The Masked Man: A Memoir And Fantasy Of Hollywood

by Tom Wilson

  Every available white limousine had been rented from South Carolina to Key West for the Universal Studios grand opening gala, and still there weren't enough cars to drive the horde of stars, mere celebrities, and the sort-of recognizable low level celebrities like myself and some of the kids from "Fame." The plan told to us by walkie-talkie carrying teenagers was a limo sharing plan, where two stars were dragged to the opposite sides of a limo and pushed inside. Janet Leigh and Tony Perkins made a "Psycho" themed limo, Charlton Heston and Jimmy Stewart were paired up, and I was ushered to my limo, with Michael J. Fox being pulled to the other side of the car. A Back To The Future themed limo, with Michael J. Fox, that superstar scamp on one side of the car, and me on the other, a celebrity of such low magnitude that as a teenager with a walkie-talkie walked quickly toward me, she was scanning a clipboard to see who I was, and make sure I wasn't a stalker who climbed the fence.

  "This is your car, Mr…"

  "Wilson," I said.

  "Yes, hop in, it's parade time!"

  "Can I go in Ernest Borgnine's car?"

  Her sunburned cheeks went pale as she pushed a radio earpiece further into her head. "Oh, I don't think so, so you'd better--"

  "Does Linda Blair get her own car? Is she riding with the Ghostbusters? Another theme car?"

  "I…um…" more clipboard staring.

  "Okay, I guess I'll go with Michael then."

  "That's be great!"

  I slid onto the leather upholstery next to Michael, and another perky P.R. lady clicked fingers full of jewelry against the closed window. Michael lowered his window an inch and her smile pulled a bit tighter.

  "It'd be great if you could lower the windows during the parade," she said, "Let all your fans see you!"

  "Sure!" I said, lowering my window and practicing a parade wave, though she wasn't really looking at me. Michael lowered his window a bit more and she clicked away on soggy high heels. The fact is, rampant egomania aside, actors will do whatever people with walkie-talkies tell them to do, because actors rarely have a clue. No matter how famous you are, or how rich, it's almost impossible to completely be free of the inner second grader, so when a person with authority, in this case a high school cheerleader with a two way radio, tells you to do something, you do it. When they tell you to walk in this direction, you do it, lower the window - done, wave to the people - bingo. And if you get very rich and very famous, you hire a publicist for several thousand dollars a month, but all the publicist does is boss around the walkie-talkie people, telling them what you will do and won't do. You're still a second grader and don't want to use your words to talk to people yourself, because if you do that they might not like you, they might not go to your next movie, you might not get another chance to make another movie, you won't have money to have a publicist, so you won't be able to communicate with anyone.

  The radios crackled, the limos began to roll, and the stars opened their windows, waving and bartering smiles and waves for a free trip to Florida. The caravan rolled for six miles through the streets of Orlando, a snaking line headed to their final destination, a ride down every street inside the brand new Universal Studios theme park. Faces of every age, shape and color lined the entire route, and cheers rang out as the police escort hit their sirens, and our limo turned the corner, with me staring out one window, opposite the star of "Family Ties," "Teen Wolf," and many Pepsi commercials, finally ready to take my place as a movie star, in a limo, in a parade, waving to the crowd passing by my tinted window.

  The chatter of uncertainty became thrilled screams as we rolled past the eager crowd.

  "Yeah! Oh yeah! Michael! Michael J. Fox! WHOOOOOOO!!!" they screamed over and over on one side of the car. I smiled and waved out my window, as the crowd on my side of the car tried to place me for a moment, before screaming in my face "MOVE YOUR HEAD! ! HEY!! I CAN'T SEE MICHAEL J. FOX!…I CAN'T SEE HIM!! I CAN'T SEE HIM BECAUSE OF THE BIG GUY! THE BODYGUARD IS IN THE WAY! MOVE YOUR HEAD!!"

  I spent the entire parade pressing hard into the seat, ducking below the window and pointing next to me. "There he is!" I yelled into the doorframe, "SEE?! He's right here, can you see him?"

  "Oh my God! Rita! I can't see him because the body guard is in the way!!"

  "Why do they block him with the bodyguard? MOVE!!!"

  We chugged to the end of the parade route and the red carpet leading into the grand opening party, tuxedoed doormen sweeping open the limo doors and helping us out to wave triumphantly to the cheering mob. A baritone emcee boomed out introductions as one after another historic actor popped out of a limo. "Ladies and gentlemen!…Welcome Mr. Ernest Borgnine…and from the other side of the car, Mr. Robert Wagner!" Our limo eased to a stop, and Michael and I got out of our separate sides of the car as the crowd went wild, with arms waving and cameras flashing in celeb-insanity. We met at the front of the car for a handshake and stood next to each other as the emcee boomed "Folks! Please welcome…MICHAEL J. FOX!!" Whoops and hollers as I waited to hear my name so I could wave like they told me to. The emcee's face went blank as he stared at me, and his eyes flashed to the clipboard. Unable to find the correct spot in the script, he went even bigger, shouting "MICHAEL J. FOX, ladies and gentlemen!"

  There was a muffled choking noise over the microphone, and then he said "MICHAEL J. FOX…AND…HIS FRIEND!!"

  Steven Spielberg himself cut the ribbon for the grand opening of the park, and thousands of eager tourists pounded across the fresh blacktop to find broken rides, many rides not ready for the grand opening at all, and miles of construction fences decorated with colorful camouflage, squinted at by people in tank tops who bought an expensive ticket and couldn't ride on much of anything, while the stars had a gourmet glitz-fest, hob-nobbing with a "Who's Who" of Central Florida, although after looking around and trying to identify anybody who was whom, Orlando might just streamline it to a simple "Who?"

  Only at a party full of movie stars and people from Florida can you describe a party full of big-wigs and mean it literally, but at this particular big wig party, I stared in dumbstruck wonder at a giant slab of carved chocolate on the buffet table, fashioned by dessert chefs into the unmistakeable likeness of Michael J. Fox. I was hungry, and I was forced to smile and thank the anonymous Michaelangelo of cocoa wherever he was, for making such a beautiful sculpture out of chocolate, as cameras flashed at me and I looked toward the kitchen doors behind Michael J. Fox's non-pareil shoulder, hoping they might deliver some beef shaped like Ernest Borgnine.

  I wanted to snap off his hand sculpted Marty McFly head and get back into the air conditioned limo, lining my hungry lips with sweet, brown Michael J. Fox, but it was a star studded celebrity event, and they weren't finished with me, even though it had been established that I'm neither star, stud, nor celebrity. Since a bunch of stars went into a private room somewhere secret, I was pulled over to the desperate band of reporters and photographers with nothing better to do.

  "Yes, this is Tom Wilson, who played Biff, and Griff, and Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen in Back To The Future One, Two and Three!" The nervous publicity person chirped, as the questions began. Or, should I say, the question.

  "Biff! Biff! Biff!"

  "Hi, everybody, my name is Tom! Hello," I told them the first seven or eight times before giving up.

  "What's Michael J. Fox like?" they asked in unison.

  "Whaa Mikaa J. Fok like beef?" an Asian reporter shouted in a thick accent, looking away from me at the door to see if anybody more famous was on his way. "Whaa he like?"

  "Yes, what's Michael J. Fox like to work with?"

  "Were you in the car with him?"

  "Did you beat him up in the car, Biff? HAAA!"

  I took a step back and looked longingly toward the buffet table.

  "Come on, Biff! What's Michael J. Fox like?"

  "The chocolate one or the real one?" I asked.

  "Either one!" someone sighed through the knot of microphoned arms.

  "Well," I said, "One is nice, and the ot
her--"

  The lights, cameras, and microphones turned from me in unison to greet Charlton Heston, and see what he might think of Michael J. Fox.

  Jimmy Stewart was across the room, elderly but sharp, with his terrific wife, Gloria, and he was the one actor that I was trying to meet ever since the weekend began. My chance finally came when he got up to look at the desserts, passing by the chocolate Michael J. Fox without any visible reaction. I grabbed a tiny plate, sidled up next to him pretending to look at cheesecake, and dumped my entire load on him before he had a chance to blink.

  "Mister Stewart my name is Tom Wilson and I'm an actor I actually performed at a birthday party for you several years ago but I never got to meet you and I played the bad guy in back to the future and that's why I'm here hey that's an amazing michael j fox sculpture huh I based my performance in back to the future three the western on lee marvin's work in the man who shot liberty valance because it was such a great movie and you were great in it because you're really…an…uh…inspiration."

  He looked at me for four seconds in silence, then went into what seemed an impression of himself, waving a hand gently and saying "Welll…uh…great…"

  It was my turn to say something, and I searched for words that I'd already spent, staring at him for three seconds in silence before he gently called over his shoulder for help. "that's great…uh, Gloria?" The lovely Gloria Stewart, a master at filling in conversational gaps with adoring, babbling dweebs like myself finished the conversation with me as we made our way outside to a candlelit veranda. Gloria was gently helping Jimmy, and I was standing next to them, hoping somebody might see us and maybe take our picture and think that I was a friend of the Stewarts.

  There was a security barricade keeping the crowd at a safe distance from the stars, and a throng of hundreds piled against the railings, taking photos of the stars and booing them lustily. Boo? The fabulously famous are parading past and the people are booing? We made our way past Beau Bridges and Connie Stevens, looking around for what the people might be booing at.

  "What are they doing?" I asked a publicity person nearby.

  "They're taking pictures! They love you!"

  "Boo! Boooo!!" swirled around each flickering Tiki torch.

  I wasn't going to give up my place next to Jimmy Stewart, since if they were going to boo anybody, maybe it might be Beau Bridges, or the kids from "Fame: The T.V. Series," but I'm standing next to Jimmy Stewart, people! Does the name "George Bailey" mean anything to you? Huh? "Mister Smith Goes To Orlando," folks, so cut out the boos. We got closer to them, and could make out what they were saying. As Jimmy Stewart came through the crowd of lesser magnitude, the crowd turned to him for justice.

  "HEY! JIMMY STEWART! JIMMY STEWART! GET US OUR MONEY BACK! THIS PLACE SUCKS! BOO!!"

  "What are they saying?!" Jimmy Stewart asked, while Gloria helped him back inside, and I calculated the exact price of fame to the nickel. The price of fame is thirty dollars, because a thirty dollar admission price flushed down the toilet at a theme park not ready to be grandly opened is the difference between "We love you Mister Stewart!" and "This place sucks! Get us our money back!"

  I walked back inside in a vandalous mood for sugar, and slunk to the buffet table as cameras recorded Linda Blair and Ernie Hudson and what they thought of Michael J. Fox.

  "Beef! You see Mikka J. Fok?" the Asian reporter asked me. "No, I don't know where he is," I said.

  "You get him to come over here, right? Ha!" he laughed, seriously.

  "Oh! Here he is!" I said, reaching across fruit tarts and slices of melon. I chipped off a piece of Marty McFly's sculpted arm, the inert chocolate monument to my entire experience as the guy from Back To The Future.

  "Not chocolate one, Beef! Ha! Real one!"

  "No," I said, "Right now I like the chocolate one!"

  I drew a chunk of Hollywood itself to my famished mouth, and ate it. Rich and inviting, bittersweet and hollow.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "Can I show you something?" he asked me as we hurtled our way from Las Vegas back to L.A. on the "Highway of the Stars," the stretch of broiler pan asphalt that used to be the trail that Jerry Lewis and Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr. motored down to perform at casinos for the weekend.

  "But it wasn't very good," I said, "The chocolate Michael J. Fox."

  "Pardon me?"

  "The chocolate Michael J. Fox that they had in Florida."

  Okay, maybe it's not the best story, but I caught him not listening for once.

  "Were you listening to me?" I said.

  "Of course I was!" he said, "Chocolate guy, you ate it or some such thing."

  "I was telling you about the party they had in Florida where--"

  "Tom," he said, turning in his car seat to face me, "You got me on that one."

  "Okay, it wasn't a big deal, but--"

  "Can I be honest with you?" he said.

  "Can I stop you from it?"

  "I'm interested in your future more."

  I looked ahead for a few seconds before pretending to play with the radio dial for a while, searching for distant music in the middle of the desert.

  "Sorry to say that, but it's true," he said, "But can I show you something?"

  "What do you want to show me?" I said, slurping the rest of a 64 ounce Dr. Pepper and reaching behind me for some trail mix.

  "It's a very special place. May I show it to you?" the Ranger said, rubbing his palms on the slices of sunlight across his thighs.

  "You want to show me now? Show me," I said.

  "It's near here. A very special place," he said.

  "It's off the freeway?"

  "Very close to it. May I show you?"

  He asked me so many times that I couldn't face him when we got near the exit, so I took the turnoff and drove to the entrance of the Roy Rogers Museum in Victorville, California.

  "So you're interested in Roy Rogers past?" I said.

  "I'd like to see it."

  "But my past? Not so much."

  "I didn't mean it like that," he said.

  "If only I had a museum."

  "Okay, point taken."

  "I've been dying to see what Roy put in this place!" he said, as we walked under the hooves of a cement statue of Roy Rogers' horse Trigger, rearing up on his hind legs twenty feet into the hot desert sky two hours outside of Los Angeles.

  "I thought you knew what was in here," I said.

  "I heard some things, but I always wanted to see for myself."

  "You wanted to show me but you've never been here?"

  "No. Always wanted to, never been," he said.

  "They've got Trigger in here, I think," I said.

  "That's what I've heard," he said, "That's what everybody's heard!" He clapped his hands together in a leather thump and rubbed his palms in excitement.

  I bought two tickets at the small booth lit by a naked bulb, and we pushed the turnstile into Roy's museum, a displayed version of his actual life, since he obviously saved everything he ever bought, touched, killed, or looked at. I walked up to an old jeep Roy used in a long forgotten movie, and a round man in tight shorts and a baseball cap celebrating the Confederacy walked right up to the Ranger.

  "Say partner, you work here, don'cha?"

  The Ranger straightened up, looking at me and hooking his thumbs in the gunbelt that the girl at the ticket window was too bored to notice.

  "Well, no friend, I can't say that I work here," the Ranger said, "But can I be of help in some way?"

  As he drew closer, the man's eyes, magnified behind dirty tri-focals, grew to giant, glass covered orbs.

  "Hey. Hang on," he said, breathing a shallow huff and putting out a chubby hand for balance, "You're the Lone Ranger."

  "Nope. No, he's not," I said, sidling up next to the Ranger to lead him out the turnstile and back to the car.

  "Yes he is!" he said, fumbling with the camera around his neck, "That there's the Lone Ranger!"

  "No," I said, "He's the One Ranger."r />
  "The Lone Ranger," the man said.

  "Nope," I said.

  "He's got the mask."

  "So what?" I said, "He's the One--"

  "Ginny, get over here and look at this here!" he barked to a pear shaped woman with her head the tiny, bent stem, as she took a picture of one of Roy Rogers' fancy shirts.

  "What is it?" she drawled across the display.

  "Ain't he the Lone Ranger?" he said.

  "What's this now?" she said, still composing the frame of her photo. Her camera flashed across the red, white, and blue spangles and looked over at us. "That's stuffed," she said. The Ranger tipped his hat to her and she almost swallowed her dentures. "Holy muh…"

  "Afternoon, Ma'am" the Ranger said.

  She bit down hard to set her teeth back into place and walked toward us.

  "You work here?" she asked.

  "No Ma'am," the Ranger said, "We told your friend here that--"

  "He ain't my friend. That's my husband," she said.

  "Well, I was telling your husband that--"

  "He ain't always my friend, but he's always my husband, I guess," she said, chuckling.

  The Ranger nodded, grinning. "I was just telling him that--"

  "He's my friend today, though, I'll tell you that much, cause I'm the one got the money. Hah!"

  There was a longer pause before the Ranger tried to speak again. He opened his mouth and she blurted "You the Lone Ranger?"

  "No, he's not," I said.

  The man coughed a guffaw and stomped his velcro laced sneakers on the dusty wood floor. "Junior," he said, "You can tell me a lot of things, but you cannot go and tell me that's not the Lone Ranger, cause the eyeballs that God put in there are still workin'!"

  "He does look like him," Ginny said, "Are you a look-a-like person, like those Elvis people?"

  "Can we get our picture with you?" the man said.

  "Hey!" the Ranger said, "Have you folks seen the movie Back--"

  "Ranger," I interrupted, "Why don't you take a picture with the people?"

  "Did you see those movies?" he tried again, "My friend here is--"