Loose at the Ramada
In my haste, I hadn't noticed an open door, and as I whizzed along a voice yelled out, "Oh, look, a streakuh!" in perfect New York-ese.
In the early '80s, our family made an annual two-hour jaunt to Palm Springs to attend an AA convention at the Ramada Inn. This was the Hollywood chapter, so it was usually brimming with celebrities.
My brother and I, ages 10 and 12, didn't think much about that aspect of it. We were too thrilled with the prospect of spending our time playing hide and seek in the hotel, running the elevator (where my brother would act as narrator and I as the self-ordained button pusher), sneaking into the hotel restaurant to eat the complimentary crackers and melba toast, and living (well, practically) in the enormous, palm-surrounded swimming pool.
My father, a non-famous actor and recovered alcoholic, did mostly voice-over work, and they would often ask him to speak at the convention. There were meetings for the kids (Alateen) and spouses (Al-Anon), but my brother and I never seemed to find the time to attend.
One day, we were on our way back from the pool. As we stood dripping in the elevator, my brother suggested a game of hide and seek, to which I replied, "Great idea!" while an elegantly dressed older woman standing next to us rolled her eyes and tried not to catch our infectious joy.
My brother was to be "it," so when the doors rolled open I took off in a flash in my vibrantly bright emerald-green bathing suit. I tore down one of the long halls as the numbered doors flew past me on either side. In my haste, I hadn't noticed an open door, and as I whizzed along a voice yelled out, "Oh, look, a streakuh!" in perfect New York-ese.
I stopped in my tracks and backed up on tiptoe to peek in and see who'd commented on my gazelle-like prowess. It was Rodney Dangerfield. We both stared at each other for a moment and smiled, but then I had to go; there was a clandestine stairwell waiting for me.
A very brusque celebrity sighting, indeed.