Elvis Lives, A Little Part of Me Dies

My very first steady TV gig was a sketch comedy show for NBC called “Thank God You’re Here”. I went to college (Drexel University represent!) with the creators’ Executive Assistant, so just goes to show, making friends and networking definitely pays off. The show is originally Australian, so when it was time to shoot, we had the two Australian Producers in town for the tapings to make sure we didn’t fuck up their baby. It was a dream job, I got to geek out over different comedic icons coming on the show every week, and everyone on the crew was fantastic. I wish it had gotten picked up, I loved every minute of it… except for one nerve-wracking incident.

About a week or so into the gig, the Aussies’ regular PA driver had to call out for an emergency and I was given the privilege of being their personal driver and driving them all over town in a brand new SUV. Black. Tinted windows. 245.7 miles, total. No plates. This is the car that you see coming and you know it’s either someone REALLLLLLLLY important or the baddest drug dealer in town. (You don’t hear it because this car is virtually silent when it’s running… gotta love that green movement!).

Now imagine me driving it, in a tacky t-shirt and torn jeans. With a giant belt buckle. I am a classy lady.

I pick up my Aussies at Barney’s where they’ve been buying jeans and lotions for their wives back in Australia and jokingly say, “So, what’d you get me?” One was amused and laughed, the other, did not. I dub the unamused one, Angry Ben Kingsley. Because he was bald and looked like Ben Kingsley. And didn’t think I was funny. He sat up front.

So I drive them back to their hotel and they drop off their bags and make some phone calls and then I take them over to the studio, making small talk. But Angry Ben Kingsley interrupts me and my friendly Aussie Exec in the back seat and says loudly, “I will need 20 minutes of utter, complete silence for meditation. Please, do not talk. Thank you.” And he closes his eyes, lowers his head and folds his hands. I thought immediately to silence my cell phone and go for it in the center console, but -

It’s touching his leg.

To risk going for it would mean I could possibly brush against ABK’s leg, jarring him from his meditation and having to explain why exactly I was caressing his leg… thereby almost certainly incurring a wrath I don’t even want to think about. The windows are tinted and I think the car is soundproof, no one would see or hear me scream.

So I chose to drive from Beverly Hills up through Hollywood in this all-encompassing, terrible, terrible silence, alternating my severe anxiety between the horror that is LA traffic and the horror that would be my phone going off in the car and ruining ABK’s meditation session. My stress level was through the roof, because I even posted a bulletin that morning on myspace saying that it was my day off and people should call me.

Well I’m glad no one likes me enough to call me, because thankfully the 20 minutes ended, without my phone going off. I was sweating bullets as we pulled up at a stop light next to the Hollywood museum when Angry Ben Kingsley lifted his head and read the billboard to his right.

The first words I heard after 20 minutes of silence were in an Australian accent.

“Elvis Presley’s bathrobe has a peanut butter stain, does it? Huh.”

We finished the drive to the studio without incident.