Redford & Newman: Last Call (Part 3 of 3)

Just as Bob sat, two plates of still steaming food were put in front of the men. “Careful boys, it’s hot,” Aubrey said unnecessarily.

Bob’s wink got Aubrey’s attention and he turned away from Paul and pantomimed playing the piano. She nodded and went back behind the bar.

Scott Joplin began tickling the ivories in his now famous ragtime composition, The Entertainer, adapted by Marvin Hamlisch for The Sting. Paul and Bob looked at each other and raised glasses.

“Damn that was a fun movie to make, wasn’t it?” Paul asked.

“Maybe the funnest.” They touched glasses and drank.

Each took a filet mignon roll and munched quietly, listening to the music.

“Paul, you still haven’t given me your favorite flick of all time. Blaze got me to laugh, but which is it, really?”

Paul finished his steak roll and picked up a skewer and began gnawing at the sausage. He moaned slightly and lowered the bamboo skewer.

“Hard to say. I can tell you it’s NOT ‘The English Patient’.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. That film’s subtle and nuanced. Must have given you a headache.”

“Wouldn’t know. I never saw it……asshole.”

”No shit?”

“No shit.”

Bob picked up a skewer from the plate in front of Paul and pulled a piece of sausage off along with a thick slice of onion and red pepper, stacked them, and ate all three.

“Ever hear of ‘Roger Dodger’?”

Bob nodded. “As a matter of fact I have. I’ve even seen it more than once.”

”Really?”

“No shit.” They both grinned.

Paul grabbed a second skewer and dipped the sausage piece at the end of it into a round white ramekin filled with soy sauce and chopped scallions, which Aubrey had provided.

“Well then, I don’t have to explain the whole movie to you. Just why I liked it. You see, that opening scene…”

“With Campbell Scott,” Bob interrupted.

“Yes. Him. I have watched that opening scene probably fifty times. It’s so compelling, it still rivets me. Scott plays a man so utterly confident and secure in his environment, he weaves a spell with his speech, his colleagues seated around him in a restaurant, almost mesmerized. They literally clap when he finishes. He was waxing about man’s utility, remember?”

Bob nods. “Of course, and I totally agree.”

“But,” Paul continues, “from that point on, after that incredible opening of four minutes or so, his character begins to unravel. The rest of the movie disappoints, but only because nobody could follow up that opening scene and keep that pace. Nobody. It’s too bad for Scott. He was a victim of his own talent and some incredible writing.”

Bob can’t stop grinning. “What are the odds that not only we would have heard of such an obscure flick, but that we both like it, and for the same reasons?”

“Thousand to one?” Paul replied immediately.

“At least.”

“How come we’ve never talked about our livelihood like this before?”

“You were never dying before.” Bob winced as the words slid out unimpeded. His filter was apparently turned off.

“Oh, that.” Paul accepted the naked rawness of the statement with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Let’s stay to topic, then,” Bob continued. “Most underrated performance in a movie, by a surprising source.”

“Well hell, I just mentioned Campbell Scott in Roger Dodger. That would qualify.”

“Sure. But someone else? This is about a specific performance; the overall movie is almost irrelevant.”

Paul slid a piece of sausage off a skewer and dipped it into the soy sauce and swallowed it. The two plates were almost empty.

Aubrey leaned a curvy hip on the inside of the bar and absently wiped down glasses with a towel. She was pretending not to listen, fooling no one.

Paul slapped Bob’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Got one. And this one I bet you don’t know about.”

“Ok. Who?”

“The movie is ‘Charlie Wilson’s War’, with Tom Hanks. It’s just out this year.”

“I’ve seen it. Go ahead.” Bob couldn’t stop a smug grin from inhabiting his entire face.

“You have? You bastard. Then you probably know what I’m gonna say. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Stole the movie right out from under Hanks and Julia Roberts.”

“Shit, I’m uncomfortable agreeing with you again. I’d hardly consider Hoffman a surprising source, however. He was nominated for Supporting Actor for that. And he won Best Actor Oscar for ‘Capote’ two years ago. And deserved it.”

“I know all that, Robert Leroy Parker.”

“From New Jersey.”

“You’re from the east? I didn’t know that.” It was eerie how easily they could slip in and out of character, from both of their movies.

“The total tonnage of what you don’t know is enough to shatter…”

In that scene, Bob remembered stepping in pig shit right before George Roy Hill had yelled, “Cut!” Unscripted, but it was too good to edit out.

“Those two guys really loved each other, didn’t they?” Bob asked.

Paul glanced at the now empty plates, reached for his glass and slurped the final swallow of his scotch.

He raised two fingers in Aubrey’s direction and she sprang into action.

“You know Bob, I was grateful Goldman wrote up the final scene in Butch the way he did. You know, us dying, but nobody seeing us die. And even more important, it was poignant the way he had you bandaging my hand, while we talked about the future, totally in denial. Or were we?”

“No way. We knew the jig was up. Simply by your line, ‘…you didn’t see Lefors out there, did you?’ As if that was our only concern.”

“Anyway. They did love each other.” Paul’s voice broke slightly as Aubrey approached bearing liquid courage.

“I did take the proverbial and literal bullet for you in that scene. To which you so graciously commented, “You call that shooting?”

Aubrey, with the timing of a great bartender, put the two fresh drinks in front of the men, who immediately hoisted them.

“To love.” They said it in unison.

Aubrey walked away, wiping a tear.

They spent the next couple of moments in silence, leafing through the multiple paged dinner menu.

Bob set the menu down and turned to Paul. “We’ve never discussed your son, Scott.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed, but he held Bob’s gaze.

“That hardly makes you unique, Hooker.”

“Wanna know why I brought it up?”

Paul nodded.

“Lola and I lost our five month old son in ’59, to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. His name was Scott.”

Paul sat stunned. He stared unblinking at Bob.

“How do I not know that?” he asked finally.

“I never told you.”

“Both of our Scotts are dead?” It came out as a question but was simply a statement of fact.

Bob nodded, sipping his drink.

“Scott’s drug overdose in ’78 was, is, the toughest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. It’s the closest Joanne and I ever came to splitting up. She blamed me.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Said I was away making movies too much, wasn’t being a father to him. She was right.”

At this point, Bob felt the ice under their feet was dangerously thin. Talking about death with a dying man was difficult. He spoke slowly. “We drank a lot in those days right after he died, remember. You didn’t talk much. You just needed someone there. I always felt fortunate it was me you chose to be with.”

That was about all the Scott conversation Paul could handle.
“Well, it’s good to see we’ve learned to temper our drinking,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Bob laughed, mostly to himself. Death, whether in the past or the future, was always cause to drink. The subject itself need not be analyzed.

“So,” Paul asked, slowly turning in his stool to face his friend.
“Why did you call me, which you almost never do, and set up this evening?”

Bob had been wrestling with this potential question for weeks, ever since he’d hung up the phone, with Paul’s “Hell, yes. Get your ass back here”, still ringing in his ears.

“You mean besides the obvious? That you’re dying?”

“Yes. I’m thinking there’s more to it than that.” Paul picked up the menu again.

“There is. Let’s order some dinner first, then we can tackle that one?”

“Sure, chicken shit.” Paul said, with affection. “Aubrey honey.” She came down the bar at once. “Bob, what’ll it be?”

“Aubrey,” Bob said slowly, peering once more at the menu. “I’ll take the Porterhouse, medium, baked potato with everything, and garlic fries.”

She wrote it down and turned to Paul. “The usual?”

“Nah, give me exactly what he’s having.”

“Ok, two Porters, medium, baked with the works, garlic fries. Anything else? Wine?”

“Not at the moment, Darlin’. But bring me the wine list. Thank you.”

”My absolute pleasure, gentlemen.”

Paul turned to Bob as their gazes lingered on Aubrey’s shapely behind as she walked away. It would take the ice cold heart of a man-hating feminist to not enjoy her ass being appreciated by Robert Redford and Paul Newman.

“Best bartender in town. Hell, in most towns.”

“She is terrific. It’s so underrated, having a good looking bartender. Never failed to improve the drinking experience for me. She says they worship your ass here. How? You’re a crank and a curmudgeon. And that’s when you’re sober.”

“Fuck you.”

“I stand corrected.”

“I’ll order the wine, Paul. Assuming they deign to have some California vintners on their list.”

“Oh, they do. Just ‘cause you’re living in the Wine Country now doesn’t make you an expert.”

“It can’t hurt.” Bob sipped his drink. “So, why did I call you, you ask? Because I wanted to chip away at my, maybe even our, regrets about our friendship. Yeah, you’re dying, but that’s just the excuse. Given the circumstances, there is obviously more of a sense of urgency now than ever before. If that’s what it took, fine. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m glad you came, Sundance. It means a lot.”

“So, I got more questions lined up, like 747’s waiting to land at Kennedy on the night before Thanksgiving.”

“What’s with the metaphors?” Paul enjoyed playing dumb.

“Actually, that’s a simile.”

“Whatever. Forge forth with your queries, you sesquipedalian-spouting bastard.”

Bob laughed so hard he had to put down his glass.

“I’ve never known someone who worked so hard to appear to be someone they’re not.”

“The total tonnage of what you don’t know…yada yada yada yada…get on with it, pretty boy.”

“Ever wanted to sleep with a female co-star?”

“Was ‘female’ necessary?”

“You tell me.”

“Again, fuck you.”

“Point taken. So, have you?”

“This takes into account the clear delineation between wanting to and actually doing it, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then almost all of them.”

“Me too!” Bob exclaimed, his tone almost childlike. “Anybody really stand out?”

“Sure. Piper Laurie in ‘Hustler’. Sally in ‘Absence’. My wife in every one we did together. Sundance’s woman. Charlotte Rampling in ‘Verdict’. Here’s one that’ll surprise you: Mary Mastrantonio in ‘Color of Money’.”

Bob looked at him in shock. “How old was she?”

“28. She was born the year I married Joanne.”

“You cad. And perpetrator of the Mann Act. Was this before or after your stint as a Catholic priest?”

Paul chuckled. “During. Ok, now it’s your turn.”

“Well, I’m prepared for this one. But I don’t have any baby fantasies like you apparently had.”

“She was twenty eight, for christ sake. You know how they operate in Hollywood. If she can cut her own meat she’s fair game. Christ, Mary had a kid of her own then. And it didn’t even happen.”

“My big surprise may be who I did NOT want to bed. Barbra.”

“Really?”

“Yup. I was more attracted to your stunt double earlier than I was to Babs.”

“I guess asking why would be tacky. Continue.”

“Well, there are some obvious ones. Jane in ‘Barefoot’ and “Horseman’. Katharine Ross in ‘Butch’. Faye in ‘Condor’. Jennifer in ‘Unfinished’. And this one came close to actually happening, Kristin Scott Thomas in ‘Whisperer’. We almost went beyond sex, even. This next one surprised me, again because I didn’t want to: Demi Moore in ‘Indecent Proposal’. Kind of vapid. Michelle Pfieffer in ‘Up Close’. Here’s a sleeper: Mary McDonnell in ‘Sneakers’. Lena Olin in ‘Havana’. Jane Alexander in ‘Brubaker’. And Karen Black in ‘Gatsby’.”

“Karen Black? Not Mia Farrow? She was your co-star in ‘Gatsby’.”

“Couldn’t handle the wait in line.”

“Ouch!”

“And conspicuous by their absence on my list would be Meryl Streep, Debra Winger and Daryl Hannah”

Paul sighed and gestured to Aubrey, who had been eves dropping.

She strolled over. “Aubrey, one more round of the hard stuff, then I’ll let Bobby here buy us a bottle of California red.”

She nodded and said, “Uh, Bobby? Are you really leaving out Natalie Wood? She was in ‘The Candidate’, you know.”

Bob looked at her in amazement. “I totally forgot about her. That was just a cameo. She was on set for about half a day, if I remember.”

Aubrey picked up the menus from the bar, placed the smaller leather bound wine list standing up near Bob and then busied herself making the drinks.

“How come,” Paul began, “your list of women whom you PASSED on is longer than my list of those I wanted?”

“I didn’t get the impression you told me all of them.”

”I told you all I could remember after 82 years, two million Budweisers, and six Johnnie Walkers.”

“I got an eleven year head start on you, partner, and I had an advantage in the looks department to begin with.”

Paul snorted as their fresh drinks were placed in front of them. Even Aubrey, risking a breach of etiquette, had to laugh at the thought of someone claiming to be better looking than Paul Newman, at any age.

Bob looked in mock horror at the bartender, then allowed his still expressive face to segue into a full grin.

“No offense, Sundance,” she said, extending a fist that Bob casually bumped.

“None taken.”

“See, Hooker, dyin’ has its rewards.”

“I’ve never felt otherwise, Butch.”

Bob leafed through the wine list; an extensive, impressive array of choices made simpler by the fact that all California wines were grouped together on one page. He studied that page.

He spotted an always underrated vintage, a 2006 Rosenblum Cellars Zinfandel, from Sonoma. Simple enough.

Aubrey nodded silent approval when he ordered it.

Bob heard Paul mumble “Snob,”

“I’ll take that with a grain of salt. You swill Buds out of cans and mix top shelf scotch with soda. You want some Saltines and cheese whiz before dinner, rube?”

Paul chuckled again. “I do believe, Hubbell, that I’m still ahead overall, simply by employing ‘sesquipedalian’.

“No doubt. That and Aubrey’s obvious undying affection make you the winner no matter what else you do.”

They touched glasses and sipped, eyes locked, their shared gaze swimming with equal parts mirth and sadness. There was a constant stream of conversation, to and fro, between these two complex men, only some of it spoken.

Aubrey approached, bottle in tow, flashed the label subtly to Bob and commenced uncorking. The soft, supple pop was comforting. She poured an inch in Bob’s glass, but he waved his hand. “I know it’s good, I’ve had it. Pour on, young lady.”

And she did, filling both glasses. The she slid them back toward her, away from the men as they still had their drinks to finish. “We’ll let it breath.”

She set the bottle down below the level of the bar and went back to her safe haven she’d carved for herself. Easily beckoned yet mostly unseen behind the half dozen draft beer taps.

When the food arrived, Aubrey spread a large white cloth on the bar in front of each man and situated the plates on each place mat. She set out silverware and salt and pepper shakers and retreated.

The film greats finished their cocktails and set their rocks glasses up in the well, sliding their wine glasses back toward them.

Garlic fries were stacked everywhere, filling up any space on the plate not covered by the 16oz. steak or the huge baked potato, cleaved open and steaming, piled high with ingredients.

Paul raised his wine glass. “Bob, this has been everything I’d hoped it would be tonight. Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

The next ten minutes involved little conversation as both men tore into their perfectly grilled steaks. Paul was able to finish only half of his, took two bites of his potato, and then concentrated on dipping his garlic steak fries into a puddle of ketchup squeezed from the plastic bottle provided by Aubrey.

Bob cleaned his plate.

Paul seemed astounded. “You’ve always been a skinny bastard. How the hell do you do it, eating like that?”

“I don’t always eat like this.”

“Obviously.” Paul picked up the wine bottle and re-filled their glasses. “Got a thought.”

“At your age, don’t let these opportunities pass. Carpe diem.”

“Very funny, prick. How is it that we were able to cash in on the good looks thing we’ve been blessed with, and others simply couldn’t grab that brass ring? It’s such an advantage, potentially, to be attractive, but it guarantees very little. Sure, it can open a door, but it’s also the ultimate double-edged sword. Expecially for men.”

“You’re a thoughtful bastard, for a monosyllabic stock car driving Bud drinker.”

“A reminder; there are five of those mono-syllabs in ‘sesquipedalian’, mountain man.”

“Yeah, whatever. You can milk that bastard only so long. Anyway, it’s not only a great question, but could be THE great question.”

Paul pushed his plate away and Aubrey scooped it up and with her free hand quickly removed his silver and his place mat from in front of him. They exchanged nods.

Bob continued. “I think there are a couple of keys as to why and how we made it work. One, we got our asses out of Hollywood, where around every corner, every billboard, every silicone-swollen starlet, there’s ample evidence, so to speak, that looks is ALL it takes. Talent is secondary. We never bought into that. And two, we saw our looks as a means to an end, not the end all to be all. It was a starting point, an on-ramp to the life we really wanted. We wanted to resonate.”

“This is good. You’re on a roll. Continue.”

Without skipping a beat, Bob continued. “So, I can acknowledge, and I hope you can too, that yes, we did play the looks card enough to get us where we wanted to go. I mean, we weren’t stupid. At least initially, your eyes, my blondeness, those were our tickets to ride. It would have been self-defeating to remain forlornly in the station as the gravy train pulled away.”

Aubrey, ensconced in her invisible yet real zone ten feet down the bar, stood entranced.

“Did we whore out sometimes?” Bob forged on. “Of course. But in our case, and I hate to cliché it up, but I really believe this. In our case, the ends totally justify the means. You asked, eons ago tonight, about leaving a legacy. Besides our kids, I think we will leave behind a helluva legacy.”

Paul put his left hand up to speak. “I know where you’re going with this. Do we really need to toot our own horn?”

“That’s not what I’m doing. Or maybe, that’s not why I’m doing it. You started out, because of Scott’s death, by creating your Hole in the Wall Gang Camps for troubled kids. 1988, I think you launched. Just a great charitable effort. To this day. I’m sure you have no idea how many kids you’ve helped through that organization. And then you add in the millions donated to charity from your damn salad dressing, where you pocketed NO MONEY, and that my friend, is how I define ‘legacy’. Both of these charities will go on long after you and I are worm chow.”

“You’re a long ways away from you and me being a couple of hotties.”

“Not really. You think we’d have accomplished all we have if we looked like Abe Vigoda?”

Paul laughed. “Don’t knock Abe. Barney Miller. Whacked in the Godfather. He’s done a lot with very little.”

“No argument here. Jerry Lewis isn’t exactly Brad Pitt, either. I’m not saying good looks are a requirement, but they sure as shit help.”

“You haven’t mentioned Sundance.”

Bob shrugged modestly. “I thought it was obvious that would be my legacy. My jewel on top of the crown. No need to fluff it up.”

“But,” Paul began. “Sundance impacts directly the very industry that we, for the most part, have eschewed. We may have kicked its ass over the years, but we often found our line of work to be somewhat distasteful, even if we kept that on the down low. Doesn’t Sundance Film Festival contribute to that, however indirectly?”

“Just the opposite. Sundance was created with two concepts in mind. First and foremost, to IMPROVE the way things worked in Hollywood, ostensibly by, in part REMOVING operations from there. And two, to give a voice, an outlet, to the talented people who didn’t and don’t have our money. Let’s be honest, we were able to say ‘fuck you’ because of our bank accounts. Just like Johnny Depp has done. To a lesser extent, DeNiro and Pacino as well. Anybody who gets their mail outside of 90210 is, to some degree, snubbing their nose at the Hollywood ideal.”

“It takes more than packing up and leaving the L.A. basin to be an iconoclast, which is what I think you and I are.”

“I agree, Butch. But leaving that smog-filled ashtray where God stubs out his cigarettes is a start. And we made the most of it. Ok, I’m done with my self-congratulatory backslapping. I think I tore a rotator cuff.”

Bob sat back and picked up his wine glass. He made sure to catch Paul’s eye, then swirled the contents, sniffed it slowly, closed his eyes and swallowed. Paul grimaced.

“Hey, you want a snob? Hell, I can be a snob. This wine is aromatic with a hint of cherry and blackberry. It’s spicy, even peppery, and goes well with most hearty faire.”

Paul snorted once again and said, “It’s got a good beat. You can dance to it. I give it an 8.”

“And there, Cool Hand, is why we are different. You embrace your inner country bumpkin, ‘aw shucks’, down home stock car troglodyte, as a means to deflect people from the real you. You’ve always done that. But you’re about as much a hick as Ralph Emerson.”

“And your major flaw, Sundance?”

“Well, I don’t think these are flaws. These are coping mechanisms, and as such, are pretty fucking harmless. My biggest flaw, to use your word, is that I’ve played too much into the pretty boy thing for me to be completely at rest at night. I’ve whored out a few too many times. Simple vanity. Not proud of it, but I can sit here now, comfortable enough in my own hide, and able to acknowledge my scars and wounds and flaws, even to talk about them. To cop to them. To admit that I’m no less vulnerable to human frailty than the next guy.”

“When did you become so smart?”

“About four hours ago. I’m always at the top of my game when I’m with you. You always brought out my best. Insisted on it, even. Whether on screen, or over a pool table, or knocking back post-production beers. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

“And I love you, Hooker.”

“Paul, why did you tell Joanne today, of all days, that you were unfaithful?”

He sighed and looked at his best friend. The famous blue eyes appeared to water. He looked away and took a sip of wine.

“Well, after my trip to the doc’s,” he began, “I felt there was nothing to lose. I’ve never felt so fatalistic. Also, I knew that no matter what her reaction was, I was going to see you and that you and I would be able to figure it out.”

“Except she was ok with it. Threw you for a loop, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did.”

“So, I deflected your weak-assed attempt to get me to assuage your guilt, and we were able to move on to what has now become the greatest night of my life.”

“Mine too.”

Aubrey was crying and no longer able to hide it. She wiped her eyes with a cloth and turned away.

Paul wiped his own tears on his sleeve and raised his glass. “Promise me something, Bob. Promise me that one year from now, if I am no worse for wear, we’ll do this again. But also promise me that, if I deteriorate, and we both know that’s probably how it’s gonna go, we let tonight stand as the final legacy of our friendship.”

”Deal.”

“Always leave ‘em wanting more.” Paul said, as if to himself.

After a quiet half hour spent finishing the Zinfandel, Bob helped Paul into his coat and, following a hug and kiss from Aubrey, both men leaned on each other as they pushed through the heavy doors into the night

As the doors slowly closed behind them, Aubrey could hear one final exchange.

Paul: “How come you’re so talkative?”

Bob: “Just naturally blabby, I guess.”

Exactly one year later, Paul Newman was dead.

On that day, Bob sent 24 red roses to the town of Westport, Connecticut.

Twelve to Joanne.

Twelve to Aubrey.

Each card offered the same exact sentiment.

“Thanks for taking care of Paul.”