Who’s in 418? (Part 2)
As I crossed the lobby toward the Front Desk, I saw Nancy waiting nervously. “You told Carol that you have a problem?” I began. Nancy went quickly to the PBX and pointed at the small display. The hotel’s phone system had been upgraded recently and part of the new equipment was a modern “switchboard”. “When ever a room dials “O” in house, their room number shows in this little window”, she explained. “About ten minutes ago, a man called for the correct time, when a room number from the fourth floor appeared, it caught my attention”, she continued. “Why would a fourth floor number catch your attention?” I asked. “The house is slow tonight and we haven’t got any rooms rented on four or five”. Nancy blurted it out, “I’m sure it was room 418”.
Well, there it was. It must be obvious that a hotel’s staff needs to know the status of every room, at all times. It starts early in the morning when the desk makes lists of check-outs, stay-overs and new-arrivals. The housekeeping department brings updated information to the front desk through-out each day, as they work their way down the long corridors, cleaning and inspecting their guest room assignments. Our desk had never impressed me very much with their procedures and organization. “It’s probably a sleeper”, I suggested. After all, hotel guests change their plans all the time. “Should I call them?” Nancy wanted to help. “No, just get the security guard down here, give me the pass key and I’ll go up there and check it out”. “Nancy, are you sure it was 418?” She was sure.
If it was an “Unauthorized” person, I didn’t want them tipped off by a phone call and I had always found it easier to explain a mix up in a guest’s registration, (which of course was the most likely scenario), while standing face to face with the guest. I took the hotel keys from Nancy and walked back to the restaurant. In the short time it had taken for me to leave, go to the front desk and come back, the “grapevine” had gone into high gear and now, everyone knew that there was “a problem in one of the rooms.” I walked over to where Carol and Maria waited in excitement at the service end of the bar. “I need to go up to 418 and check it out”, I assured them, “Probably nothing to it; just a sleeper”.
A moment later, a very small security guard walked into the restaurant looking for me. Size didn’t matter with security. They were uniformed like police, and the hope was that the silhouette of a police hat, seen from across the parking lot would be enough to deter the bad guys. Also, they carried a two-way radio. I carried brass knuckles. One of the local cops who stopped by occasionally for a drink had given them to me my first night on the job. “It can get rough in here; you may need these some day”. They were the real thing. I reached back and felt the lump of their metal in the back pocket of my trousers as I led the way to the elevator which would transport the two of us to the fourth floor of the guest room tower and room 418.
I must confess that my standard approach at a guestroom door has been modified throughout the years by the many different images that have met my eyes once the door was swung open. I could fill the pages of a book with the tapestry of impressions left behind by people who conduct their acts in the privacy of a hotel room. It is precisely the interruption of this private space and time that I intend with the words, “It’s the Hotel Manager, please open the door”, which immediately follow my quick, loud knocks. The security guard and I looked at each other in the silence that filled our ears after the door stopped rattling in its jamb. We didn’t hear any sounds from within. I repeated the knocking and the request a little louder. There came no response. I began to think that the 418 that Nancy saw on the display was more likely 148. I put the pass key in the lockset and turned the tumblers one time around. The door latch did not release. As I spun the key around the second time, I immediately knew that there was someone inside. The pass key was an E-Key. It was for emergencies only. It was the Grand Master of all hotel keys since it alone could double lock, (or un-double lock) a guestroom door. The only other way for a guestroom door to have the privacy lock in place was to be in the room and turn it with your hand. You could not do it from the outside unless you had the E-Key. We only used the E-Key on the rare occasion that we needed to lock a guest out of their room for non-payment or in an emergency. I slowly began to push the door open and I was stopped as it hit the safety chain. Now, there was no doubt at all. Someone was in the room. I spoke loudly through the crack. “My name is Dave VanArsdale, I’m the Hotel Manager, please come to the door”….. “I need to speak with you”…..”Somehow, the front desk of the hotel shows this room as vacant”…..”Most likely a simple mistake”…..”I know that you’re in there, this chain can not put itself in place”. “I don’t want to scare you, but you must answer me”, I implored the occupant. “Go to your phone and call the hotel operator so that we can get your registration corrected.” Still no response. I put my weight behind the door and easily “popped” the chain open.
The security guard let me go in first. As I walked cautiously into the room, I glanced left into the bathroom. It looked empty. One look around the bedroom and I knew. He was under the bed. I reached down and lifted frame, box springs and mattress up above my head. “Hi Johnnie, why didn’t you answer me?” It was one of the dishwashers. He stayed silent as he rolled out from under the bed. I lowered it back down to the floor. The security guard had remained in the doorway, and I moved back that way to prevent a hasty exit. “Where is she Johnnie, the bathroom?” I looked in and saw the young girl hiding behind the shower curtain. “How did you get in here?” I tried to scare her. She didn’t want to talk either. They were both partly undressed, so I told them to get their clothes back on. “You going to fire me?” Johnnie asked. “How did you get into the room?” I demanded. Of course I would fire him, but for now let’s see if we can learn anything. “Give me the key that you used.” I stayed in the entryway and Johnnie and the girlfriend made a sudden rush, trying to get past me into the hallway. As I caught him by the wrist, I turned to the guard and said, “You keep the girl from running off and radio for the cops, and I’ve got him”.
She looked at me from under the visor of her “police hat”. It was like seeing a deer caught in the headlights as she almost sobbed back at me in a timid little voice,” We aren’t allowed to put our hands on anyone!” It was a girl! The small security guard was a woman! It had not occurred to me until that very instant that she could be a woman. I mean, they just never were. I don’t have a problem with her being a woman guard but it’s not fair to hide it like that. I had at least ten guys downstairs, who were my employees, who would have been glad to accompany us to 418 and be my back-up as I dealt with the “traitorous” Johnnie. Johnnie interrupted my amazement by pulling me off my feet as he bolted away, breaking the hold I had on his arm. I caught my balance and started after him. “Call the cops!” I yelled to her over my shoulder. The girlfriend was running away in the other direction. He sprinted the long hallway and darted around the corner into and down the stairwell. I was gaining on him, taking each landing in two strides with my long legs. When we reached the bottom, he went through the heavy steel door just ahead of me. He turned and slammed against the outside just as I was coming through it. It stopped me in my tracks. I felt the pain shooting up from my left ankle. My foot had been the only part of me to make it through the door before it shut. I freed the foot from its confinement. It still held my weight. I was livid. My right hand slipped quickly into the back pocket and its fingers each found their intended opening in the clammy brass. In a single motion, I pushed back on the heavy door, and leaped for Johnnie as he tried to turn and run out the nearby exit. I caught him by the collar and spun him around. His fists had already landed once and were ready to seek another target on my face when I brought the hammer blow home to the top of his head. Johnnie went limp at my feet with me drawing my arm back for another thump on his pumpkin.
I thought I may have killed him. His eyes were rolled back in his head and he did not move at all. Time stood still. I walked to the stairwell door, opened it and looked up. No one was following. My ankle was screaming with pain. Maybe he broke my leg. The exit door opened and I turned to see Johnnie heading out and across the parking lot. The same parking lot that Cass had a house trailer parked on. Rocky! The trained German Shepard, that no doubt would eat Johnnie if told to, was in that trailer. I hopped on my one good leg over to the small steps leading to the door. I pounded and shouted for five minutes, no response. Not even a bark from the killer dog!
Well, the pass key wouldn’t open the door to Cass’ house trailer. Not that I tried it. Head lights shown up at me pounding and shouting at the dark and unresponsive dwelling, so I stopped. It was Roger, in his Corvette, who pulled up to me as I climbed off the porch. “Get in,” he called to me. I climbed into the second seat and looked back up at the trailer. “He wouldn’t wake up,” I complained to the “plain clothes” detective. “Don’t worry; we caught them at the motel next door.” I’ll take you over and you can ID them for us.
Sure thing, there was Johnnie and his girlfriend, surrounded by at least a dozen cops, sitting on the Motel’s curb. I told the two “love birds” that if they would pay $50 for the cost of the room, they would be off the hook with me. His girl complained loudly at Johnnie as she got the money out of her purse. She didn’t look so innocent in the harsh glare of the street lights. As it turned out, she was a pro and now here she was, having to pay the tab! Once she handed me the fifty, Johnnie stood, turned and started walking away from the group. One of the cops shouted, “Where do you think you’re going?” In what was left of his surliest attitude, Johnnie turned and spat out the words, “I’m going home.” “The man got his money.”
The police took a dim view of Johnnie’s attempted leaving before being dismissed and there was a brief scuffle before the now hand-cuffed and shackled Johnnie landed head first in the back seat of a patrol car. It was not hard to read his lips as the police car pulled away; “I will kill you,” he mouthed at me with a murderous look in his eyes. He hasn’t yet. Roger came by a few days later and called me over to his bar stool, next to Cass. “Yeah, I was just telling your boss about that dumb dishwasher that you thumped last week.” “Believe it or not; after you pounded on him and we pounded on him, he decided to give the turnkeys trouble, later that night, while they were giving him a ride in the elevator down at the county jail.” Some guys just never learn!
Cass just kept his eyes on his drink, one of those clear ones. He never asked me about the story and I never offered to tell him. The numbers had all worked the next morning and I am sure he never heard me at his door. He sure knew how to sell excitement.
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Monday, June 21, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Who's in 418? (part 1)
There have been many hoteliers with whom I have worked. No two General Managers were ever close to being the same. Some were “old school” and had come up through the ranks. Others had studied at Cornell or Michigan State and learned their skills by completing the required courses for a hotel degree. Either way, I always tried to learn from each man or woman everything that I could while employed as a team member within their unique operation.
Kent was a cowboy from Idaho. He always wore his boots and had an easy way with people. He treated his staff like they were his friends. Charles was a smallish, round, grandfather type. Don’t let that fool you, he would take no nonsense and was a perfectionist, although he was never unreasonable. The daily envelope was always complete and in the noon mail. Betty started her day in the office but would always make her way, by mid-morning, to the laundry room of the housekeeping department and she truly felt more comfortable with the housekeepers than she did around the front desk. She taught me what a “clean room” really looked like. “Fresh as a daisy”, she’d always say.
Peter was a Certified Chef de Cuisine. I cleaned up his kitchen until you could eat off the floor under the pot sink. He seemed to be a little out of his element as a General Manager and would say and do odd things from time to time. Once, he decided that we would begin having a formal, weekly staff meeting, with required attendance for all of the department heads, every Monday morning at 8:00 AM. We had never had structured, regular staff meetings. In fact, he had always been quite casual in his style of management. At the first one, Peter stood at the head of the long, board room table around which his dozen or so managers were assembled. We were smiling, sipping our morning coffee and chatting with each other as we waited for the meeting to start. Suddenly, he leaned forward, placed his hands palms down on the table and literally shouted into us at the top of his lungs, “My first name is Mister - My last name is Renz - and I expect to be called by both-of-them!” I don’t recall the rest of the meeting.
Cass was a promoter. He had grown up in a tough Chicago neighborhood. Everyone called him Mr. Opyt, even the hotel’s owner. We called him Mr. O when he wasn’t within earshot. Cass knew how to operate with entertainment better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He painted everything black and used lights, mirrors, sound and stage to create a Las Vegas style Show Bar in our dining room when the competition was trying to sell their room as a pancake house! He always sold out the hotel for New Years Eve and jumped on the Elvis Impersonator bandwagon almost before the King’s body was cold. Cass was selling “Sizzlers” for $19.95 back in the 1970s. I added up the food cost for these petit fillets that everyone ordered and it was less than five dollars. If enough of them were not leaving the kitchen, Cass would order one and instruct the waitress to walk slowly around the entire dining room before setting it down in front of him, where it eventually grew cold and became Rocky’s dinner. The sound and smell of the au jus hissing on the red hot steel always did the trick. Later in the evening, we did the same with Irish coffee. The customers could not resist the suggestion.
Cass did not need me as his Assistant because of my Food and Beverage experience and I remember his surprise when he found out that I had helped the front desk’s new Night Auditor balance for a week or so until she finally learned the job. “Just watch the joint for me”, he’d said, and so that was what I did. I wore a suit and tie and babysat Mr. O’s action hotel, six nights a week. I’d arrive at 4:00 PM, Tuesday through Sunday, pick up the keys from the office and stay until Maria, the bartender, had closed, cashed out and was ready to make her deposit and let me lock up. At 4:30, Cass would walk out of the office, cross the lobby, and take his place on the second bar stool from the left end of the bar. It was a strategic spot from which he could see most of the dining room, all of the bar, the front desk, all of the cash registers and the front doors of the hotel. Maria always sounded a little nervous as she immediately sat one of his “clear ones’ near his right hand and smiled, “Hi Mr. Opyt” she’d say. Maria would always try to say something cute or clever but he mostly ignored her. He was at his best when he ignored all of us and just got down to pounding down six or seven of the “clear ones”, at which point, usually 7:00, he would rise and weave his way down the corridor, into the elevator, one floor down, out the back door of the hotel and across the parking lot to his home. Cass and his wife lived in a house trailer at the far end of the back parking lot with their trained German Shepard, Rocky. Sometimes, (I never figured out why), he would leave the bar earlier and come back with the dog. Cass would have a murderous look on his face at these times and as he entered the bar room and went to his stool, Rocky, who I never saw leashed, stayed close by his side. “Rocky, lay down”, he’d say too loudly and a little bit slurred. The dog lay down at the foot of the second stool and although he would closely watch people as they came and went, Rocky never moved until Cass told him to.
The main entrance to the lobby, front desk, meeting rooms, restaurants and bar of the five story, 200 room hotel was on the second floor. The first floor was ground level in the back of the rooms building and although there were several guest rooms and the hotel’s indoor swimming pool on the ground floor, most of that floor’s space were “back of the house” areas like housekeeping, laundry, maintenance and storage. There were two elevators next to the desk area by which guests could access the guestrooms in the tower. The rooms tower was long, with interior corridors and rooms on both sides. There were three stairwells; one on each end and one in the middle, near the pool.
On a slow Sunday night, in the summer of 1979, Mr. O and Rocky had gone home about three hours ago. The band was beginning to make their way back to the stage to start the second set. Carol was at her Hostess station at the entrance to the dining room and Maria and I were talking about something unimportant as she filled a dining room waiter’s drink order at the service end of the bar. I heard Carol’s hostess phone ring and after she answered it and spoke for a moment, she motioned me over to her. “Nancy has a problem at the desk and needs you right away”, she whispered discreetly. Carol continued in a concerned tone, “She said that there/s someone in room 418 and it’s supposed to be vacant.”
To be continued…….
Kent was a cowboy from Idaho. He always wore his boots and had an easy way with people. He treated his staff like they were his friends. Charles was a smallish, round, grandfather type. Don’t let that fool you, he would take no nonsense and was a perfectionist, although he was never unreasonable. The daily envelope was always complete and in the noon mail. Betty started her day in the office but would always make her way, by mid-morning, to the laundry room of the housekeeping department and she truly felt more comfortable with the housekeepers than she did around the front desk. She taught me what a “clean room” really looked like. “Fresh as a daisy”, she’d always say.
Peter was a Certified Chef de Cuisine. I cleaned up his kitchen until you could eat off the floor under the pot sink. He seemed to be a little out of his element as a General Manager and would say and do odd things from time to time. Once, he decided that we would begin having a formal, weekly staff meeting, with required attendance for all of the department heads, every Monday morning at 8:00 AM. We had never had structured, regular staff meetings. In fact, he had always been quite casual in his style of management. At the first one, Peter stood at the head of the long, board room table around which his dozen or so managers were assembled. We were smiling, sipping our morning coffee and chatting with each other as we waited for the meeting to start. Suddenly, he leaned forward, placed his hands palms down on the table and literally shouted into us at the top of his lungs, “My first name is Mister - My last name is Renz - and I expect to be called by both-of-them!” I don’t recall the rest of the meeting.
Cass was a promoter. He had grown up in a tough Chicago neighborhood. Everyone called him Mr. Opyt, even the hotel’s owner. We called him Mr. O when he wasn’t within earshot. Cass knew how to operate with entertainment better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He painted everything black and used lights, mirrors, sound and stage to create a Las Vegas style Show Bar in our dining room when the competition was trying to sell their room as a pancake house! He always sold out the hotel for New Years Eve and jumped on the Elvis Impersonator bandwagon almost before the King’s body was cold. Cass was selling “Sizzlers” for $19.95 back in the 1970s. I added up the food cost for these petit fillets that everyone ordered and it was less than five dollars. If enough of them were not leaving the kitchen, Cass would order one and instruct the waitress to walk slowly around the entire dining room before setting it down in front of him, where it eventually grew cold and became Rocky’s dinner. The sound and smell of the au jus hissing on the red hot steel always did the trick. Later in the evening, we did the same with Irish coffee. The customers could not resist the suggestion.
Cass did not need me as his Assistant because of my Food and Beverage experience and I remember his surprise when he found out that I had helped the front desk’s new Night Auditor balance for a week or so until she finally learned the job. “Just watch the joint for me”, he’d said, and so that was what I did. I wore a suit and tie and babysat Mr. O’s action hotel, six nights a week. I’d arrive at 4:00 PM, Tuesday through Sunday, pick up the keys from the office and stay until Maria, the bartender, had closed, cashed out and was ready to make her deposit and let me lock up. At 4:30, Cass would walk out of the office, cross the lobby, and take his place on the second bar stool from the left end of the bar. It was a strategic spot from which he could see most of the dining room, all of the bar, the front desk, all of the cash registers and the front doors of the hotel. Maria always sounded a little nervous as she immediately sat one of his “clear ones’ near his right hand and smiled, “Hi Mr. Opyt” she’d say. Maria would always try to say something cute or clever but he mostly ignored her. He was at his best when he ignored all of us and just got down to pounding down six or seven of the “clear ones”, at which point, usually 7:00, he would rise and weave his way down the corridor, into the elevator, one floor down, out the back door of the hotel and across the parking lot to his home. Cass and his wife lived in a house trailer at the far end of the back parking lot with their trained German Shepard, Rocky. Sometimes, (I never figured out why), he would leave the bar earlier and come back with the dog. Cass would have a murderous look on his face at these times and as he entered the bar room and went to his stool, Rocky, who I never saw leashed, stayed close by his side. “Rocky, lay down”, he’d say too loudly and a little bit slurred. The dog lay down at the foot of the second stool and although he would closely watch people as they came and went, Rocky never moved until Cass told him to.
The main entrance to the lobby, front desk, meeting rooms, restaurants and bar of the five story, 200 room hotel was on the second floor. The first floor was ground level in the back of the rooms building and although there were several guest rooms and the hotel’s indoor swimming pool on the ground floor, most of that floor’s space were “back of the house” areas like housekeeping, laundry, maintenance and storage. There were two elevators next to the desk area by which guests could access the guestrooms in the tower. The rooms tower was long, with interior corridors and rooms on both sides. There were three stairwells; one on each end and one in the middle, near the pool.
On a slow Sunday night, in the summer of 1979, Mr. O and Rocky had gone home about three hours ago. The band was beginning to make their way back to the stage to start the second set. Carol was at her Hostess station at the entrance to the dining room and Maria and I were talking about something unimportant as she filled a dining room waiter’s drink order at the service end of the bar. I heard Carol’s hostess phone ring and after she answered it and spoke for a moment, she motioned me over to her. “Nancy has a problem at the desk and needs you right away”, she whispered discreetly. Carol continued in a concerned tone, “She said that there/s someone in room 418 and it’s supposed to be vacant.”
To be continued…….
Friday, June 11, 2010
Hotels are more than 'scrubbin toilets n makin beds' Hotels Are Glamorous!
It is not a stretch to say that most hourly hotel workers have seldom been hotel customers. That was the case with me. Growing up in Flint, with a large family, we went camping. Mom and Dad both worked hard all week and many Fridays, during the summer, both parents would rush home at five o’clock and pack the car full of all five kids and the camping gear. Dad bought a Comet in 61’. Those of you over forty-five will remember the cat eyes look to the rear tail lights. That must have been quite a site; all seven of us packed in that two door sedan, heading North on US23, with the car top carrier piled high and lashed to the top of the roof!
Michigan was great for camping. There were lakes and rivers with wonderful campgrounds everywhere. I now know that there were also some great hotels. We never stayed in any hotels. We either camped or stayed with family. Grandma Bracebridge lived in Traverse City, seven blocks from the bay. Staying with her was like being at a resort with one of the best beaches in the country. On cold and rainy days we walked downtown to the Park Place Hotel. For fifty cents each, my brother and I could swim all afternoon in their indoor pool. I’m pretty sure that is the only money a hotelier ever got from me in advance of beginning my hotel career.
An hour or so North-East of Traverse City is where one of the world’s most unique and truly glamorous hotels has been renting rooms since 1887. Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island has a porch that goes on forever and no cars are allowed on the island so guests are picked up at the Ferry by horse and carriage just like they were a century ago. Many of the industries’ best servers have been employed for years in the food service outlets of Grand Hotel. During the winter, they travel south to work the cruise ships and island resorts until the hotel opens again for next summer’s season. If any hotels, today, can be thought of as glamorous, Grand Hotel has all the qualities.
After all, Presidents and Royals, Movie Stars and Millionaires all stay at hotels, don’t they? I have had many of these, as guests, through the years, and even folks in the rare air they live in, enjoy the special touches like Room Service and Spa Treatments one associates with a nice hotel. What would the casinos in Las Vegas or Atlantic City be without their hotels? There is a sense of extravagance about having someone else make your bed and clean up after you each day. I can tell you that the fun of watching the Bride and Groom’s family and friends check into their rooms and then see each other for the first time, down in the lobby, as they start a weekend of loving celebration is as real and exciting as knowing that President Ford enjoyed his dinner, right down to the cup of tea with honey that surprised him and made him feel right at home. That is what makes a hotel’s service special. That another person could feel good about serving your needs. When such service is delivered with sincerity and members of a hotel’s staff work together like a team, the results can be very glamorous! Perhaps you have felt it too.
Michigan was great for camping. There were lakes and rivers with wonderful campgrounds everywhere. I now know that there were also some great hotels. We never stayed in any hotels. We either camped or stayed with family. Grandma Bracebridge lived in Traverse City, seven blocks from the bay. Staying with her was like being at a resort with one of the best beaches in the country. On cold and rainy days we walked downtown to the Park Place Hotel. For fifty cents each, my brother and I could swim all afternoon in their indoor pool. I’m pretty sure that is the only money a hotelier ever got from me in advance of beginning my hotel career.
An hour or so North-East of Traverse City is where one of the world’s most unique and truly glamorous hotels has been renting rooms since 1887. Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island has a porch that goes on forever and no cars are allowed on the island so guests are picked up at the Ferry by horse and carriage just like they were a century ago. Many of the industries’ best servers have been employed for years in the food service outlets of Grand Hotel. During the winter, they travel south to work the cruise ships and island resorts until the hotel opens again for next summer’s season. If any hotels, today, can be thought of as glamorous, Grand Hotel has all the qualities.
After all, Presidents and Royals, Movie Stars and Millionaires all stay at hotels, don’t they? I have had many of these, as guests, through the years, and even folks in the rare air they live in, enjoy the special touches like Room Service and Spa Treatments one associates with a nice hotel. What would the casinos in Las Vegas or Atlantic City be without their hotels? There is a sense of extravagance about having someone else make your bed and clean up after you each day. I can tell you that the fun of watching the Bride and Groom’s family and friends check into their rooms and then see each other for the first time, down in the lobby, as they start a weekend of loving celebration is as real and exciting as knowing that President Ford enjoyed his dinner, right down to the cup of tea with honey that surprised him and made him feel right at home. That is what makes a hotel’s service special. That another person could feel good about serving your needs. When such service is delivered with sincerity and members of a hotel’s staff work together like a team, the results can be very glamorous! Perhaps you have felt it too.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Golfing with Hollywood, (part 2)
Forest Tucker was a big man. He filled the doorway of my office when he came to see me, about 9 AM Monday morning, the day after he checked into the hotel. I would guess that he was 6 feet 4 inches tall and not heavy as much as thick. “Do you play golf?” he asked. “Sure I play golf” I told him. This was true in the sense that I did possess a set of clubs, in a golf bag, owned golf shoes and had paid greens fees several times. Mostly, I showed up at charity events that the hotel had sponsored and tried to be good company for the real golfers as they hit great shots and made the putts that kept our foursome in the mix. “Well, I want to play a round while I’m here”, he continued, “You can take me to your club.” I confessed that I did not belong to a club but had friends who did. I told him that I would make some calls and set up something for Thursday or Friday morning and let him know.
The actor, Forest Tucker, was most familiar to me for his role in F-Troop as Sergeant O’Rourke. This weekly television comedy series was very popular family entertainment back in the mid 1960’s. Forest had previously played staring roles on the silver screen in dozens of movies through the years. His western and soldier characters were favorites for many millions of movie goers in the 40’s and 50’s after the war years. Now, here he was, in the early eighties, staring in Show Boat, a national production of the famous musical play, up for our town’s local summer stock theater. The show sold out every performance and the reviews praised his gregarious natural talent and enthusiasm on the stage.
Each morning, “Tuck” would pop into my office and spend time with me. What an easy going and likeable man he was. He had great stories to tell and I listened with interest as he made icons like John Wayne, Spencer Tracey, Jack Benny and George Burns seem like regular guys with his descriptions of their shared antics and mischievous adventures from back in the golden days of Hollywood. To hear Tuck tell it, someone was always getting a trick of one sort or another played on them and then they would have to get even!
We were going to play at Winchester Golf Course on Friday morning. Ten o’clock. The club was not private. When I called my friend who belonged to the Country Club, he kindly explained to me that he could only bring one guest at a time and it wouldn’t work this week anyway because of his business schedule. None of this seemed like a problem to me. Winchester was one of the nicer golf courses in the area. We loaded up the golf clubs into my station wagon. I had invited two buddies along and we headed down the highway on the twenty minute drive to the course. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. The weather forecast called for mid 80’s and sunny all day. This was going to be great.
We pulled into the parking lot and found a space. The place was quite busy. Golfers were getting their bags out of cars and golf carts were cutting in and out of the lot, carrying their happy hackers off to the practice greens in anticipation of the day’s fun. We got out of the car and I opened up the tailgate. Tuck was not smiling. He just stood there, looking around and then he began to shake his head.
“I’m not playing a golf course where they put their shoes on at the trunks of their cars”, he declared. Then he started laughing and looked at me with his best character face. “Is that a bar over there?” We spent the rest of the morning listening to stories and having lunch with Forrest. He was one of the greatest. I was saddened to hear of his passing a few years later in 1986. Tuck gave me the best ”golf lesson” I ever had.
The actor, Forest Tucker, was most familiar to me for his role in F-Troop as Sergeant O’Rourke. This weekly television comedy series was very popular family entertainment back in the mid 1960’s. Forest had previously played staring roles on the silver screen in dozens of movies through the years. His western and soldier characters were favorites for many millions of movie goers in the 40’s and 50’s after the war years. Now, here he was, in the early eighties, staring in Show Boat, a national production of the famous musical play, up for our town’s local summer stock theater. The show sold out every performance and the reviews praised his gregarious natural talent and enthusiasm on the stage.
Each morning, “Tuck” would pop into my office and spend time with me. What an easy going and likeable man he was. He had great stories to tell and I listened with interest as he made icons like John Wayne, Spencer Tracey, Jack Benny and George Burns seem like regular guys with his descriptions of their shared antics and mischievous adventures from back in the golden days of Hollywood. To hear Tuck tell it, someone was always getting a trick of one sort or another played on them and then they would have to get even!
We were going to play at Winchester Golf Course on Friday morning. Ten o’clock. The club was not private. When I called my friend who belonged to the Country Club, he kindly explained to me that he could only bring one guest at a time and it wouldn’t work this week anyway because of his business schedule. None of this seemed like a problem to me. Winchester was one of the nicer golf courses in the area. We loaded up the golf clubs into my station wagon. I had invited two buddies along and we headed down the highway on the twenty minute drive to the course. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. The weather forecast called for mid 80’s and sunny all day. This was going to be great.
We pulled into the parking lot and found a space. The place was quite busy. Golfers were getting their bags out of cars and golf carts were cutting in and out of the lot, carrying their happy hackers off to the practice greens in anticipation of the day’s fun. We got out of the car and I opened up the tailgate. Tuck was not smiling. He just stood there, looking around and then he began to shake his head.
“I’m not playing a golf course where they put their shoes on at the trunks of their cars”, he declared. Then he started laughing and looked at me with his best character face. “Is that a bar over there?” We spent the rest of the morning listening to stories and having lunch with Forrest. He was one of the greatest. I was saddened to hear of his passing a few years later in 1986. Tuck gave me the best ”golf lesson” I ever had.