I Killed Lucille Ball

Yes, I killed Lucille Ball. Not with a gun or anything. After all, she did die of a heart ailment. But I think in some way I contributed to the demise of the doyenne of American Comedy- that Mercurochrome-haired woman who brought laughter to millions. The female Chaplin. Miss “Vitameatavegamin” herself.

Let me explain.

The year was 1989. I was nanny to actor Willem Dafoe’s son Jack at the time. In point of fact, I was watching the announcements for Oscar nominations in 1987 and when I heard that Willem had been nominated for Platoon I called him up and he didn’t even know yet. I also threatened him, “If you don’t take me to the Academy Awards I’m going to kill your kid!” God bless him, he did. But in 1989 Willem was asked to be a presenter and I made even more of a pest of myself begging for a ticket.

This was the 61^st Annual Awards, the one Allan Carr was producing, and it was being touted as the show to end all award shows. Yes, at that time I loved the Academy Awards. I knew they were stupid; I didn’t care. When I was young, I used to dress up in a suit and tie to watch the presentation on TV. I went as far as roping off my seat in the living room, to make it more authentic, and even made an “entrance,” with real fanfare, from outside the house, much to my father’s horror. “Jesus H. Christ,” he used to mutter in disgust. “Oh, let the poor thing alone,” my mother would hush him, “it’s all he has…”

Nowadays, I have a more dismissive attitude toward the broadcast. I never attend Academy Award parties where guests are given ballots at the door. I hate that kind of stuff. I never really care who wins anyway, and by then I’m even sick of the movies they are touting that I actually liked when I first saw them. But in 1989 it was a different story, and with my friend as a presenter, I saw one slim chance to see the silly spectacle firsthand, again.

Well, Willem did manage to wrangle a ticket for me, and as the day approached I was so excited I could barely contain myself. As we piled into the limousine, I was flooded with images from previous ceremonies (not to mention the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies). When we arrived at the Shrine Auditorium, I could see the bleachers filled with screaming fans, the red carpet walkway, and the giant golden Oscars outside the theater. It was all so hilariously unreal.

We climbed out of the limo and made our way along the receiving line, where reporters jammed microphones at celebrities, and hundreds of television cameras recorded the proceedings. I positioned myself behind as many short celebrities as I could, jockeying for a position in the opening montage of the show, and it actually paid off. I was spotted right behind Dudley Moore. (When I got home there were a thousand messages on my answering machine with friends howling with laughter).

Just then I heard this gravely laugh to my right and I turned, in shock, to find myself alongside Miss Lucille Ball. She looked great. She was wearing a sleek black and gold gown that was slit severely up one side revealing “a nice set of gams,” as someone behind me pointed out. She was with her husband Gary Morton, and she was gaily chatting with a gaggle of press who were practically salivating at her every word.

And then it happened. She turned to the left, caught sight of me and nearly leapt back in terror. Her whole expression seemed to scream, “What the fuck is that?” It was an odd moment. My mouth was frozen in an awkward smile. What was I supposed to say? “Hello, Ms Ball, I loved you in Stone Pillow.” Could I briefly ask about the making of The Long, Long Trailer? Or should I try to relate how scary it was when I went to see Mame on two hits of blotter acid? No, her look withered me in my tracks. She grabbed onto her husband as if for support, and that husky, sandpaper voice boomed out, “Come on, Gary, let’s go,” and she hustled off into the building.

The rest of the evening was a blur for me. I was so upset, which is probably merciful considering how horrible the show was. Rob Lowe singing to Snow White really set the tone for the numbing nightmare that followed. When Allan Carr appeared afterwards at the Governor’s Ball and stood on the revolving dais thanking everyone for making it “the best show ever,” I couldn’t understand why people weren’t hurling their plates of food at him. But I was too consumed with shame about frightening the Queen Mother of Comedy to care much. I couldn’t even touch the “Veal a la Oscar” on my plate.

And then several weeks later, she was dead. I just know she was lying in her hospital bed, thinking over her appearance at the Academy Awards, when my face flashed before her eyes and she thought in a cold fury, “What the hell has happened to Hollywood when they let scumbags like that into the ceremony?” And suddenly, her aorta just exploded.

So, I’ve been living with this guilt ever since, and believe me, it’s a heavy cross to bear. I’m so sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean to kill you. I loved you in Fancy Pants. Forgive me….