Standing Next to Paul Newman

The light that you think you emanate is not necessarily the light that other people see. You think of yourself as shy, retiring . . . and some people will see you in an entirely different way.
Paul Newman


When I was a boy, Paul Newman was the actor most women swooned over. I know this because my mother was one of them. She once adopted a cat—the only cat my family ever owned—because the animal’s grey-blue eyes reminded her of the actor’s. What’s more, she instantly came up with a name for her favorite feline: Paul.

In my own way, I inherited her admiration for Newman. Growing up, I never missed one of his films. And my respect for him grew when, during the early 1980s, as the Nuclear Freeze Movement’s most visible spokesperson, he demolished Charlton Heston in a nationally-televised debate about the arms race.

A few years later, when I first heard about Newman’s Own and learned that all the profits of that enterprise went to charity, I became fiercely loyal to the product. (It certainly helped that the olive oil salad dressing was absolutely delicious.)

And today, a week after Paul Newman’s death, I find myself recalling the morning I stood next to him, and for quite a while, before becoming aware of his identity. The encounter took place in the fall of 1973, when I was nineteen and in my second year at Los Angeles City College. One morning, with a long gap between classes, two fellow students, both women, suggested a quick trip to Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard—then the largest record store in Los Angeles—to check out the latest releases.

When we arrived, business was slow; there were only a handful of customers. The sales-clerks, two young men, were playing Cat Stevens’s and Van Morrison’s most recent recordings. I couldn’t have asked for better music. And after flipping through albums for about an hour, it was time to head back to for our next class. Being the only one who decided to buy something, I joined the short line at the cash register while my friends continued searching through the bins.

I was the fourth customer. I stood there, enjoying the music and in no hurry to get back to my accounting class. The customer in front of me was in his forties, with slightly graying hair. He wore a dull-gray overall and a soiled pair of work-boots. I took him for a refrigerator repairman who, also on a break, had decided to buy himself a few records. The only thing that seemed a unusual was that he had placed a stack of close to 40 albums on the counter, apparently with the intention of buying every single one and, although we were indoors, he wore over-sized sunglasses.

When his turn came to pay, the sales-clerk rang up the purchase, which, considering the amount of albums, took a while. He informed the customer of the amount—close to two hundred dollars (music was more affordable then)—and the man handed him a credit card. The young man looked at the card; he then glanced at the man. He looked at the card again and, doing a formidable job of keeping his cool (but I could tell that he had become excited), he said, very courteously, “I’m sorry, Mr. Newman, but with purchases over $100 I have to call the credit card company for authorization.” (In this era, prior to computerization, credit card limits were verified manually.)

And then, that distinctive, smoky voice I’d been hearing all of my life inside the sacred dim halls of movie theaters, answered, “That’s fine. Go ahead.”

As the sales-clerk placed the card back on the counter, I read the customer’s name:

Paul Newman.

Discreetly, for we were standing shoulder to shoulder facing the sales-clerk, I leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of the man’s face. All it took was a fraction of a second to confirm that the refrigerator repairman standing next to me all that time had indeed been Paul Newman.

If only my mother were here, I thought.

I did my best to remain calm, to enjoy the experience of standing next to Paul.

But I was unable to stay cool for more than thirty seconds. I needed to share this with someone. What’s more, I needed witnesses so that later I could be sure that it hadn’t all been a dream.

I left the line and hurried to the opposite side of the store, closer to the exit, where my classmates were looking at records. When I reached them, as serenely as I could, I said, “Now, don’t be obvious. Whatever you do, don’t overreact. You see the fellow paying at the register? That’s Paul Newman.”

Both girls at once looked toward the register and, at that moment, the Hollywood star glanced our way. My friends reacted as any red-blooded American woman of their age would:

They squealed . . . and rather loudly.

The handful of customers at Tower Records turned to see what had happened. They soon concluded it was nothing more than a couple of immature college students excited over the latest Doobie Brothers' recording.

But the squeals also drew Paul Newman’s attention. In spite of the sunglasses, we could tell that he was staring at us.

We stared back.

He continued to stare at us.

We continued to stare at him.

He smiled.

Now all three of us squealed.

And then he gave us that patented, beautiful, million-dollar Paul Newman grin.

We had to hold on to each other to keep from falling in a dead faint.

While Mr. Newman waited for the credit card company to clear his purchase, he toyed with us the way a cat plays with its prey. He alternately stared and smiled at us. We, in turn, alternated between swoons, jumping in place while emitting little, squirrel-like squeals, and silly giggling. (I also believe we were drooling, but I can’t be sure because it’s a memory that, apparently, I’ve been successful in repressing.)

Throughout all this, with the exception of the one sales-clerk, the rest of the people in Tower Records were oblivious that Paul Newman stood among them.

The purchase now approved, Mr. Newman grabbed the large bag containing the stack of records and headed for the exit. As he passed near us he gave us one more gorgeous grin and left the store. Although none of us fell to the floor, it took a while before our legs were sturdy enough to rush to the exit. His passion for cars well-known, we had to see what he was driving.

We opened the door, stepped out, and stood there, our mouths gaping as we stared at the stunning red Porsche passing before us. And then the most astonishing thing happened: Paul Newman rolled down the window, stuck his arm out above the roof, and waved farewell.