The Time I Didn't Care for Woody Allen

“Woody Allen needs a doctor. How quickly can you get here?” The caller was the concierge from the J.W. Marriott.

                                                                                                                 

“Ten minutes,” I replied. The J.W. Marriott was in Century City, near Beverly Hills, a five minute drive.

“I don’t know….” She seemed doubtful. “I guess you should come.”

That sounded strange. How many doctors would appear at your door that quickly…? I threw on my suit and raced to my car. Turning into the hotel entrance drive, I encountered a sight that made my heart sink: a paramedic ambulance.

                                                                                                                 

“We couldn’t wait,” the concierge called out as I hurried past. There was still a chance. Most 911 calls are not emergencies. Long ago, paramedics declined to transport anyone who didn’t seem seriously ill. Sadly, they were burned in several cases when someone died after they left. Thereafter, their refusal rate plummeted, but I never lost hope.

Leaving the elevator, I headed for the inevitable crowd. As I approached, it parted providing a fleeting glimpse of Woody Allen rolling past on a gurney. I returned home, disappointed and unpaid.

                                                                                                                 

My experience with movie stars is that their screen personality owes much to reality, so I theorized that he had suffered an anxiety attack. Agitated guests make hotel employees nervous, so they’re quick to call paramedics, but this is overkill. I have a soothing manner, white hair, and a white beard (less white when I saw Woody Allen in 1993). Once I arrive and settle into a chair, I rarely fail to calm a panicky guest. Phoned in the middle of the night, I do the same without getting out of bed. Woody Allen should have waited for me.