About three-quarters of the way through the production of "Larger Than Life" we were shooting throughout the night at the San Jose airport and as the sun was coming up and the crew began wrapping for the day, a few crew members convened in Bill's trailer for a little end of the work-day drink. As more and more people began to show up, it became apparant that everyone was in the mood for an after-work party, so Bill had me contact the manager of the Hilton where we were all being housed to see if they might be persuaded to open up the hotel bar when we arrived back from the set. They happily complied.
Soon enough, we were blowing off steam and partying at the bar near the pool and even though it was something like 8 a.m., it felt like evening hours due to the odd schedule we were on. Bill jumped behind the bar and began pouring 9 second shots... an activity which required a person to tilt their head back and open their mouth, then Bill counted to 9 while pouring a drink down their throat.
Before too long, we were all getting a little out of hand and Bill picked up one of the wardrobe girls over his shoulder, carried her to the edge of the pool, and tossed her into the water where she screeched and splashed wildly. Suddenly, there was no turning back and within a period of about 20 minutes nearly every member of the crew had either been carried, dragged, or escorted to the water where they took the plunge (either willingly or unwillingly -- didn't matter). We now had a rambunctious drunken pool party on our hands and everyone was laughing and having the time of their lives before things took a turn for the worse.
When a few of the production assistants noticed that Bill himself had not gone into the water they began pursuing him and he made a B-line for his hotel room. They ran to me and said "Kerry, which room is Bill's? We have to carry him down and throw him into the pool!" So, we dashed off towards his second-floor room and arrived to find the door securely locked.
"Let's go around the back," I said "and you guys can push me up over the balcony so I can unlock the door from the inside."
As I was pushed up over the railing outside, I peered into Bill's room and saw that he was in his bathroom, so I quietly opened the sliding glass door and as I went to unlock the room door, I heard the guys thundering down the hall outside to come retrieve him.
"He's in the bathroom!" I shouted as they arrived and poured into the room and then turned to see that the bathroom door was now open with no one inside. Some movement out on the balcony caught my eye and I discovered that Bill was climbing over the railing to lower himself down to the ground floor in order to evade capture. "Get him get him get him!!!," I yelled and sprinted for the balcony, not realizing that Bill had closed the sliding glass door behind him -- until I ran headfirst into the glass which shattered and rained down around me.
I froze directly in the middle of the threshold, Bill froze mid-escape, halfway over the railing, and the five guys behind me immediately stopped in their tracks waiting to see how bad the damage was going to be.
"Oh Jesus!" Bill said and jumped towards me, pulling chunks of glass off of my arms. I started to survey the damage as blood began to run off my arms and raised my right hand to see that it had 3 deep cuts. I clamped my left hand down hard on top of it saying "Ok... well... this is gonna need stitches" to which Bill replied "Somebody call a cab! We're all too drunk to drive to the hospital." When he asked me if I needed anything I told him, "I need you to get thrown in the pool. I'm not gonna go to the hospital for nothing."
So we all walked back down to the pool area (me dripping blood along the way), where the crew was still splashing about and Bill acquiesced, allowing himself to be tossed in among them. The noise from the glass shattering had alerted the hotel staff of the emergency and the manager and his underlings surrounded me and began asking questions in order to avoid some sort of litigation before my taxi arrived. (They needn't have worried... I'm not the litigious type).
Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the loss of blood, I'm not sure... but I began to get woozy and lightheaded and the hotel staff just wouldn't back away and stop peppering me with questions. It was really starting to bother me when our gaffer saw that I was distressed and said, "Kerry, what can I do?"
I pleaded, "Dino, can you just answer their questions for me? I can't deal with this right now" and he stepped in and saved me from the half dozen or so Hilton employees. I breathed a sigh of relief until I realized the head honcho, the hotel manager, continued to come at me, asking questions I couldn't comprehend, in his new suit and his shiny shoes. I felt a slight trickle of blood run down my forehead from my hairline towards my eyes and I tried to keep panic at bay, but for every step I took back away from him, he shuffled further towards me demanding answers.
When it got to the point where I couldn't back away any more (I think a pool lounge chair was blocking my path) I really started to freak out. I felt like a trapped rat and there was nothing I could do but stand there and be badgered by this hotel manager (who, I'm sure, was just trying to protect his job and hotel, as any of us might) but for me at that moment, he was just making a very bad situation even worse.
That's when I saw a big, wet, floppy pair of arms pop up behind him and Bill wrapped himself around the manager's shoulders, clamped onto him, and dove into the swimming pool. I'd been rescued from my tormentor who, although extremely irate about the state of his shiny leather shoes, had a good tale of his own now to tell.
Funnily enough, just as Bill and the hotel manager came up for air, my cab arrived and I was on my way to go get 22 stitches.
I heard later that Bill bought the manager a whole new wardrobe, so there really wasn't any permanent damage... except for the scars I still carry... which I don't mind so much, cause I feel like they were worth the story that came with them.
should u bee telling these stories ? mr bill might get mad?
Posted by: suckysuck | August 22, 2005 at 10:17 PM
This story has received the:
BUBBA STAMP OF AUTHENTICITY.
This story has been the same since the day it happened.
Unlike some of the others that were unable to meet the high standards to get the Bubba Stamp of Authenticity!
Posted by: Bubba Jones | August 23, 2005 at 05:35 AM
oh, now it's bubba time, so sorry
Posted by: suckysuck | August 23, 2005 at 11:42 AM
you all sucky suck long time, fags
Posted by: suckysuck | August 23, 2005 at 11:43 AM
Wow, this row of comments is like a giant gash of moronity (if that's even a word.).
I see we have a new "person" here.
Posted by: Magnus | August 24, 2005 at 11:59 PM
well... Bubba's a bit of a mystery... he's someone who knows me but has chosen to remain somewhat anonymous until I figure out who he is. It's something of a game I think and I'm willing to wait it out. I figured I'd let the other comments represent whoever wrote them and let them speak for themself.
Posted by: kerry | August 25, 2005 at 12:37 AM
A wise choice, Kerry.
I forgot to tell you, though, that this was a great story. I can see it now, Bill Murray wrapping his arms around the hotel manager and jumping in the water. Not to mention the sight of you in all that smashed glass.
For a while there, I thought it was going to be about Bill not being able to swim, you know, with the elaborate escape routine and everything.
Posted by: Magnus | August 25, 2005 at 10:43 AM