glimpse. And yet, his maniacal fans were, to a man, convinced that he worked there every day in a secret office downstairs.

And Frank was no exception. When one day, at the end of that nerve-wracking week, we saw a mysterious figure emerge from a taxi on the security camera pointed at the side door there was little doubt who it was. Especially when by mysterious figure I mean 6 foot 220 pound male in a back-flab displaying big-sleeve-hole muscle shirt, khaki shorts and a black cleopatra wig. With luggage, and two cat carriers.

Frank rang the downstairs doorbell for a good half-hour before Mako and I had to carry some boxes around the corner, and could ignore him no longer. Well, we did our best to ignore him the first time walking past, but as we returned to upstairs door, he asked if we worked there and asked to see J–––––. When told that his “fiance” was (as usual) not there, he became inconsolable, wondering what on earth he was going to do. I actually felt sorry for him, since in his fantasy, this was a serious snub; left at the altar, as it were. I merely took the position that he didn’t have to go home, but he couldn’t stay here…

By then the office manager had called management, who called the FBI, then Frank disappeared. A prominent fashion designer had been murdered only a week before, and tensions were high.

I made up my mind then and there, that though I may stay in show business, I’d do my best to avoid the glare of the spotlight. Since my daughter was born, I’m not even sure I’m far enough out of the public eye here in my dim corner Hollywood.

Watching (of course I watch, along with everybody else) Anna Nicole chased to the Bahamas, Britney shave her head - even David Spade can’t go shopping without a cloud of locusts with cameras following him - only reinforces my position. If you can manage rich & not-famous, that’s your best bet. God forbid you get famous but not rich; it takes a lot of bread to insulate yourself.

As for J–––––, he eventually married someone else, and left the country for good (can’t say I blame him). I don’t know if he ever thinks of Frank…