This is a true story about the one time I met Moses... and got trapped in his closet. I've been telling this story for years, mostly at bars, but Heston's recent passing demands that we honor his memory... and the time he blocked me in his closet.
It happened in 2001, I was a pithy PA on an NBC Sitcom entitled Cursed. Then retitled The Steven Weber Show. Then canceled. (Note to self: Never name my own show something that can so easily be mocked.)
Charlton Heston was on our big Christmas episode. The plotline (in a sick sort of prescient manner), involved Charlton arriving in New York and being hit in the head, getting amnesia. Absent of his memory and lacking a place to stay, Chris Elliot befriends him and brings him back to his apartment for "safe keeping". It would be one year later that Heston would publicly disclose that he suffered from Alzheimer's.
Incidentally, did you know he charged extra to say anything akin to, or make jokes about, the line "Get your hands off me you damn dirty ape!"
SO... they said to me, "Kris, go to his house and pick up his wardrobe." No big deal, I thought. I'll probably chat with some random person and get whatevers needed and be in and out in ten seconds. Nope. Not I.
Charlton Heston opened the front door. Not an assistant, but Moses himself. "Welcome, I've been expecting you." He's been expecting me? I almost crapped my pants right then and there.
Showing me into his house, we made small talk. And let me just say here, that his place was amazing. He told me the story of how he picked out this plot of land overlooking the Los Angeles valley and had his house built with one directive -- "I want this view". The living room is a rotund space, with one entire side made of windows -- all so people can appreciate the view. The accoutrement in the house was equally amazing. Here there was a large bronze statue of Moses. There was a hand-drawn piece of art depicting Ben Hur riding a chariot, whipped forever frozen half in the air.
The one thing I will say -- and this I've seen in other reporters' stories -- Heston strove to put me at ease. He treated me as an equal and as a welcome guest. He asked me questions, he offered to get me something to drink. And he didn't shoot me. (YES, that's what everyone wants to know about his home -- is there guns everywhere. The answer, no. If he wanted to kill you, a swift strike with the bronze statue would do the trick. Or a call to the NRA.)
"Come, follow me." We walked through the living room and into his bedroom. I was starting to freak out now. Where were the clothes I was supposed to be picking up? "Well," he told me, "in the closet." The next thing I know, I was in his huge walk-in closet staring at his long line of suits lit by nothing more than the feeble overhead bulb.
"Take anything you want. I trust your judgement." Did he see what I was wearing? One sock was blue. The other... black? I can't even tell. My instinct was the channel Project Runway (pre-Project Runway, more accurately... the show wouldn't premiere for a few more years... dahlings.). You know, get him to try on stuff and strut it for me. Help him find the best suit ever. But Charlton was old even then. He looked like he'd break if bent the wrong way. Who was I -- a lowly PA -- to ask him to try on clothes? I freaked and grab the first thing I could. "This looks good!"
When I got back to the office, the only good thing I brought with me was this story. Just like my socks, the suit jacket was one color and the pants another. It was dark in there, okay!? And, like I said, the one-time voice of G-d was staring over me, telling me to pick something. Let's put it this way, I can understand why Abraham would kill Isaac with a voice like that commanding him.
So I escaped unscathed. Every time I drive over Coldwater Canyon, I'm tempted to stop by his house and ring the bell. Would he be expecting me again? Sadly, not anymore. Despite everything about everything, we should still say... rest in peace. You damn dirty ape. (I can't help it... so bad...)
It happened in 2001, I was a pithy PA on an NBC Sitcom entitled Cursed. Then retitled The Steven Weber Show. Then canceled. (Note to self: Never name my own show something that can so easily be mocked.)
Charlton Heston was on our big Christmas episode. The plotline (in a sick sort of prescient manner), involved Charlton arriving in New York and being hit in the head, getting amnesia. Absent of his memory and lacking a place to stay, Chris Elliot befriends him and brings him back to his apartment for "safe keeping". It would be one year later that Heston would publicly disclose that he suffered from Alzheimer's.
Incidentally, did you know he charged extra to say anything akin to, or make jokes about, the line "Get your hands off me you damn dirty ape!"
SO... they said to me, "Kris, go to his house and pick up his wardrobe." No big deal, I thought. I'll probably chat with some random person and get whatevers needed and be in and out in ten seconds. Nope. Not I.
Charlton Heston opened the front door. Not an assistant, but Moses himself. "Welcome, I've been expecting you." He's been expecting me? I almost crapped my pants right then and there.
Showing me into his house, we made small talk. And let me just say here, that his place was amazing. He told me the story of how he picked out this plot of land overlooking the Los Angeles valley and had his house built with one directive -- "I want this view". The living room is a rotund space, with one entire side made of windows -- all so people can appreciate the view. The accoutrement in the house was equally amazing. Here there was a large bronze statue of Moses. There was a hand-drawn piece of art depicting Ben Hur riding a chariot, whipped forever frozen half in the air.
The one thing I will say -- and this I've seen in other reporters' stories -- Heston strove to put me at ease. He treated me as an equal and as a welcome guest. He asked me questions, he offered to get me something to drink. And he didn't shoot me. (YES, that's what everyone wants to know about his home -- is there guns everywhere. The answer, no. If he wanted to kill you, a swift strike with the bronze statue would do the trick. Or a call to the NRA.)
"Come, follow me." We walked through the living room and into his bedroom. I was starting to freak out now. Where were the clothes I was supposed to be picking up? "Well," he told me, "in the closet." The next thing I know, I was in his huge walk-in closet staring at his long line of suits lit by nothing more than the feeble overhead bulb.
"Take anything you want. I trust your judgement." Did he see what I was wearing? One sock was blue. The other... black? I can't even tell. My instinct was the channel Project Runway (pre-Project Runway, more accurately... the show wouldn't premiere for a few more years... dahlings.). You know, get him to try on stuff and strut it for me. Help him find the best suit ever. But Charlton was old even then. He looked like he'd break if bent the wrong way. Who was I -- a lowly PA -- to ask him to try on clothes? I freaked and grab the first thing I could. "This looks good!"
When I got back to the office, the only good thing I brought with me was this story. Just like my socks, the suit jacket was one color and the pants another. It was dark in there, okay!? And, like I said, the one-time voice of G-d was staring over me, telling me to pick something. Let's put it this way, I can understand why Abraham would kill Isaac with a voice like that commanding him.
So I escaped unscathed. Every time I drive over Coldwater Canyon, I'm tempted to stop by his house and ring the bell. Would he be expecting me again? Sadly, not anymore. Despite everything about everything, we should still say... rest in peace. You damn dirty ape. (I can't help it... so bad...)
good story man, haha