Cybill Disobedience Part 6

"We've just arrested your husband," he said menacingly," and we're trying to decide whether to charge him or not."

It was probably the wrong time to stand on a principle of const.i.tutional rights as an American citizen, so I told him my income. He seemed disappointed, which, under the circ.u.mstances, worked in my favor. Perhaps he felt I could ill afford to miss a performance. "Consider this your warning," he said, and let us go.

When I did The Seven-Year Itch The Seven-Year Itch at Granny's Dinner Theater in Dallas I was so nervous that I read the entire New Testament in the suite reserved for the "talent," where the previous tenant, Robert Morse, had left a pair of Jockey shorts under the bed. Opening night I imagined Jesus floating in his robes in the fifth row of the theater. But I didn't know why my costar, Joey Bishop, seemed so miserable. During a performance at the end of our first week, he said his lines, then cursed under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "f.u.c.k you piece-of-s.h.i.t b.i.t.c.h." I was so shocked that I forgot my next line, and during the long silence I wondered what monumental atrocity I had committed. Later that night I asked another actress about the incident. at Granny's Dinner Theater in Dallas I was so nervous that I read the entire New Testament in the suite reserved for the "talent," where the previous tenant, Robert Morse, had left a pair of Jockey shorts under the bed. Opening night I imagined Jesus floating in his robes in the fifth row of the theater. But I didn't know why my costar, Joey Bishop, seemed so miserable. During a performance at the end of our first week, he said his lines, then cursed under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "f.u.c.k you piece-of-s.h.i.t b.i.t.c.h." I was so shocked that I forgot my next line, and during the long silence I wondered what monumental atrocity I had committed. Later that night I asked another actress about the incident.

"I've had that happen," she said knowingly. "It's a matter of one-upmanship, showing you who's boss. If it happens again, stop, turn to him, and say loud enough for the audience to hear, 'Excuse me, what did you say?' That will shut him up."

Joey pulled his "a.s.shole-piece-of-s.h.i.t" act on me the next night, so I followed my colleague's advice and asked him, pointedly and out loud, to repeat what he'd said. He froze, got momentarily lost, glared at me, and continued with his scripted lines. That night, he went to the theater manager and said he was having trouble working with me--I'd become too difficult. Luckily, it was a limited run.

David showed promise as a jazz guitarist and had played with my band when I did cabaret at Reno Sweeney's. But the dynamics changed when I was booked for a week at a New York club called Marty's, sandwiched between appearances by Mel Torme and Tony Bennett, which finally made me think that my singing was giving someone besides me some pleasure. I hired a new musical director who selected his own musicians, and he wouldn't have taken the job if told he had to work with my amateur husband. I had a sense of dread when I told David he was out, and his disappointment surely added to the tension and resentment in our marriage. I've often wondered if the power imbalance in my marriage was a reaction to, even a reversal of, my relationship with Peter. Perhaps it was my turn to be in charge.

In our newly purchased mini-motor home, David and I drove from Memphis to New York, swatting mosquitoes the size of mice and plying Clementine with Cutter as we camped out in the national parks of the Shenandoah and Blue Ridge Mountains (they seemed to be covered with snow, but in fact they were thick with dogwood blossoms). The day before my opening, I was diagnosed with bronchitis. "Don't say a word you're not paid for," instructed the ear/nose/throat specialist who wrote "SILENCE" on his prescription pad, and I had to shut down for two nights. I was certainly craving some spousal support, but David went out both nights--he said he wanted to see the music scene in New York with my musical director, who was temporarily sidelined because of me. One night after I'd recovered enough to perform, one of the musicians asked, "Can I borrow your bathroom?" It wasn't until Richard Pryor nearly burned himself alive that I realized the musician had been freebasing cocaine, which explained why his tempo was way too fast. I'd had half a beer (the only time in my life when I performed under the influence of any substance), which made me a little mellow. Rhythmically, we were on two different planets.

Most photographs of family occasions from Clementine's childhood include a dignified woman with burnished copper skin, silver hair pulled back in a French knot, and a thousand-kilowatt smile. This is Myrtle Gray Boone, who worked as a housekeeper for both my mother and grandmother. When Clemmie was born, I didn't want a trained baby nurse. I wanted Myrtle, mother of thirteen children, grandmother to thirty-two, an indomitable presence in my family for as long as I could remember. (Moma said she'd be the best nanny in the world but railed against the generous salary I offered and warned that I'd "spoil" Myrtle if I paid her a penny more than a hundred dollars a week.) Myrtle could quote Robert Louis Stevenson and hum Bach. Had she lived at another time, she could have been an amba.s.sador instead of a domestic. When I asked her to go on the road with me, she said no at first, then called me back the next day and said she'd changed her mind. "Everybody else always gets to travel," she said. "Now it's my turn." But while we were in New York, we got the news that Myrtle's mother in Memphis had died. Tears streaming down our faces, David and I put Myrtle in a cab bound for the airport and promised to follow the next day in the motor home. We were still crying when we returned to our room, though I didn't know that he was crying about something else.

I'm an expert liar, and sometimes I recognize when people are lying to me. I'd felt a funny twinge of doubt those two nights David was out when I was sick, and I checked out his story, obliquely, with my musical director, who didn't know enough to cover for him. I didn't have the heart or the stomach to confront him for several days. But now I did.

His words came out in soggy clumps. "Remember that actress who did Vanities Vanities with you in St. Louis?" he said. "She's in New York. And I've been with her." with you in St. Louis?" he said. "She's in New York. And I've been with her."

I've heard such moments described as a body blow. But hearing David's confession was more like watching an egg fall and shatter in slow motion. I went to Clementine's rented crib, lowered the slotted side panel and picked her up, needing to feel the warmth of her body. Only when I saw that her pajamas were wet did I realize I was still crying.

"Are we getting divorced?" I asked.

"I don't know," said David, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

"How can I ever trust you again?" I asked.

"I don't even know why I told you," he said.

"I know why," I said. "You want me to feel as bad as you do. People don't like it when they do something rotten--it makes them feel terrible. And you think this is as much my fault as yours."

We slept fitfully that night, lashed to opposite sides of the bed. In the morning, we drove back to Memphis for the funeral, spending one night in the camper to save money. I lay awake, drinking beer and listening to Billie Holiday sing "Good morning, heartache, you old gloomy sight, Good morning heartache, Thought we'd said good-bye last night...." I'd never really appreciated the raw pain in her voice. Now she was singing for me.

I'm told that marriages survive infidelity, but neither David nor I had the tools. We tried to reconcile for almost a year, but the damage had been done, and not just because of his affair. In the early stages of our relationship, I must have seemed like a big blonde trophy, followed shortly by the realization that life with me could be a drag--the long and odd hours on location, the lack of privacy, the subtly dismissive treatment of the celebrity spouse by that partner's entourage. Everyone deferred to my needs, wants, schedules. I began to lose respect for David as I watched him squander this chance to develop his musical talent. He had the time and opportunity, but not the discipline. As Clementine got older, David told her that he hadn't wanted the divorce, and I think that was true, that he wanted to be forgiven, which explained his initially bitter and vindictive behavior about division of property: he demanded half of all my earnings. (Two words sum up divorce: how much?) But my lawyer made a suggestion. "Get a legal pad," he said. "Tell David you're not promising anything, but make a list of everything he wants." He backed down, managing to extract ome measure of revenge years later by selling a story about me to the tabloid press. I paid for him to move out to California and go to bartending school so he could be near Clementine, and to his credit, he has never tried to use our daughter as a p.a.w.n or bargaining chip.

IN 1980 MY AGENT DIDN'T EXACTLY HAVE ME ON speed dial, inundated with offers of work, so I leapt when he told me about a chance to read for Sidney Lumet, who was directing a film called speed dial, inundated with offers of work, so I leapt when he told me about a chance to read for Sidney Lumet, who was directing a film called Just Tell Me W hat You Want. Just Tell Me W hat You Want. I wasn't making much money to support my child, so it was a big deal to pay for my own plane ticket to California, leaving Clementine with her father. It was my first trip to Los Angeles since our marriage had dissolved, and we were still navigating a contentious divorce. When I got to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was so lonely that I sent flowers to my room, spending even more money I didn't have. I called someone I thought was still my friend: The Producer. I didn't know how to have a friendship with a man without being s.e.xual, and we ended up in my hotel bed. The next day, he disappeared, never phoning or returning my call. (Actually, he returned the call years later, when he heard I was writing a book and asked me to sing in a show he was producing for the Atlanta Olympics. "I know I treated you badly that time," he said, "and I wanted you to know why. I had just gotten involved with the woman who's now my wife.") I wasn't making much money to support my child, so it was a big deal to pay for my own plane ticket to California, leaving Clementine with her father. It was my first trip to Los Angeles since our marriage had dissolved, and we were still navigating a contentious divorce. When I got to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was so lonely that I sent flowers to my room, spending even more money I didn't have. I called someone I thought was still my friend: The Producer. I didn't know how to have a friendship with a man without being s.e.xual, and we ended up in my hotel bed. The next day, he disappeared, never phoning or returning my call. (Actually, he returned the call years later, when he heard I was writing a book and asked me to sing in a show he was producing for the Atlanta Olympics. "I know I treated you badly that time," he said, "and I wanted you to know why. I had just gotten involved with the woman who's now my wife.") When I showed up at the Universal lot and greeted Lumet, I got the feeling he wasn't expecting me. "What are you doing these days?" he asked solicitously. When I mentioned reading for his film, he looked somewhat stricken. "Didn't your agent tell you?" he said. "The role's been cast." It was the last time that agent had the opportunity to screw up on my account, although even the satisfaction of firing him didn't make up for the expense of plane, hotel, and flowers. (The part went to... Ali MacGraw.) There are skewed friendships in Hollywood. People a.s.sume every phone call has a hidden agenda of exacting a favor or trawling for work, and usually they're right. I felt uncomfortable contacting anyone from my old Hollywood crowd, and a call to my former agent Sue Mengers proved that my instinct was correct. "Honey," she said, "I can't get work for the ladies I already represent. Besides, you've been gone so long, you might as well be dead."

The near dead, it turned out, are offered the straw hat circuit. I had auditioned for the Broadway Production of Lunch Hour Lunch Hour, reading for the playwright, Jean Kerr. (The part went to... Gilda Radner.) A few months later, I was having lunch with a producer at Sardi's. A call came through for him, and a telephone was brought to the table (in the dark ages before cell phones). "I'm sitting here with Cybill Shepherd," he said. Ten minutes later I was offered a part in the national tour of Lunch Hour Lunch Hour.

We toured from Colorado to Michigan to Maine-every-where but New York and Los Angeles, just as Orson had advised me to do. At the Cape Cod Playhouse, I was honored to put on my makeup in the dressing room used by Gertrude Lawrence, even if there was water oozing from the walls. But I absorbed much of what I know about comedy from the audience, which is the ultimate teacher. I learned not to work too hard at being funny, not to imitate myself from the night before, to try to make each performance as if it were the first time I'd ever done it. Somewhere between Detroit and Denver, I got funny. And I mastered a most important theatrical adage: always check your props. There's a famous story about Stella Adler being onstage one night and reaching for a gun that the prop department had forgotten to put out. She pointed her forefinger and said, "Bang," convincing everyone in the audience that she had a gun. Lunch /i> called for me to eat deviled eggs, made by the prop people in each theater. In Denver the eggs were perfect. In Detroit they were so dry, I almost choked. In Falmouth, Ma.s.sachusetts, I threw myself on the mercy of the stagehands. Lunch /i> called for me to eat deviled eggs, made by the prop people in each theater. In Denver the eggs were perfect. In Detroit they were so dry, I almost choked. In Falmouth, Ma.s.sachusetts, I threw myself on the mercy of the stagehands.

"Can y'all help me out?" I begged. "It's really important to get enough moisture in the egg yolk or I can't say my lines."

"Sure thing, Miss Shepherd," they said, and at the next performance, I picked up the egg to see the yellow part wobbling-a liquid yolk. I remembered the old actors' rule: use it. If you're miserable because you have to pee or your costar has skunk breath or the egg tastes terrible, use it, and I developed a repertoire of broad faces, burps, drools, and dribbles. Acting is about specificity. One moment is: I'm happy to have the egg in my mouth I'm happy to have the egg in my mouth; the next moment is: I don't know about this I don't know about this; and the next is: I'm going to hurl. I'm going to hurl. Most of the time, the audience loved it, although there was an entire mountain range in the Poconos where not a single person in a sold-out theater laughed. I learned that you can never get too full of yourself as an actor--every night there are different ways to fail and to triumph. Most of the time, the audience loved it, although there was an entire mountain range in the Poconos where not a single person in a sold-out theater laughed. I learned that you can never get too full of yourself as an actor--every night there are different ways to fail and to triumph.

I became friends with one of my costars, getting together for a bite to eat or a gla.s.s of wine, and during our rehearsals in New York I was thrilled to be invited for tea one day to the home of his mother. But the thrill was brief. "You know," she said dismissively as she poured from a silver teapot, "you're really not one of us."

When the tour was over, The Costar and I drove to the Chesapeake Bay to visit his friends in their sprawling ranch house. Though we had become lovers, we quickly progressed to the imperfect phase of the relationship, what one friend calls the "congealed fat in the frying pan" stage. That night the four of us had Maryland crab cakes for dinner, and The Costar had quite a lot of vodka. We went into the guest room where we would be sleeping and he came on to me. I was revolted by his alcoholic reek and, pulling away from him, said, "f.u.c.k you, I don't have to f.u.c.k you." I stormed into the kitchen, thinking I would find the car keys and leave, when he appeared behind me. "Don't even think about going anywhere," he said, "because I have the keys right here in my pocket." Then he ripped off the delicate gold necklace that he'd given me, saying, "That doesn't mean anything anymore." Then he shoved me to the ground. I got up, ran down the hall, and banged on his friends' bedroom door. "I'll take care of it," said the husband, grabbing a robe and trudging down the hall with a weary sense of familiarity. "It's better if The Costar just drinks beer."

I sat with the wife until The Costar got quiet and fell asleep. We got up the next morning and drove in strained silence to Knoxville to see my friend Jane Howard as planned. Finally I said, "You knocked me down."

"You fell down," he snarled. As soon as we got to Tennessee, I told him the relationship was over. No man I'd had s.e.x with had ever made me fear for my physical safety before, and I didn't want it to happen again. It took me many years to feel safe enough to spend the night with a man again.

I hadn't seen Peter Bogdanovich since he threw the crystal ashtray at me, but after my marriage ended, he began calling me every few months, taking blame for the end of our relationship, telling me he finally understood that I had been serious about wanting a child. When Peter called over the Christmas holiday of 1980, I had just spent several weeks writing, longhand on legal pads, a screenplay for a book called September, September September, September by Shelby Foote, a haunting story about three white racists from Mississippi who kidnap the only grandson of one of America's first black millionaires. I told Peter that I'd like to option it but couldn't afford it. "Let me lend you the money," he said, and sent me a generous check that allowed me to option the novel. Foote, whom I met at a Memphis wine-and-cheese party, had spent twenty years writing by Shelby Foote, a haunting story about three white racists from Mississippi who kidnap the only grandson of one of America's first black millionaires. I told Peter that I'd like to option it but couldn't afford it. "Let me lend you the money," he said, and sent me a generous check that allowed me to option the novel. Foote, whom I met at a Memphis wine-and-cheese party, had spent twenty years writing The Civil War: A Narrative The Civil War: A Narrative and looked like a Rebel general himself. When I told him I'd love to play the white-trash woman in the trio of kidnappers, he said in his honeyed Mississippi drawl, Mah dear, you're fahhhhhhh too young for the part." and looked like a Rebel general himself. When I told him I'd love to play the white-trash woman in the trio of kidnappers, he said in his honeyed Mississippi drawl, Mah dear, you're fahhhhhhh too young for the part."

I had stayed in touch with Larry McMurtry ever since The Last Picture Show, The Last Picture Show, and our bond was really secured when he visited the set of and our bond was really secured when he visited the set of Daisy Miller Daisy Miller (his son played my brother) and sat with me in the lobby of the Hotel Trois Coronnes. rubbing my feet and reading aloud the gruesome "Crazy Jane" love poems by Yeats. He was physically, one of the least attractive men imaginable, but as a friend he was everything I wanted: a renaissance cowboy, an earthy intellectual, a Pulitzer Prize winner who could take pleasure in a dive that served two-dollar tacos. He became my touchstone in life, and for a brief time our collaboration became s.e.xual. (his son played my brother) and sat with me in the lobby of the Hotel Trois Coronnes. rubbing my feet and reading aloud the gruesome "Crazy Jane" love poems by Yeats. He was physically, one of the least attractive men imaginable, but as a friend he was everything I wanted: a renaissance cowboy, an earthy intellectual, a Pulitzer Prize winner who could take pleasure in a dive that served two-dollar tacos. He became my touchstone in life, and for a brief time our collaboration became s.e.xual.

Our friendship never faltered because we became s.e.xual or because we stopped. Larry always managed to come see me, in Los Angeles or Memphis or just about anywhere else I was working. He was always flying off to a remote corner of the maritime Alps or driving through the Ozarks in a U-Haul truck, buying up private libraries for his bookstores in Washington, D.C., and in Texas. I didn't even have to give Myrtle a menu-I'd just say, "Larry will be here about four o'clock," and she'd say, "I'll get the catfish." He felt he had to spend all his money to keep his creative edge, and he never entered my house without gifts, not just for me but for Clementine and Myrtle. (Myrtle is in the dedication of his novel The Evening Star, The Evening Star, the follow-up to the follow-up to Terms of Endearment.) Terms of Endearment.) In between visits he kept up a steady correspondence-long, literate, ardent letters usually typed (with mistakes x.x.xx.x.xxx'ed out) on the same kind of cheap yellow paper he used for his books and scripts: In between visits he kept up a steady correspondence-long, literate, ardent letters usually typed (with mistakes x.x.xx.x.xxx'ed out) on the same kind of cheap yellow paper he used for his books and scripts: Interestingly enough, since I'm a somewhat a.n.a.lytical man and have a.n.a.lyzed plenty of relationships, I I feel no impulse to a.n.a.lyze us. I trust my affinities and I like the quality of our companionship very much, without needing to examine the components.... feel no impulse to a.n.a.lyze us. I trust my affinities and I like the quality of our companionship very much, without needing to examine the components....You have brought joy and fragrance to my life. Your human fragrance is as complex as your new perfume: partly dry, light, of the brain; partly wet, deep, of the heart and loins...Of course, when you love someone very much, you have a natural fear that they will stop loving you. It's part of what makes the whole business of need-desire-attachment-freedom-dependence so complicated. Love is so easily bruised and ruined, or, even more often, simply worn out and lost in the repet.i.tiousness of life. I often have these fears where you are concerned, and yet mostly I have a deep trust in us....You're a very wonderful woman; you'll compel the love of many men. As long as you can learn to roughly distinguish those who mean you well from those who mean you ill, that's as it should be--there would be something wrong in nature if men didn't love and want you. Only learn not to get yourself hurt. I know you have learned now that actions speak louder than words. what men do is important, not what they say.

Larry called me "the lost zygote of my family and was always encouraging me to expand my horizons. In 1981 it was his idea that I apply for entrance to the women directors' program of the American Film Ist.i.tute, and as part of my application for admission, I submitted my script for September, September. September, September. Partly to a.s.suage my disappointment when AFI rejected me, Larry agreed to work with me on the script, and on the strength of his name, we were given a developmental deal at Carson Productions, which operated under the auspices of Columbia Pictures. After working on it for almost a year, we were granted a meeting with Columbia chief Craig Baumgarten. The moment we entered his office, he said, "This is a hateful story that no one would want to see, and we wouldn't dream of making it." We did get the go-ahead from Turner Broadcasting, although not with the director Stanley Kubrick, as Shelby Foote had hoped. (He declined with a nice handwritten note that ended, "Please say h.e.l.lo to the General.") When I finally went with Larry to see Shelby Foote in 1991, ten years after our first meeting, he opened the door to his house, looked at me, and said, "You're old enough now." Partly to a.s.suage my disappointment when AFI rejected me, Larry agreed to work with me on the script, and on the strength of his name, we were given a developmental deal at Carson Productions, which operated under the auspices of Columbia Pictures. After working on it for almost a year, we were granted a meeting with Columbia chief Craig Baumgarten. The moment we entered his office, he said, "This is a hateful story that no one would want to see, and we wouldn't dream of making it." We did get the go-ahead from Turner Broadcasting, although not with the director Stanley Kubrick, as Shelby Foote had hoped. (He declined with a nice handwritten note that ended, "Please say h.e.l.lo to the General.") When I finally went with Larry to see Shelby Foote in 1991, ten years after our first meeting, he opened the door to his house, looked at me, and said, "You're old enough now."

Chapter Eight.

"THE CYBILL SANDWICH"

IN 1980 I ARRIVED IN NEW YORK, FINALLY READY TO TAKE acting cla.s.ses with Stella Adler and the Actors Studio. I got a call from a Los Angeles casting director named Robin Lippen, offering me a guest appearance on the TV show acting cla.s.ses with Stella Adler and the Actors Studio. I got a call from a Los Angeles casting director named Robin Lippen, offering me a guest appearance on the TV show Fantasy Island. Fantasy Island. To say that I was underwhelmed doesn't begin to describe my qualms about this nadir of my career. I wasn't even the lead guest star, and I didn't get to arrive on the island as Tattoo shouted "The plane! The plane!" to Mr. Roarke. To say that I was underwhelmed doesn't begin to describe my qualms about this nadir of my career. I wasn't even the lead guest star, and I didn't get to arrive on the island as Tattoo shouted "The plane! The plane!" to Mr. Roarke.

"Oh, Cybill, you should not be represented at a big agency," Robin said. "They'll want to cast Goldie Hawn or Sally Field-clients who are going to make more money. If you do this role, you'll get five thousand dollars and a plane ticket, and while you're out here, I will set up meetings for you with the top independent agents, who will turn your career around."

It was a great piece of advice, and with little to lose I accepted her offer. I checked into the Sheraton Universal, which I referred to as the Universal Sheraton because it sounded more important, and eventually met with an elfin and enthusiastic agent named David Shapira. The first job he got me was for a TV pilot called Masquerade Masquerade produced by Aaron Spelling and distinguished by more takeoffs and landings of jets than any other pilot in the history of television. produced by Aaron Spelling and distinguished by more takeoffs and landings of jets than any other pilot in the history of television.

My second job was starring in the series The Yellow Rose The Yellow Rose. I was to play the widowed owner of a large Texas ranch, and Sam Elliott was the illegitimate son of my much older dead husband. I was called back to read four times, the last time to see if Sam and I had the right chemistry. When I walked into the production office, sitting on the couch, and waiting to read for the same part was Priscilla Presley. Hard to imagine a worse sign: There was, first of all, my history with Elvis, and I had no idea if she knew about it. It was like a marquee had been set up, flashing: "One of you will not get the part." Both of us were uncomfortable, but we smiled and exchanged pleasantries.

Shapira called with good news/bad news. "You got the part," he said, "but you've been f.u.c.ked." Sometime before, I'd gone up for another NBC pilot about race car drivers. I didn't get the part, but my agent at the time had agreed to a fee of $1,000 an episode. Even though other actors on Yellow Rose Yellow Rose were demanding and getting much more, the network knew what it could get me for. were demanding and getting much more, the network knew what it could get me for.

The bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt salary was maddening, but it was enough to put a down payment on a town house in Studio Village, with what I referred to as a view overlooking the Los Angeles River, which was nothing more than a giant concrete chute created by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Most of the time there was just a trickle insignificant that kids would skateboard through, but a heavy rain could create a giant flow of rushing water. Beyond was a lovely field of wildflowers, my own Tuscan landscape, dotted by the soundstages of what was called the Mary Tyler Moore studio. I spent many afternoons looking longingly across the L.A. River wondering if I'd ever get a chance to work there. The loveliness of the setting paled when I learned that the condominium complex had been the site of two grisly murders by bludgeoning, including the mistress of Alfred Bloomingdale, whose friendship with Ronald and Nancy Reagan had been the stuff of tabloid headlines, sometimes alongside headlines about me.

Sam Elliott and I were asked to come to New York to take part in the network's announcement of new fall programming. But when we went to meet the producers for lunch at the "21" Club, I was refused admittance because I was wearing running shoes, a New Balance model that cost $150. I went down the street and paid $11 for black rubber flats, then made a grand show of sitting in the restaurant's reception area to change, daintily doing a striptease with my socks. No sneakers allowed? Watch me.

Exteriors for the series were shot in Lancaster, California, north of Los Angeles--wide open country meant to approximate Texas, with a panorama ranging from snow-capped mountains to the Mojave Desert. Sam seemed to grow even more despondent as the show sank into soap opera territory, a conspicuous imitation of the runaway hit Dallas, involving the kind of weekly intrigue, deception, and l.u.s.t that couldn't possibly take up the time of real ranchers or else we'd all be vegetarians. (Larry McMurty wrote to me, "There were not a few steals from Hud Hud, I observed. The cook and the boy seem a little Patricia Neal and Brandon de Wilde-ish.") Sam had signed on to do a TV series that was a western, while I had signed on to do a TV series that was a job. I had few complaints: it was the first long-term work I'd ever had, and I was getting paid to ride a horse. I talked to the show wranglers and got involved in choosing my own championship roper named Red that I could guide with my knees.

Two weekends a month, the wranglers went out to practice their roping technique at Castaic Lake Arena and invited me to come along. Quarter horses are the fastest horseflesh on the planet for one quarter of a mile--they can outrun any thoroughbred at Santa Anita for that distance--and I could feel their power like g- force in my chest. The horse is backed up into a box with no door, a bell rings, and the horse and steer are released at the same time into the rodeo ring. The horse's job is to line up the rider so he or she can swing and throw the rope, jerk the slack, and tighten the noose around the steer's horns or neck. When you tie off the rope on the saddle horn, the horse stops, and the steer gets yanked to the ground. The most important rule, I was told, is: keep your thumb up when you're tying off. Anyone who tried to teach me to rope had fingers missing, having gotten them tangled in the rope when the horse stopped but the steer kept moving.

A dedicated actor wants to do as much of the stunt, safely, as possible to "sell" it to the audience, making it believable and giving the director the ability to edit in the expert. A movie set is really a construction site, an inherently dangerous place, with jagged pieces of wood and nails everywhere and huge sources of illumination called "nine-lights" tottering on skinny retractable rods. One day I was inside a corral, having done my side of the scene on horseback, but the director asked me to mount my horse to do the other side of the scene for the other actors (a professional courtesy called "off camera"). Horses can "shy" or panic because of the ways their eyes are placed, with a blind spot in the middle, so objects can appear to jump. I love them, but they have a brain the size of an orange in a two-thousand-pound body.

I'll never know what frightened Red, but he backed up and caught an electrical cord from a nine-light between his right rear shoe and hoof. It fell forward, bouncing and sparking, and he took off, dragging it around the ring. 'There was no dismounting, and no one could approach--the camera crew went running for their lives when faced with a runaway horse.

I used a technique learned in my horse-crazed childhood called "pulley rein," gradually slowing the animal down to increasingly smaller circles, until R. L. Tolbert, the stunt coordinator, could get close enough to gently take the reins and let me dismount. That was the last time I was ever "off camera" on the back of a horse. From then on, it was a ladder for me.

R. L. was a former rodeo champ with thick silver hair that formed a widow's peak. He was a wonderful reference source about cowboys. He made gentle fun of the hat I wore for the show, which did not meet his standards. A proper cowboy's hat has profound, immutable requirements, and much of the unwritten code is about brims. When you put the hat on a table, you lay it crown down so the brim isn't misaligned. Your hat must never blow off (this const.i.tutes a huge loss of face among peers). When you remove it, there had better be a deep red impression in your forehead, and hat hair is a badge of pride. I was apparently walking around with a scandalously loose, battered-brim hat, and he helped me pick out a proper one.

One weekend he invited me to the rodeo at Santa Barbara. On a shining Sat.u.r.day afternoon, we drove up the Pacific coast in his big white pickup truck (it was the first time I ever saw a date spit tobacco into a cup). When I see water, I want to swim, and I don't go anywhere without a bathing suit in my bag. R.L. didn't have one. "But I know a beach," he said, "where we don't need them." I learned where the term redneck redneck comes from: R.L. had a burnished tan on his neck and hands, but the rest of his body was fish-belly white. At the rodeo we bought big cups of 7-UP, drank them halfway down, and then filled them back up with Jack Daniel's. When I started getting sleepy, he instructed, "You have to keep drinking so your blood alcohol doesn't go down." By the time we arrived at a crummy little beach motel, I was ready to test out R. L.'s private stunt work. comes from: R.L. had a burnished tan on his neck and hands, but the rest of his body was fish-belly white. At the rodeo we bought big cups of 7-UP, drank them halfway down, and then filled them back up with Jack Daniel's. When I started getting sleepy, he instructed, "You have to keep drinking so your blood alcohol doesn't go down." By the time we arrived at a crummy little beach motel, I was ready to test out R. L.'s private stunt work.

Ever restless, I soon moved on to another stuntman. It was his idea that I learn Formula Ford racecar driving--I think he liked the idea of Miss Teenage Memphis chewing up the track with the big boys. I took a three-day course at Riverside to qualify for the Toyota Grand Prix, then remembered that I was the mother of a small child, so I never actually competed. But the training served one good purpose: I never again needed to drive fast for the thrill of it.

The Stuntman was an energetic, imaginative lover. And in my s.e.xual odyssey, this was the experience that confirmed something enlightened women know but men never quite believe: size doesn't matter. There are all kinds of places inside a woman that a man can move a small p.e.n.i.s, and he knew how to find them. One night, in a playful mood, we were talking about s.e.xual fantasies, and I admitted that I'd imagined being with two men.

"I'd like to make that one come true for you," he said with a twinkle.

"Don't be crazy" I countered. "Do you have any idea how much the National Enquirer would pay for that story?"

But he had a proposal: his close friend, another stuntman of guaranteed discretion. "If you ever meet again," he promised, "there will see no indication that it ever happened." I was intrigued, excited, and quite scared. An hour before the friend was to arrive, I said I couldn't go through with it. The Stuntman said, "You don't want to back out now. Have a little snor body wke."

There's a real argument to be made that if you need controlled substances to make something acceptable, maybe you shouldn't be doing it. In the 1970s there was a sense of self-righteousness about drug taking, a supposition that it would be enlightening, that artists needed to expand their minds. In the "me decade" of the 1980s, everyone I knew was still getting high with some regularity. At parties there were sugar bowls full of cocaine (not yet considered addictive), and nonpartic.i.p.ants were regarded as weird. I was hardly a doper--on the contrary, I'd always been the safety monitor in my crowd, the one who insisted on buckling up seat belts and warned about the perils of cigarettes.

"The Cybill sandwich" turned out to be a positive s.e.xual experience. Having all the pleasure points being attended to simultaneously rather than sequentially made me feel adored, emanc.i.p.ated, and more relaxed about s.e.x. Years later, an episode of Moonlighting Moonlighting called for a chain saw fight, and the fellow hired to train me turned out to be the menage partner. True to his word, he was circ.u.mspect and discreet. "Cybill," he said warmly, extending his hand, "I haven't seen you in a few years." He didn't even linger over the word called for a chain saw fight, and the fellow hired to train me turned out to be the menage partner. True to his word, he was circ.u.mspect and discreet. "Cybill," he said warmly, extending his hand, "I haven't seen you in a few years." He didn't even linger over the word seen seen.

The Stuntman started acting overly involved in my career, presenting me with too many ideas for merchandising tie-ins with The Yellow Rose, The Yellow Rose, like my name on a map of Texas that he wanted to sell. He had the same obsession with ladylike hands as my grandfather, even to the point of offering to polish my nails. (This turned out to be surprisingly erotic. He brought three color choices, and it took hours.) One night while he was out, I was waiting at his house, talking on the phone to my gynecologist. We were admitting that we were attracted to each other when he was married and I was with Peter, and I told him I'd been close to having an o.r.g.a.s.m when he put in my IUD. (I know, I know.) The next day, The Stuntman accused me of being depraved. "That's revolting," he said angrily, "to get off with your gynecologist." There was no way. he could have known that secret, and I discovered that he was recording every phone call made to or from his house. I think his paranoia had more to do with his drug connections than with spying on me, but it was an alarm that signaled the beginning of the end of that relationship. like my name on a map of Texas that he wanted to sell. He had the same obsession with ladylike hands as my grandfather, even to the point of offering to polish my nails. (This turned out to be surprisingly erotic. He brought three color choices, and it took hours.) One night while he was out, I was waiting at his house, talking on the phone to my gynecologist. We were admitting that we were attracted to each other when he was married and I was with Peter, and I told him I'd been close to having an o.r.g.a.s.m when he put in my IUD. (I know, I know.) The next day, The Stuntman accused me of being depraved. "That's revolting," he said angrily, "to get off with your gynecologist." There was no way. he could have known that secret, and I discovered that he was recording every phone call made to or from his house. I think his paranoia had more to do with his drug connections than with spying on me, but it was an alarm that signaled the beginning of the end of that relationship.

Perfect opening (you should pardon the expression) for The Gynecologist. He was an attractive, man, and any sense of impropriety did not override my life motto: Why not? He lived in a contemporary palace high in the canyons with a collection of modern art and a teenage son who hated me on sight, baring his teeth like a cat when he spoke to me. One night the doctor and I were eating steaks he had grilled on the barbecue. Suddenly his face went pale, his shoulders went up, and he wasn't making any noise. Running into the boy's room, I yelled, "Come quickly, I think your father's choking!"

He looked up without even feigned interest and said, "Give me a f.u.c.king break."

"Listen, you little worm," I screamed, "you may hate me, but unless you want to inherit the Hockneys tonight, get your a.s.s in here and help me do Heimlich!" The doctor survived, but the affair didn't.

My hairdresser on The Yellow Rose The Yellow Rose was a lively woman who raised turkeys on her farm-"all natural," she told me, "none of those chemicals and hormones and poisons and s.h.i.t-and she offered me one for Thanksgiving. On our last day of shooting before the holiday, she told me, "I brought you a beautiful bird. It's out in my truck." Peeking over the back door, I saw what appeared to be a small hatbox. was a lively woman who raised turkeys on her farm-"all natural," she told me, "none of those chemicals and hormones and poisons and s.h.i.t-and she offered me one for Thanksgiving. On our last day of shooting before the holiday, she told me, "I brought you a beautiful bird. It's out in my truck." Peeking over the back door, I saw what appeared to be a small hatbox. That couldn't b That couldn't be it, it, I thought. Then I heard the squawk. It was alive but packed so it couldn't move, like sometng out of I thought. Then I heard the squawk. It was alive but packed so it couldn't move, like sometng out of Boxing Helena. Boxing Helena. Undaunted, I called around to various restaurants, asking euphemistically, "Where can I have this taken care of?" and finally, someone suggested Chinatown. Undaunted, I called around to various restaurants, asking euphemistically, "Where can I have this taken care of?" and finally, someone suggested Chinatown.

My friend Jane Howard was visiting for the holiday, and walked around the crowded streets looking for a shop with dead poultry hanging in the windows. We hadn't heard another peep out of that turkey--I think it had conceded its fate. An accommodating butcher took the box from my hands with little fanfare and five minutes later, handed me a parcel wrapped in brown paper, no longer moving. The turkey was cooked by my housekeeper, who brought it to the table, according to her family tradition, with its two claws crossed upright. And it was tough as shoe leather. Give me a b.u.t.terball shot full of chemicals any day.

It was extraordinary for me to be working on a studio lot like the ones where the movies I'd watched with Peter were shot, and the day I found out for sure that Yellow Rose Yellow Rose would not be picked up for another season, I went over to the Warner Bros. Burbank studios and walked around the set sobbing. Movie camp was over, and I thought I'd never work again--not an irrational thought considering the sobering statistic that something like 90 percent of the Screen Actors Guild members are unemployed. would not be picked up for another season, I went over to the Warner Bros. Burbank studios and walked around the set sobbing. Movie camp was over, and I thought I'd never work again--not an irrational thought considering the sobering statistic that something like 90 percent of the Screen Actors Guild members are unemployed.

When you b.u.mp into people you haven't seen for a while in Hollywood, they seldom ask the mechanical "How are you?" They ask, and they really want to know, "What are you doing now?" I had no answer.

Chapter Nine.

"TV'S s.e.xIEST SPITFIRE"

GLENN GORDON CARON SAYS THAT HALFWAY THOUGH THE pilot of pilot of Moonlighting Moonlighting he realized he was writing the character Maddie Hayes as Cybill Shepherd. He asked if there was any way he could get a meeting with me. When my agent sent me those fifty pages, I immediately recognized the part I'd been hankering to do for a long time. For years I'd studied the screwball comedies directed by Howard Hawks, especially he realized he was writing the character Maddie Hayes as Cybill Shepherd. He asked if there was any way he could get a meeting with me. When my agent sent me those fifty pages, I immediately recognized the part I'd been hankering to do for a long time. For years I'd studied the screwball comedies directed by Howard Hawks, especially Twentieth Century Twentieth Century (1934), (1934), Bringing Up Baby Bringing Up Baby (1938), and (1938), and His Girl Friday His Girl Friday (1940). These films glorified Carole Lombard, Katharine Hepburn, and Rosalind Russell-they talked fast and acted s.e.xy, smart, and funny. (1940). These films glorified Carole Lombard, Katharine Hepburn, and Rosalind Russell-they talked fast and acted s.e.xy, smart, and funny.

Glenn was only thirty but no wunderkind. He'd done a couple of failed pilots, and his main credit was for Remington Steele. Remington Steele. I was invited to meet him and his colleague Jay Daniel at a restaurant in the San Fernando Valley. Glenn was boyish, charming, portly, clearly excited by the presence of Maddie Hayes incarnate and not afraid to show it--he later said that his negotiating strength had been hampered when his chin hit the table and his tongue hit the floor. He remarked that he'd seen me in a movie wearing "that dress" (the bias-cut satin from I was invited to meet him and his colleague Jay Daniel at a restaurant in the San Fernando Valley. Glenn was boyish, charming, portly, clearly excited by the presence of Maddie Hayes incarnate and not afraid to show it--he later said that his negotiating strength had been hampered when his chin hit the table and his tongue hit the floor. He remarked that he'd seen me in a movie wearing "that dress" (the bias-cut satin from The Lady Vanishes The Lady Vanishes). The first thing I said to Glenn after h.e.l.lo was "I know what this is--it's a Hawksian comedy." He had no idea what I was talking about, so I suggested we screen my three favorites to see how overlapping dialogue was handled by the "masters," and he agreed. We talked about the way the Moonlighting Moonlighting script played with my image as a spoiled b.i.t.c.h, although Glenn claimed to have been largely unaware of my reputation as the most clobbered actress in Hollywood." There wasn't an actor in the world who hadn't been in an ill-suited movie, he said. I'd just had more than my share. script played with my image as a spoiled b.i.t.c.h, although Glenn claimed to have been largely unaware of my reputation as the most clobbered actress in Hollywood." There wasn't an actor in the world who hadn't been in an ill-suited movie, he said. I'd just had more than my share.

City of Angels is run, none too efficiently, by a character named David Addison, whose creed is "Live fast, die young, leave clean underwear," and who convinces Maddie to become his partner, renaming the agency Blue Moon after the shampoo for which she was a well-known spokeswoman in her modeling days. Addison is described as an emotional adolescent, c.o.c.ky and s.e.xually aggressive, whose humor puerile charm ameliorate his obnoxious behavior and language. Apparently there were three thousand men who saw themselves with those attributes because that's how many actors answered the casting call. Chemistry between actors is either there or it isn't. I'm not sure you can act chemistry on-screen any more than you can in real life when your well-intentioned cousin sets you up on a blind date with a troglodyte. I thought it was imperative that the chemistry between Maddie and David be genuine, since the show was driven by snappy, overlapping banter and palpable s.e.xual tension. I had casting approval, and when the pile of resumes from David-wannabes was winnowed down to a lean half-dozen, I went to meet them.

ABC's offices were located in a tall gla.s.s tower in Century City, and the casting sessions took place in a long conference room with a wall of shuttered windows. Several candidates came and went, but nothing especially magical was happening. By mid-afternoon, I was weary, picking at bits of tuna arid lettuce from the salads that had been brought in for lunch, when Bruce Willis entered the room.

He was, I would later learn, five years younger than I, wearing an army fatigue jacket, several earrings, and what looked to be the compensatory three-day beard of a man with a receding hairline, the rest of his hair punkishly cut and moussed. There was a careless, desultory way he walked around the perimeter of the big table, keeping his distance from me and sauntering over to Glenn and Jay. His eyes were crinkled and his lips pressed into a mocking smile, a composite that was to become the signature David Addison smirk.

Bruce had been earning a living as a bartender in New York, sharing a walk-up in h.e.l.l's Kitchen with large rats while playing mostly uncredited bit parts, like "courtroom observer" in Paul Newman's legal drama The Verdict The Verdict or "diner customer" in a Frank Sinatra movie, or "diner customer" in a Frank Sinatra movie, The First Deadly Sin, The First Deadly Sin, and he had just been turned down for a role in and he had just been turned down for a role in Desperately Seeking Susan Desperately Seeking Susan that went to Aidan Quinn. Unlike the other actors who'd auditioned, he didn't especially flatter me; in fact, he actually avoided eye contact, directing most of his vaguely smart-a.s.s male-bonding comments to Glenn, like "Just got off my shift at the bar." But there was definite chemistry between us, and it escaped no one--the temperature in the room jumped about twenty degrees. After he'd left, I leaned over and murmured, as much to myself as to Glenn, "He's the one." that went to Aidan Quinn. Unlike the other actors who'd auditioned, he didn't especially flatter me; in fact, he actually avoided eye contact, directing most of his vaguely smart-a.s.s male-bonding comments to Glenn, like "Just got off my shift at the bar." But there was definite chemistry between us, and it escaped no one--the temperature in the room jumped about twenty degrees. After he'd left, I leaned over and murmured, as much to myself as to Glenn, "He's the one."

"Are you sure?" he responded. Glenn knew it would require Herculean effort to convince the ABC bra.s.s that this quirky, att.i.tudinous guy with negligible professional experience and rather unconventional looks was perfectly cast for a prime-time hit on their network, which was then third place in the ratings. The suits saw him playing "heavies," declared he was "not leading man material" and asked me to read with better-known actors. The part was actually offered to a clean-cut actor named Robert Hayes, who turned it down in favor of I don't know what. The only way Bruce Willis would be considered was if I agreed to do a screen test with him. With the camera rolling just as we were about to do the scene, he looked at me with perfect satisfaction and said, "I can't concentrate. You're too beautiful." The suits were convinced.

The week before we shot the pilot, Glenn, Bruce, and I watched His Girl Friday His Girl Friday and and Bringing Up Baby Bringing Up Baby, as I had suggested. They were the gold standard for the overlapping dialogue we were going to use in Moonlighting Moonlighting. When we showed up on Stage 20 at 20th Century-Fox for the first time, it felt as if both of us were playing roles that were custom-fit by a meticulous tailor. The first time my face is seen is in a montage of photographs on the wall: real Vogue Vogue and and Glamor Glamor magazines, Cover Girl and Clairol ads fm my modeling days. Maddie Hayes would be the ultimate b.i.t.c.h G.o.ddess who gets her comeuppance, with a nemesis who engenders conflicting feelings of outrage and attraction. The character of David Addison was bearable, even likable, precisely because he just loved being a jerk, as, I was to discover, did Bruce Willis. magazines, Cover Girl and Clairol ads fm my modeling days. Maddie Hayes would be the ultimate b.i.t.c.h G.o.ddess who gets her comeuppance, with a nemesis who engenders conflicting feelings of outrage and attraction. The character of David Addison was bearable, even likable, precisely because he just loved being a jerk, as, I was to discover, did Bruce Willis.

In the pilot's climactic scene, we were being chased by a diamond thief onto the roof of the historic Eastern building in downtown Los Angeles, where I was suspended from the minute hand of a clock face twenty-five feet above the fourteenth floor. I'm a gung-ho girl, and I declared that I wanted to do enough of the stunt so the audience believed it was really me. Half a dozen crew members were lined up single file on the narrow plywood platform of a steel scaffold that was swaying in the Santa Ana winds. The hairdresser was terrified of heights and had declared in the lobby, "I'm going to have to do your hair down here," but my makeup man, Norman Leavitt, gamely came up to the roof, pa.s.sing powder puffs and lip stick stuck into a Kleenex box out to me from his precarious perch. The director of photography, Michael Margulies, was communicating via miked headphones to the four camera crews. Suddenly I panicked, and grabbing two handfuls of Michael's brown leather jacket from behind, I screamed, "I can't do this! I can't do this!" But he couldn't hear me. When he felt the tug, he turned around and said, "Did you say something?"

"No, I'm okay." And, having momentarily vented, I was.

For two weeks of shooting, Bruce was upbeat, lighthearted, fun. But it wasn't long before his mood darkened, particularly during visits from his girlfriend, the former wife of Geraldo Rivera, who sat in the wings with her arms crossed, looking as if she had smelled something bad. ("She disapproves of me doing television," he confided one day.) Her visits became less frequent, eventually ending altogether, but he remained cranky and aloof. Almost automatically, we had off-camera spats just before our scripted ones, but they seemed like a harmless way of working up to the emotion of the scene. It did not escape me that the growing attraction between Maddie and David mirrored what was developing between the actors who portrayed them. After one particularly heated rehearsal, I walked off the set with him and said, "Are we going to do something about this or what?"

He looked startled but not unpleasantly so, and then squinted his familiar half smile. "Why don't I come over to your place tonight?" he said.

There was a bottle of Gentleman Jim in his hand when he knocked on the door of my apartment, and it wasn't long before we were pa.s.sionately sucking face. "Maybe we shouldn't do this," I said, feeling ambivalent and aware of the potential complications. "We might be working together a long time." But we were quickly too far gone in a l.u.s.ty, missionary embrace, leaning halfway back on a La-Z-Boy lounger that tilted almost to the point of toppling over.

Suddenly he stopped, arched his back, and looked at me with lines creasing his forehead. "Maybe you're right," he said, grabbing the wide arm of the chair for support as he pushed off and stood up. Rearranging himself as well as his remaining clothes, he announced, "I think I'll go to the bathroom." When he returned, he picked his jacket up from the floor where it had landed, mumbled something about getting a good night's sleep, and was gone. Maybe Bruce liked the chase better than the catch. Maybe he preferred the character to the real woman. We never did finish what we started in private, but anytime we had a kissing scene, he stuck a big camel tongue halfway down my throat.

For the pilot of Moonlighting, Moonlighting, my hair was sleek and unteased. Before every scene, I'd bend forward and brush it out, but Glenn and Jay said that took too long, so for some of the later episodes, my hair was teased and sprayed into an effusive helmet that looked like a wig. Unsolicited, Bruce commented that my hair was "dippy," which I a.s.sumed to be a derisive colloquialism from his New Jersey boyhood. No one had taken such an interest in my hair since my mother obsessed about my darkening blonde tresses. Certainly L'Oreal thought enough of me for all those commercials in which I purred, "I'm worth it." And Bruce was on thin ice: his own bare scalp was filled in with greasy dark cosmetic pencils for the camera. After one too many sarcastic remarks, I snapped, "At least I have some hair." Turns out he did too, just not on his head. Bruce liked to moon the crew, and I got so tired of seeing his hairy a.s.s that I finally said, "Could you give me some warning so I don't have to look at it every time?" my hair was sleek and unteased. Before every scene, I'd bend forward and brush it out, but Glenn and Jay said that took too long, so for some of the later episodes, my hair was teased and sprayed into an effusive helmet that looked like a wig. Unsolicited, Bruce commented that my hair was "dippy," which I a.s.sumed to be a derisive colloquialism from his New Jersey boyhood. No one had taken such an interest in my hair since my mother obsessed about my darkening blonde tresses. Certainly L'Oreal thought enough of me for all those commercials in which I purred, "I'm worth it." And Bruce was on thin ice: his own bare scalp was filled in with greasy dark cosmetic pencils for the camera. After one too many sarcastic remarks, I snapped, "At least I have some hair." Turns out he did too, just not on his head. Bruce liked to moon the crew, and I got so tired of seeing his hairy a.s.s that I finally said, "Could you give me some warning so I don't have to look at it every time?"

I averted my eyes from the lively procession of young women in and out of Bruce's motor home, until he met Demi Moore and settled into some version of monogamy. (I can attest to the fact that she taught him how to kiss.) But I was hardly in a position to judge anyone else's personal life. A cousin was getting married in Memphis, and I had no prospects of an interesting escort for the wedding. (If the tabloids had only known the headline they were missing: FORMER BEAUTY QUEEN DATELESS.) I asked a friend to set me up with a warm male body, and her suggestion turned out to be a broad-shouldered, six-foot-four cycling champ who'd missed qualifying for the Olympics by a millisecond. He picked me up wearing Clark Kent gla.s.ses and a tailored tuxedo jacket over a tartan kilt, complete with sporran, the furry-pouch that subst.i.tutes for a pants pocket. (What are men supposed to be carrying around in there anyway?) He had impeccable manners, spoke with ease about a variety of subjects from sports to feminism, and it wasn't long before I discovered that real Scotsmen don't wear anything under their kilts. But I was thirty-five and he was eighteen.

If the ages had been reversed, our romance wouldn't have caused so much as a ripple of censure. As it was, we were a perfect s.e.xual match. We ignored public opinion and defied our families by continuing to see each other for the duration of my stay and on subsequent visits. When he picked me up at my mother's house for a bike ride wearing the kind of cyclist shorts that hug the thighs and leave little to the imagination, Mother took me aside and chided, "Cybill, he's nasty in those pants." After a few months of long-distance romance, he left his job in the family business and followed me to Los Angeles. He rented his own apartment, but I couldn't prevent Clementine from developing a five-year-old's crush on him, getting into my makeup and doing a pretty good imitation of a mini-femme fatale when she knew he was coming over. His affluent father stepped up the campaign to separate us by implying that I was a gold digger, even offering to retire if his son came back to run the company, and finally issued an ultimatum: the business or the blonde. It was up to me to decide my young lover said, and I couldn't ask him to stay. I didn't want to get into another situation where I was supporting a man, I had no interest in marriage, I couldn't even promise fidelity. I suppose I was really waiting for some grand gesture from him, something along the lines of "I don't care what my family says, you're the only woman in the world for me." Asking me what to do was tantamount to telling me he wasn't ready to commit. I relinquished any hold.

I left home at 5 A.M. each day. Moonlighting Moonlighting scripts were close to a hundred pages, half again as long as the average one-hour television series. Almost from the moment the cameras started rolling, we were behind schedule, sometimes completing as few as sixteen episodes per season and never achieviming ove standard twenty-two. It became customary to make up time with a "tow shot": loading a car onto a trailer and pulling it. Since we were just sitting in the car, there was no need to rehea.r.s.e or "block" our places during the scene. We literally cut up the pages of script and taped the sc.r.a.ps to the dashboard--no time to memorize. The only respite was when the writers gave long speeches of "exposition" to guest stars, but Bruce and I were so exhausted that while we listened we often looked as if we were sleeping with our eyes open. Some of our highly touted innovations--like "breaking the fourth wall" and speaking directly to the camera in a prologue or a postscript--were born of necessity, to fill time, since we spoke the dialogue so quickly. scripts were close to a hundred pages, half again as long as the average one-hour television series. Almost from the moment the cameras started rolling, we were behind schedule, sometimes completing as few as sixteen episodes per season and never achieviming ove standard twenty-two. It became customary to make up time with a "tow shot": loading a car onto a trailer and pulling it. Since we were just sitting in the car, there was no need to rehea.r.s.e or "block" our places during the scene. We literally cut up the pages of script and taped the sc.r.a.ps to the dashboard--no time to memorize. The only respite was when the writers gave long speeches of "exposition" to guest stars, but Bruce and I were so exhausted that while we listened we often looked as if we were sleeping with our eyes open. Some of our highly touted innovations--like "breaking the fourth wall" and speaking directly to the camera in a prologue or a postscript--were born of necessity, to fill time, since we spoke the dialogue so quickly.

At $1.5 million per episode, Moonlighting Moonlighting was reportedly the most expensive show on television at the time. But it was one of the first in-house productions at a network, one of the rare hits for ABC (still in third place), and n.o.body was going to tell Glenn Caron how to run his show. His reputation, an image that he enjoyed and cultivated, was that he thrived on deadlines. In a was reportedly the most expensive show on television at the time. But it was one of the first in-house productions at a network, one of the rare hits for ABC (still in third place), and n.o.body was going to tell Glenn Caron how to run his show. His reputation, an image that he enjoyed and cultivated, was that he thrived on deadlines. In a Time Time magazine article that called the show "ABC's cla.s.siest hit and biggest headache," he bl.u.s.tered, "It sounds pompous, but maybe it's irresponsible to bring a television show in on time and on budget every week and have it be on nothing." (There was a private joke in an episode that featured a tabloid parody called magazine article that called the show "ABC's cla.s.siest hit and biggest headache," he bl.u.s.tered, "It sounds pompous, but maybe it's irresponsible to bring a television show in on time and on budget every week and have it be on nothing." (There was a private joke in an episode that featured a tabloid parody called The National Pit The National Pit with a headline claiming: "Dr. Caron Discovers Antidote for Stress.") He often went to the studio before dawn to write a new scene, handing us pages of dialogue when we showed up later that morning. The writing was inspired and edgy, and I'll take last-minute changes that good any day. But the routine was grueling. We'd st