In early January 2008, I got a call from a staffing agency I’m connected with to work a special event, of a political nature. The Reagan Library is located off the Olsen Road exit on the 23 freeway in Simi Valley, about 30 minutes from where I live, going West.
Over the phone, Tim asked me if I was available to work on Wednesday, January 30. I said “Yes, I’m open in my gig calendar”. He replied “Good, you’ll be working a long lunch day and dinner night bartending in the private quarters upstairs over at the The Reagan on the day and during the evening of the Republican National Debate”, held down below near the Air Force One.
Tim mentioned “The Secret Service needs to do a full background check on you, so I’ll need copies of your current driver’s license, social security card, and passport faxed to me as soon as you can, so I can forward it onto them. Are you okay with all this ?” “Sure” I said, throwing all caution to the wind. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see what the result would be, pass or fail. After all, I’m no angel !
A week later, I received clearance and booked the gig in for solid. I’d worked previous events at the library before, so I knew what I was walking into, but the private quarters would be a first. On the day, I drove up sometime before noon. All of us had to pull our vehicles into the park across the street from the library, on Olsen Road. A security van of substantial size was centered near the main parking areas, and we had to walk over, show our ID, and get our security badges.
From that point, and due to parking and top security limitations, we were shuttled up the hill. While waiting a while for the next one to come around, I went back to the truck and quickly burned one to calm the nerves, then gathered my reduced bar kit and required bar shirt and tie, as I already had my black slacks and work shoes on. Throwing a half-stick of spearmint gum in my mouth, I was ready to roll.
It was a beautiful day outside. Too bad I was going to be inside to not enjoy it! But there were more pressing matters at hand, like the future fate of the country, with nothing less than a group of GOP shenanigans who can’t seem to grow a worthy candidate for president that even they like. What they didn’t know, is that just a month previous, in December 2007, I was asked to work solo behind the main bar for about 75 people of prominence in a private home in Beverly Hills, just a mile or so off the 405 freeway and Sunset Boulevard for a Democratic Jewish Fundraiser for none other than the candidate and speaker of the night, Hillary Clinton. But I’ll get into this side of the aisle in more detail on another post.
Matt was a regular bartender there at the time, that I had worked with before and eventually on a few of my larger private gigs in Beverly Hills, so he showed me around upstairs and we both started setting up the bars. It’s always nice to know someone you’ll be pouring drinks with.
It’s one of those long days where there are various down-times between levels of activity throughout the library and the open bars. If you’ve never been there before, it’s quite an impressive facility to visit when you get the chance. All kinds of displays and memorabilia, this one particularly bent in the direction of a country and western lifestyle mixed with a healthy dose of Hollywood and film. The collection of President Reagan’s belt buckles alone would take some minutes to steer your eyes away from and move onto some other area of interest, not to mention the opportunity to walk in and through Air Force One.
After the upstairs lunch crowd was through and gone, and watching from big windows in the distance above as the floor down below continued it’s strict and formal set-up of chairs and tables and what not for the night’s festivities, I went and had a little bite to eat with some of the staff I was working with. Soon after, I walked outside to roam around and get some fresh air for a few minutes, as my VIP badge credentials allow, and to observe what everyone else was doing. As one can imagine, there are cameras all over the place, inside and outside the entire property.
Going back upstairs to the private quarters, it was quite empty as expected. Right there in the middle of rooms and corridors, the offices of both Ronald and Nancy Reagan were open and next to each other, as how it should be. At that moment, I’m thinking to myself, damn, I forgot to bring my digital camera!
However, I did have my cell phone with me. As I walked into their warm and comfortable office spaces, decorated and clean, moving slowly from hers to his, hovering just inches away from the President’s desk, I gave my mother a call in Arizona. With my parents being long-time Republicans, they were thrilled to hear where I was calling from. I kept her on the phone for a spell, letting her know what the office was filled with, including the picture on his desk together with four other Presidents.
I then heard someone coming down the hall from a way’s away, so I said goodbye to my mother and walked out the other side door towards the back of the office and into the main living room, and acted like I had been standing there for some time. I didn’t care if security could see me through the camera, at least they knew the truth. It was the suspicion from others I wanted to avoid. Conveniently in sight, looking out the picture window and slightly down the rolling hill at the rear of the building, is the area of ground where the President is laid to rest. Simi Valley is a beautiful place, and along with his ranch high up in the Santa Barbara area, were two of his favorite spots on earth.
I started setting up a third station for champagne service about fifteen feet away from the main elevator that close to 150 guests would be coming out of shortly after the debate was finished. I didn’t know what bar I’d be working out of at that time, and it really didn’t matter all that much anyway. Sometimes, if you just let things happen, surrendering controls, you’ll end up in the right spot.
As it got underway, we watched for a while on the TV monitors built-in near the ceiling, with a sense of isolation from the moment-by-moment tired punches and jabs reflective of the unnecessarily long campaign trails. It almost became a match of the last man standing. I’d be dust in the wind too if I had to go through such an endless ordeal. Who wouldn’t? I mean, how can you even get a good night’s sleep in the middle of all of that on your mind? And you’re supposed to run a country? That’s right! You will run it, right into the ground!! The structure of these institutions needs to be changed.
I walked over to the far end of the room where, looking down below, the long blocked-off staircase seemed to go around at least a half-circle, with a security guard detailed at the front. Off the top edge was a huge, black grand piano, that of the concert stage size. I went over to it with the shy internal thought of sitting down and seeing if it was in tune enough to tickle the ivories in the most silent way for a while. Though tempting, I held off so as not to raise the hairs under any hats, and out of respect for those who asked me in. There was an 8×10 frame on the top saying this piano was donated to the Reagan Library by American pianist and composer, John Williams. Enough said! I would have loved to hear the sound of it, though, I have to admit.
The debate concluded. It was over.
At our bar stations, we had the basic well and call cocktails, beer, wine, and had poured crisp, cold champagne in advance so the guests could just pick up and graze if preferred, while the appetizers began to pass. It soon filled up with the usual suspects, dignitaries and formers and the like, and then John McCain eventually paced out of the elevator, in perfect vision just steps away from me, basically with his head down, as though he was about to get the tongue-lashing of his life for wrecking his parent’s car.
Who knows where he disappeared to, but he wasn’t around for long. He probably went to speak to Nancy Reagan for a minute, who was sitting down in the couch in the living room, with her interior decorator next to her, getting ready to watch the televised documentary of her husband and family.
I feel for the man. Not only has he been through enough for one lifetime, he’s put himself through even more as a warmonger. I wish I could hug him, and say “Mr. McCain, we all love you for your dedicated service to your/our country. Now could you please, for all of our concerns, retire for your own health and well-being and enjoy some golf and leisure. We think you’ve earned it.”
I tell you, when you’re around the air of these people for hours like I was, and that I’ve been in the past with other events, you gather the slow perception that all of them have a true and deep addiction to politics, like crack bad! This is not something they give up easily. There will be a fight before they drop to the canvas, regardless of their age. It is a career of buying favors and influence along the way to hold on to your post, difficult to say goodbye to. Talk about a cancer on top of a bad habit. There was even the energetic stench of a few lobbyists cruising like hungry coyotes even after devouring a plate of food in mere seconds.
Governor Schwarzenegger was supposed to show up using the utility/service elevator, but failed to appear, more than likely embarrassed by the lame exchange, whispering to Mrs. Reagan still sitting down, that it was the most boring debate he had ever seen, as the word trickled upstairs lightspeed. The other candidates were no-shows as well, as far as I could tell.
Deliberately, I left the bar with a full bottle of red and two fresh, clean stems so I could roam, pour, greet and schmooze a little, just for fun, and to avoid being stoic behind the wood for too long. Not a night for that ! Upon that walk, I noticed past Governor Pete Wilson (91’-99’) was empty of drink, so I kindly approached him and asked if he would like a glass of wine, as he was about to sit down at a table with others. He responded with great appreciation. I can really put it (the charm) on when I need or want to.
The documentary lasted for quite some time, and Mrs. Reagan, instantly providing the strongest presence and grace on the entire floor, sat and watched it from start to finish. I was in and out of the living room many times during the dinner, observing the pleasantry of people surrounding her. She could outlast all of us.
The night began to fade, and it was time to cleanup. Finally, an 11-hour shift on my feet comes to a close. Nights like these make me happy that I wear three layered pairs of socks. Saying goodbye and thanks to our wonderful floor manager, Kim, and the rest of the staff, I headed outside to where the shuttle arrives, to take us back down to the park.
Strangely enough, with everyone fatigued on the bus, sitting next to me was Steve Lentz, the reporter for KFWB News 980, located on Wilshire in L.A.. We started chatting, and he asked me what I do. I told him I was a private bartender, and he responded as though he’d never heard of such a thing before. I smiled and laughed inside. He thought for a moment and said with almost a suitcase of camera and sound gear in his lap, “I’ll bet you have some intriguing stories to tell about your experiences with everywhere you’re hired?”. I said “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do”.
He gave me his card, and mentioned to call or email him to possibly set up a time to come down to the station for a live interview. I said “Sure, I’d love to. Thanks. I’ll be in touch”. I did just that. I’m now going to send this story to him, to see if he’s still interested in keeping his word after a couple years. I hope he’s still there . . .
