Jack L. Warner
(Recollections of a Hollywood chauffeur)
The year was 1968. I had been discharged from the Marine Corps a couple of years earlier and I was pursuing an acting career in Hollywood, California. When asked by a close friend, why I chose an acting career; I said: “After my experiences in the Marine Corps, and in particular the Far East, the movie business seemed to be the right place for me to go next.”
This was a time of turbulence and violence in our country. The war in Vietnam was escalating rapidly and the media reminded us each day of the “body counts.” There were riots on college campuses among the student protestors and draft-dodgers. The racial strife between blacks and whites was continuing in street violence around LA following the devastating “Watts” riots of 1965. And amidst all this chaos, the “hippy” movement was in full swing. Free love, pot smoking and Bob Dylan were (groovy) the “in thing.” And then on June 5th of that year, Presidential candidate, Robert Kennedy was assassinated at the Ambassador Hotel. It was a time of awareness and awakening; not only for the youth, but also for the country. Coincidently, it was also the period of time when the “old Hollywood” (sound stages, studio bosses, studio contracts, and “real” movie stars) was on the way out, and the “new Hollywood” (youth orientated, sex and violence fixated, and corporate-run studios) was taking over! The “Rat Pack” was fading into the sunset, and the “Brat Pack” was on the horizon. What a time to be in Hollywood during this state of flux. The wrong place at the wrong time?
I had already gotten my feet wet as an actor, with a few bit parts in movies and television, and had gone through a few talent agents too. I was taking acting classes at Hollywood High School drama club at night and I was able to support myself by getting domestic jobs for the rich and famous. Being the commanding officer’s jeep driver on Okinawa gave me an in with one of the more well respected “domestic” agencies on Hollywood Boulevard. They placed me in jobs working for the rich and famous as their chauffeur. On some of these gigs, I also had the privilege of living on the estates and having free run of the property, and sometimes, the personal use of their exotic and expensive cars (Rolls Royce, Bentley, and Cadillac Limousines). These jobs, however, were very transient at that time because those movie stars and social elite had a tendency to treat the (staff) “hired help” as if we were expendable or less than human. I had my share of firings, and some of them were pretty dramatic too! Like the time I was working for the owner of the Hollywood Reporter. I had overcooked his wife’s breakfast eggs (slightly), and while I was in the kitchen washing the dishes; he came in, stuck a twenty dollar bill in my pocket, and said: “Finish the dishes and then blow. You’re finished here!” I filed a suit against him in small claims court and when he was summonned, he called me and said: “You turd, you worm, you sue me and you’ll never work in this town again…for anyone!” After that incident; I decided not to take on any more assignments where “cooking” was part of the job responsibility when the chef was off duty.
My next assignment was one that I’m sure many an aspiring actor would have given his eye-teeth to get. It was for being Jack L. Warner’s private chauffeur and houseman, and, it also came with perks, like living on the huge estate in Beverly Hills. At that time, Jack Warner was one of a dying breed; the last of the quintessential Hollywood movie “moguls.” He was still a power-broker in Hollywood and his stable of actors and actresses included the cream of the crop, the elite, such as: James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Errol Flynn, Betty Davis, and Barbara Stanwyck; albeit they were part of the fading glory that was to become known as the “Golden Age of Hollywood.” I had no idea then, that I would be one of the last chauffeurs Jack L. Warner would have in his “movie mogul” career.
The circumstance as to how I was hired for this job could be a scene out of an Oscar Wilde movie. Life, does imitate art! One sunny LA morning, I visited the Wright Domestic Agency on Hollywood Blvd. Bob Wright was the president and he took a special interest in me because of my no-nonsense approach to situations and people. He smoked a pipe and with that heavy British accent, he reminded me of Jack Hawkins—-the actor who played the British agent in the movie (Bridge On The River Kwai). He welcomed me in and said: “John…my dear man…this is your lucky day. Have you ever heard of a bloke named Jack L. Warner?” I said of course I have. He pulled a file card out from his Rolodex wheel and dialed the numbers on the desk phone (they still had dial phones then). Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he spoke: “Mrs. Warner… Bob Wright here. I’ve got a good young chap here that I think you would like for the chauffeur job. He’s a former Marine and he has good references. Is the position still available?” After a moment of silence, he said: “I’ll send him up straight away!” He hung up and then wrote the address on a file card, handed it to me and said: “Young man, this is the address of the Warner estate in Beverly Hills. I think you can handle this job. Don’t let me down! Mrs. Warner is expecting you at noon—-for tea… no doubt!” He gave his customary “jolly-good” laugh as I walked out of the office. I was excited about the job prospect and I was also a little doubtful that I could “handle” this degree of responsibility.
Driving along Sunset Blvd in my black and white, mini-compact, Nash Metropolitan car; I stopped at Schwab’s drug store to have a quick lunch at the soda fountain there. It wasn’t uncommon back then to be sitting next to Rock Hudson or Gregory Peck at the counter. They were frequent visitors there. Schwab’s was a popular hangout for movie stars. And on this day, Gregory Peck was there having some kind of egg “concoction” and coffee, while reading the daily Variety. I sat next to him and asked: “What kind of eggs are they?” He smiled and in his deep dramatic voice said: “You should try it. You’d like it. It’s called eggs Benedict.” I said I would, and I did. I’ve been eating them ever since! When I left to pay the cashier, Mr. Peck hollered: “I’ll get it.” I thanked him and left.
When I reached the Beverly Hills Hotel, I made a turn onto Benedict Canyon Drive and then on to Angelo Drive, to 1801. As I made the turn, I was intersected by a Rolls Royce, being driven by the celebrity impressionist Frank Gorshin. The street was lined with tall, swaying palm trees and huge bushes of bright red, Bougainvillea flowers extended beyond the stucco, property walls When I arrived at the entrance to 1801, I was confronted with this huge architectural, steel gate. Lush, dense ivy draped over the columns on either side. There was a stone pillar on the driver’s side that had an intercom system attached. I pushed the speaker button and a man answered: “Who is it?” I responded with: “I’m from the Wright domestic agency. I’m here to see Mrs. Ann Warner.” Immediately, there was the rumbling of steel rolling on a track accompanied by a humming noise. This huge, thick gate rolled to one side and began to expose the courtyard beyond. There were life-sized granite statues of nude men a women, standing on pillars of marble that surrounded the cobblestone courtyard. As I drove in, the gate closed behind me. A man dressed in a guard’s uniform, drove over to me in a canopied, golf cart. He introduced himself as “Derwood” the grounds man. I told him how impressed I was with the courtyard entrance. He said that the ten acre estate was the largest in Beverly Hills and that it even had a nine hole golf course adjoining the property. He told me to follow the cobblestone road up and around until I reached the curve at the end of the long driveway, and that Mrs. Warner would meet me there.
I remember feeling insignificant and embarrassed, driving that little, ugly Metropolitan car in such a luxurious place. When I reached the curve of the road, I pulled over and waited for Mrs. Warner. After a short while, another canopied golf cart came up to my car and this rather large woman, dressed in leotards and a loose white blouse, waved for me to come over and join her in the cart. I went around, sat in the golf cart and she introduced herself: “Hello…I’m Ann Warner. Nice to meet you…John? Then she drove the cart over onto what looked like the greens of the 9th hole on a golf course, and parked there. The conversation went something like this:
“Did Bob tell you that we need you to be the chauffeur, the houseman, and occasionally the butler?”
“No…but I can “handle” it.”
“You seem so young to be doing this kind of work. Shouldn’t you be out enjoying life like other young men in this town?”
“I know I’m young, but this is the kind of job I want, and now is the time for me to get the experience I need to become a professional domestic.”
“That’s a good answer!” she said.
She continued to drill me on my background and previous experiences and wanted phone numbers to check my references. I gave her the information she wanted, and then she drove me to the servant’s quarters, where I would be living. She also showed me the summer house with the swimming pool and outside Jacuzzi, and cabana. She said that I could use the pool on my days off and weekends—-but no “wild parties!” On the way back to my car, she told me that the pay was $100.00 a day and the use of the estate grounds. Also, that all food and essentials were included. The only thing I didn’t like was that I had to be on call every other weekend. She patted my cheek and said for me to be ready for work first thing in the morning (4:30 AM). “Jack” had a lot to do before going to the studio.
I unloaded what little belongings I owned into the servant’s quarters and went right to bed. The next morning, I got myself together and walked over to the mansion. I went into the kitchen area and made acquaintances with the rest of the staff. Most were of European descent and had heavy accents. I especially took a liking to the French maid (Michelle). She took me around and familiarized me with the house layout; at least enough for one day anyway. The main house had many, many rooms and hallways! By now the breakfast was ready and they assembled a sterling silver tray, with coffee, toast, orange marmalade, orange juice, and a bowl of melon balls. I was told to go to the top of the stairs and turn left to the Mr. Warner’s room. When I reached the doorway to his room, I heard a commanding voice say: “Come right in young man. Put the tray on the coffee table and get my shoes by the dresser.” He was a slender but well kept man for his age. That pencil thin mustache gave him a refined gentleman’s look. He was slightly balding, but still a handsome man nonetheless. I brought his black, patent leather shoes over and he asked me to shine them up a bit with the buffing cloth. He didn’t seem to want to talk much so I just went along with the program. I noticed that he was a neat freak. Everything was so neatly placed in his room and closet. After he put his pin striped pants and white dress shirt on, he proceeded to butter his toast with the orange marmalade and to drink his coffee. There wasn’t much conversation with us this first day, and that was a common trait among people of his caliber; they were so wrapped up in their hectic, controlling lifestyle and their own inflated egos, that they hardly took note of anything or anyone else around in their domestic environment. I, however, was quite impressed and excited to be in the company of the man who once ruled Hollywood with an iron hand. He still was a driving force even then.
Eventually Mr. Warner came down into the foyer and told me to bring up the black Rolls Royce from the garage out back. The Rolls was one of five cars he owned. When I pulled it up and around the tiered, circular fountain in the middle of the grand, main courtyard; Jack came over and told me to get the dust wand from the back seat and dust off the smog haze on the hood of the car. I was once again reminded of the petty idiosyncrasies these rich and famous people had. He got in the car and we drove off to the Warner Brothers Studio in downtown Burbank. Entering the main gate, I noticed that the sign read (Warner/Seven Arts). Then my attention was drawn to the tall water tower with the Warner Bros. shield, logo on it. It towered over all the buildings. We entered the main office building and as I walked down the long corridor to his office; I was impressed with all the movie stills and pictures of famous movie stars, from Hollywood’s “Golden Age,” that cluttered the walls. The architecture, light fixtures and furnishings were art deco style from that era. Jack’s office had a huge desk, and numerous trophies and awards (including Oscars) were conspicuously place. I recall thinking that I may witnessing the closing chapters of what was once the “Golden Age of Cinema.” I knew about the demolition of the Culver City sound stages at M.G.M., and the auctioning off of all the movie props and wardrobes there. And, the takeover of Columbia studios in Hollywood by corporations like Coca Cola and Pepsi. Now, I wondered how the great Jack L. Warner was going to go out. He had already sold his shares of the studio to a Canadian company, his health was a little shaky, and there was talk that he might retire altogether.
After a couple of months at the estate; I really got into the routine at the mansion. I was trained to turn the air-conditioning on in Jack’s private dining room, overlooking the pool, at a certain time; turn the pool lights on; set the table for ONE, and always light a “new”, tapered candle in the center piece, when Derwood announced Jack’s arrival. This was a daily routine. He ate dinner alone, most of the time. He would have me turn the lights down in the room when he sat down to eat. (He seemed to want to save on the electric bill, with all these turning on and off of fans and lights!) The kitchen staff prepared the four course dinner that Ann would supervise, and when Jack was ready for each entrée, he would ring a buzzer in the butler’s pantry, and I would bring it out to him. Upon exiting the room at the end of the meal, I was told to always turn the air-condition off. As I exited, Jack would say: “Thank you Garson.”
His wife Ann hardly ever communicated with him in the house. They would always run into each other in passing. She had her space on one end of the mansion and he had his on the other. It was common knowledge among the staff, and Ann, that Jack was having affairs with other women. Occasionally Ann would have me bring the papers or food to her room. She had the company of her dogs and she seemed contented in her own space.
One night, after dinner, Jack had his usual nightcap of Gin and tonic water with a twist of lemon, in the library, and then as he ascended the grand stairway to the second floor; he abruptly turned around, looked down at me in the foyer, and asked: “By the way young man… what is your name?” I said: “John sir…John Gasparro.” He nodded his head and said: “That’s an easy name to remember…John.” That is what he said! (A little senility, maybe?) Then he went off to his room. This was months after I had been there, and finally he asks my name! Anyway, from that point on, he would call me John instead of “garson.”
Since I was also the “butler,” I was responsible for handling all incoming house calls—-on the circuit board in the butler’s pantry. This board had numerous holes in it that I would have to plug a jack into, which was attached to a headphone. Then I would transfer the calls to the appropriate room phone by plugging the jack into the appropriate hole. Jack’s connection was circled in red. The one memorable call I received was from Kirk Douglas. The conversation went something like this:
“This is Kirk Douglas. I wanna talk to Jack!”
“Just a minute, I’ll connect you sir.”
“Mr. Warner. Kirk Douglas wants to talk with you.”
“Tell him I’m not in!”
“Mr. Douglas. Mr. Warner isn’t in right now.”
All the time I’m jacking in from one hole to the other!
“That fucking son of a bitch is in and I wanna talk to him! Put him on the phone!”
“Mr. Warner. Mr. Douglas says it’s important… and he sounds very angry…sir.”
“I told you to tell him I’m not here!”
“I did sir. But he insists on talking to you.”
“Well…tell him again!”
“Mr. Douglas. Mr. Warner is not in…I’m sorry.”
“You tell that son of a bitch I know he’s there and I’ll be right over. You got that!?”
“Yes sir. I’ll tell him.
“Mr. Warner. Mr. Douglas said he’ll be right over.”
Jack slammed the phone down. My eardrums rang for the rest of the evening!
I actually had three sets of uniforms to wear: A chauffeur’s jacket and cap; a butler’s white tailed jacket, and houseman’s black blazer. I’ll never forget the day that Mrs. Warner threw a house party for many of her celebrity friends. Wearing my houseman’s jacket, I had to help her arrange the huge table settings downstairs in the all-purpose room. She drove me crazy, unfolding and trying on one table cloth after another. She was wearing my patience thin and I thought: “What a bitch…!” Some of them were pretty fancy, with elaborate lace and frills. Some of them were very simple and colorful. We must have laid out at least six of them before she finally said: “OK. I’ve had enough. This one is good!” Good thing, because I was ready to quit, right then and there!
The screening room was just across the hall, and this room was the size of a typical multiplex theatre of today. Many of Warner Bros awards and memorabilia were displayed there. A picture of Jack’s three brothers hung over a mantle (Harry, Albert, and Sam). Among the Oscars there, two were most notable: “Best Picture” for (Casablanca) and (My Fair Lady). I had to dust and polish these Oscars often. Jack did not like dust! They were heavier than I had imagined. Of course, I held one up and acted out that I was accepting the award for best actor. I couldn’t resist doing that. Who wouldn’t have!
Later, when the guests were scheduled to arrive, I went upstairs to the foyer to greet them. The grand lobby of the house had a water fountain in the center of the floor with large gold-fish swimming around in it. The floor was a parquet pattern of mahogany and teak wood. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the vaulting ceiling above the fountain. As the guests arrived, I would take their coats (furs and minks from the women) and (camel hairs and cashmeres from the men). Hats and scarves too! The nights in LA can get pretty cold and damp! I learned that the hard way, when I caught pneumonia the first week there. Thank God the apartment manager (Margie, from Klamath Falls, Oregon) took care of me--in more ways than one!
After a few celebrities entered, Mrs. Katharine Hepburn came up to me and asked: “Are you the new boy Ann hired?” Star struck, I took her fur coat and said: “Yes I am mam.” Then came Mrs. Dorothy Malone. I remembered her from watching the TV soap opera (Peyton Place)-- which was very popular at that time. She gave me a strange look. There were many familiar faces: Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda, Ernest Borgnine, Gregory Peck, Burt Lancaster, and yes, Kirk Douglas! They came with their wives.
Now I changed into the butler’s white tailed jacket and went downstairs to help Mrs. Warner with serving the guests. They were all milling around and chatting and drinking champagne. I would bring a silver tray around with caviar hors d’oeuvres and then drinks. It was an exciting event for me to be among all those celebrities that I had watched in movies and on television. I recall being somewhat intoxicated by the overwhelming scent of sensual perfumes the women wore. Chanel No.5 was popular then. That was a time when women exploited their womanhood. It was also before panty-hose came on the scene and changed all that. I noticed that a lot of the men wore Rolex watches and gold, engraved cufflinks were popular too. The whole room was filled with the sounds of laughter and people yelling in each other’s ears. (I had a flashback of when I was in the chicken coup on the farm and I was feeding all the chickens!) When I brought the drinks around to Mrs. Malone, she again gave me a strange stare. She was already five sheets to the wind and still drinking. As the party wound down, I had to go back upstairs to give the guests their coats and garments. So, back to the black blazer!
As the last of the guests were leaving, Mrs. Warner came over, took me aside, and said that I would have to drive Mrs. Malone home, because she was too “ill” to drive her own car. I then changed into my chauffeur’s jacket and cap. Ann brought Dorothy over to me and said: “John will drive you home. Good night dear!” I went out back to get the Lincoln continental--the one that had those infamous suicide doors--and then escorted Mrs. Malone to the car. She insisted on sitting in the front seat! I drove off the estate and as I traveled down the Sunset Boulevard; Dorothy looked over at me and said: “Excuse me…But, aren’t you the houseman who took my coat when I arrived? And, aren’t you the butler who served downstairs?” I said: “Yes I am mam.” She said: “And now…you are the chauffeur and you're driving me home!? I knew Jack was cheap! But this is ridiculous!” Her breath told me why she was “ill.” I finally got her home and while driving back; I fantasized about what might have happened under more ideal conditions--you know what I mean! She was a very sexy woman.
In the following months, I was beginning to get tired of all the pettiness and monotony of working so many long hours. Those late night excursion out to my acting classes in Hollywood, and the carousing and drinking with my friends there, was wearing my down. Many times I would return in the wee hours of the morning--sometimes as the sun was rising. One day Mrs. Warner asked me: “John…how can you do what you do? You work so hard here and then you go off the property at night and return just before you start your job! Your young, but where do you get that energy? You can’t do this for long….” I didn’t want to tell her about my acting ambitions. I felt that they would think I was patronizing them to use their influence towards my future career in show business. And besides, I had come to know that Jack and Ann loathed actors.
The day had arrived that I should have expected. After a long hard, tedious day in the main house; cleaning and dusting, polishing the sterling silver, vacuuming the Persian rugs, waxing the parquet floors, serving Mrs. Warner lunch in the garden with her guests, and then serving Jack his four course dinner; I was exhausted! I went to my quarters, took all my sweaty clothes off, got ready to go into the shower, and then suddenly; everything in the room began spinning, the light in my eyes was fading to black, and I collapsed on the floor in front of the bureau. I don’t know how much time passed while I was out. I remember waking up with a queasy feeling in my stomach and an overall feeling of dying. I felt cold and clammy, and my heart was beating fast like a race horse. I thought: “I’m too young to die now!” Since I wasn’t an atheist, I prayed.
Fortunately, the chef (Kurt) knocked on my door. I asked him in. I was sitting on the bed and shaking all over. When he saw the condition I was in, he went and brought me a glass of whisky and said that it would help me. It did. After a few sips, I could feel the blood pulsing in my veins and the warm feeling returning to my body. We talked a little and I explained to him about my after-hours activities. He felt sorry for me, and surprised to hear about my “alter ego.” He liked having me around and said that I gave everyone a good laugh once in a while. But, he suggested that I choose one profession or the other. He also said that this job was more for an older gentleman who was more accustomed to the demanding lifestyle.
That night as I laid in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts were racing, and I was trying to convince myself that in spite of the perks of living on a beautiful Beverly Hills estate, in the company of a legendary movie-mogul, and meeting all the movie stars and beautiful people that come and go; that I should give it up and focus my energies and attention on studying and becoming an actor.
The next morning, I dialed the number to the private phone in Mrs. Warner’s bedroom. The conversation went something like this:
“Good morning John! How come you’re not up here? Jack is cursing you up and down….”
“Mrs. Warner. I need to confess something to you and I hope you understand. Please let me say what I have to say and then you can respond.”
“OK John…speak.”
“I took this job because I needed the money and the security of a place to live. I do like the chauffeuring part of the job, but the rest is not working out for me. I tried to make it work, but it interferes too much with my real goal in this town. You know all those nights that I go out and return so late?”
“Yes, I do John!”
“Well…I’ve been going to my acting classes in Hollywood and hanging out with my friends there. I can’t do this anymore and I have to make a decision. I’m sorry…but I must quit this job and find something more suitable that won’t interfere with my real ambitions. I never told you or let on about this because I didn’t want you or Jack to think that I was using this position to get a foothold in the movie business. I was just interested in the money and the security. It was a wonderful experience living here and working for you and Jack, but now I must leave. I hope you will understand what I am saying.”
There was some heavy breathing and a clearing of the throat and then:
“John…I like you too. Jack… was just getting use to you. I actually had some suspicions about this. After all, you are a nice looking young man with a great personality, and this line of work is better suited for a more mature and settled man. I wondered how long it would be before you broke. I hate to see you leave, but it would be best my dear. I’m going to make a check out for two weeks pay and what I owe you for this week. I’ll leave it in the kitchen with Gretchen. John…if you ever need something, please call me--you have my private number--and if there is anything I can do to help you, I will. Please don’t give my number to anyone…I trust you. Good by John…and good luck!”
“Ann…I really do appreciate your understanding and especially the extra money…I’m going to need it. Thank you! Good bye.”
I packed what little clothes I owned and personal belongings. On my way out, I stopped at the guard house to say goodbye to Derwood. He wasn’t surprised that I was leaving. As I drove off through the gated entrance; I took one last look at those granite statues, and in the rear view mirror, I could see Derwood shaking his head and grinning. I knew what I was leaving, but I did not know where I was going, or what I was to encounter down the road.
I still had to support myself, so I took jobs parking cars at famous restaurants and clubs where the celebrities hung out. The tips were good, and, pumping gas wasn’t an option for me.
Ironically, that same year, the Grammy winning song by Dion Warwick (Do You Know The Way To San Jose) was constantly playing on the radios. The lyrics in that song proved to be prophetic--at that time in my life. I only had to replace “San Jose” with “Pleasant Valley,” and the rest of the song tells the story—exactly as I recollect it.
A fascinating story! This chapter in your life is also a parallel to the door closing on Old Hollywood. Although, celebs being full of themselves never gets old.
Fascinating! That was during my three years in California where I nearly flunked out of my Masters degree at Stanford and got my first job at LenKurt–GTE in San Carlos. I only made $9200 per year, but I bought a used 1966 Toronado and lived in a studio in an elite apartment in Woodside. The blonde kid who looked like Tab Hunterwho pumped my gas and gave me S&H green stamps called me, “The man who has everything!” Little did he know. I was fascinated with the Summer of Love although in no way a hippie. Did pick up many hitchhikers and frequented the scene in San Francisco many times.
You certainly had an experience by working for Jack Warner. Your Marine experience gave you the courage to do work that I probably would have turned down. I really appreciate that you wrote your experience. I just read a newspaper article about Paul Anka's new book, My Way, where he exposes his friendship with Frank Sinatra and all the revealing things he writes about Frank and other celebrities.
I had a similar experience you had with Mrs. Malone with a very beautiful, but very drunk, young lady who kissed me in the ear, and then went off to the bathroom to throw up. I also like how your apartment manager “took care of you in more ways than one.” ;-) Did I tell you that I met the equivalent of Mrs. Robinson? Her name was Mrs. Williams and she was 20 years older, lived in the apartment opposite mine, and showed off her incredible Bikini body at the pool every day.
Your spell checker missed a few words, otherwise the whole piece is very well written and very interesting to read. It's Bob Dylan. The house staff was mostly of European descent. Ann Warner threw a party. And you wrote, Your instead of You are or You're at one place near the end. You also referred to the decline of the old Hollywood a bit too much. Once or twice is enough.
Inside the Methadone Clinic. Addiction to heroin, methadone, and other opiates. Destruction. The primal addiction" of the child, power and control over your own life, the institutions and the characters, the love between a mother and son. This book i
TRUE STORY. Bella survived an abusive powerbroker father with organized crime ties, a drug-addicted mother and a physically/sexually abusive brother. Shocking & inspirational. When she couldn't cry, she tattooed a crying angel to cry for her.
Copyright © 2013 by John Gasparro
