THE PHANTOM OF PARAMOUNT STUDIOS

With all that is going on in the world, I'm almost too numb to continue telling my #MeToo experiences.

I'll begin, get some words on paper and fill in the blanks later.

I found the smallest apartment for rent in Burbank in the early 1980's. My books took up most of the tiny place. It was a two story triangular building on a triangular lot with a pool in the center.

My neighbor across the pool found an excuse to knock on my door. He said he was associated with Dick Clark Productions and asked to borrow a dictionary. He must have seen me carrying in my boxes of books. He bragged that he was a writer who did not own any books. "I don't read books, I write 'em". To make a long story short, I didn't get involved with him. He tried to make me jealous by telling me he was going to go after another woman. He did get a woman into his apartment and they cackled for hours. In the morning most of us got quite a sight as we left our apartments to go to work. This man was passed out on the diving board. He was wearing only a bathrobe and it was wide open. His privates where hanging out for all of us to see. He was disgusting.

I was working at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS in the warehouse at this time. As I went to clock in my time card everyday, men would sing: "Fall Into The GAP", a play on a popular GAP jeans commercial and the fact that I had worn GAP jeans one day. It didn't matter what I wore after that, I had to listen to "Fall into the GAP" every morning and afternoon.

After work I would often walk from my apartment across the freeway bridge to watch THE TONIGHT SHOW with JOHNNY CARSON being filmed. I began writing my first screenplay, "BREAKFAST AT TBS", named after THE BURBANK STUDIOS tower that I could see from my apartment which was across the street from the studios. The apartment eventually collapsed and was condemned by the city and an office building stands on the triangular lot today.

One day after work I found something exciting in my mail. Someone had sent me things I wanted, things I liked, things I thought I needed. At first glance it was like Christmas or my birthday. As a writer I scrimped so I could buy paper at the PARAMOUNT store. Someone had sent me a ream of paper and postage stamps and money.

On second thought, it hit me that someone knew too much about me. How did they know I wanted these things? How did they know me at all? Who sent this?

I began getting phone calls. My secret admirer said he saw me everyday as I walked by his office at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS. I stopped eating my peanut butter sandwich alone on the loading dock after that. I used to enjoy the privacy and time to read but suddenly I was afraid to be alone. I started eating at the commissary. I was nervous because I was bringing my own lunch. I didn't want everybody to know I couldn't afford to buy lunch. I could barely afford gasoline to get to and from work. I sat next to Ron Howard and never said a word to him. I wish I had now.  I wish I had blurted like a fool, "Hey there! Nice to see you! My dream is to be a writer! Hope I get to write for you one day!" I was too shy back then. They say when you get older you regret the things you didn't do more than the silly things you did do. It's true.

I was getting more and more scared of my secret admirer. The last straw was when I started seeing drug dealers on the lot. I went to the office to talk about what was troubling me, that I was getting cat calls EVERY time I clocked in and out, that the place was crawling with drug dealers, that someone bragged about getting into my PARAMOUNT STUDIOS employee files and was sending me gifts. This "Mystery Man" actually bragged to me that he got my information from my files and that he saw me walking by everyday at work.

To my horror, the man employees report to when they have a problem at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS was a total nut cake. He was so distracted by great thoughts that he could hardly utter a complete sentence. He must have been on some very serious hallucinogenic drugs because when I told him what was happening and what I saw, he drew me a scribbley picture of what he said was the universe and began talking about Native American lore. I half expected Jim Morrison's ghost to appear and dance around the desk singing RUN WITH ME. At the end of his very bizarre speech, the man uttered the only sentence that made sense to me, "If you report the drug dealers you could end up dead in a ditch."

I decided to confront my "Mystery Man" without any help from my superiors. I decided I would tell him off the next time he called.

He called. I told him never to call me again and not to send me anymore mail. He told me that I had not heard him out. He told me that I didn't have to work at the warehouse anymore, that I could live in a condo in Marina del Rey and write full time. He told me that I could not wear perfume or lipstick.... (....So his wife and or other mistresses wouldn't detect the new girl?)

A man I never met was telling me he wanted to keep me in pumpkin shell and that I must not wear anything his wife could see or smell.

I told him, "Shame on you, how do you think this would make your wife feel?!"

He told me he was "Sorry" and would never attempt to cheat on his wife again.

I doubt that was true.

I was not sexually abused by this man, but it did a number on my head and made me afraid to keep working at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS. I never found out who the Phantom of Paramount Studios was. I'm sure I was not the only woman he propositioned in this creepy, invasive way that year. Some of the women may have found out who he was. With the #MeToo stories coming to light now, maybe the man who invaded my privacy will float to the surface as a serial stalker. It happened to me in the spring of 1982 at Paramount Studios. The man had access to employee files and he had money to burn.

On the day that I was going to work early so I could knock on John Belushi's office door and ask him to look at my script, "BREAKFAST AT TBS", I was so nervous I took the wrong freeway off ramp in spite of the fact that I drove there every day. I was terrified that he would bark at me to get lost. When I got to work, I found out that he had died the night before.

One of the last things I did at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS was go to the TAXI wrap party. Everyone pretty much looked like clubbed seals, some from drugs, some from sorrow and fear. Marilu Henner danced. I danced a lot in spite of feeling lost and sad and afraid. A reporter I danced with chatted with me about a strange new, terrifying disease that a friend of his had. It turned out to be AIDS. I left PARAMOUNT STUDIOS. It wasn't safe for me to work there. There was no real "HUMAN RESOURCES" at PARAMOUNT STUDIOS. I just knew something bad would happen if I stayed and the guy in the office would just draw an abstract map of the universe and conjure up images of Jim Morrison's ghost. 

Marina del Rey, where Mr. Mystery, The Phantom of Paramount Studios wanted to keep me in a pumpkin shell. I took this photo at the El Torito Mexican Restaurant  when I took my autistic son there for fajitas.