“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.
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