Odds and Ends not in my book, Part 5

Since many of you seem to enjoy my "old Hollywood" recollections, here's another one -- the Marty Feldman story.

Even if you don't recall the name, you know when you've seen him and you'll never forget one of the greatest comedic faces of all time.

Here he is as Igor (pronounced Eye-gor) in Mel Brooks's "Young Frankenstein":

Many remember him this way. Me? I remember him as a frequent houseguest, and a sweetheart of a guy.

When I was in my early teens and living with my dad and his second wife S (the nice stepmother, not the mean one), Marty and his wife Lauretta (who looked a lot like S, with long dark hair and high cheekbones) came often from England for Marty's work here in the States. Whenever they were here, they stayed at our house. It was entertaining, to say the least.

Marty was pretty much the way you saw him on TV and in movies -- very hyper, energetic, wildly funny. He drank a lot of coffee (and alcohol), smoked like a fiend and couldn't sit still for five seconds. But so charming and very endearing. He was a vegetarian, and I remember S cooking separate vegetarian meals for him. Whenever there was a party and she'd make one of her favorite crowd-pleasers, lasagna, she'd make two -- one with meat and one without -- if Marty was there.

Not only was he hyper, but he was accident-prone. One summer night during one of our pool parties, he went charging through the patio door to the pool, intending to jump in, I guess. Unfortunately, while the glass door was open (thank goodness!), the screen door was closed, and he ran into it so hard, the screen split open the bridge of his nose. I still recall him sitting in one of the deck chairs, looking rather dazed, while his wife held tissues to his profusely bleeding nose.

It was so much fun having them as houseguests. But after my dad and S split up and we sold the big house, that all changed. Now he was with Vampira, and God forbid she associate with any of Dad's old friends who had also been friends with S. Stupid cow. So when Marty and Lauretta came to the States after that, they stayed in a hotel, and Dad and I would go visit them.

My #1 favorite memory of Marty is from one of those visits. (Some of you have heard this story before, so please bear with me.)

One Sunday, we were at the Feldmans' hotel; several others were there and they'd ordered a spread of food. I was 16 and already in the throes of my eating disorders, so I sat quietly without touching any of the food. Marty, fresh from all the wonderful treatment he'd had at our house, was determined to be a good and proper host himself, and he was also determined that he was going to get me to have something, even if it was just a beverage.

So, basically, he offered me just about everything liquid in existence, in rapid-fire succession. The conversation, very brief, went as follows, the replies flying like bullets. I don't think either one of us drew a breath.

Him: Erica, love, would you like something to drink?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Are you sure? A glass of wine?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: How about a soda?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Juice?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Water?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Coffee?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Tea?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: Well, fuck you, then.
Me: Fuck you, too.

Very calm, very matter-of-fact, in that perfect English accent of his. Of course, afterward, he gave me a big hug and we both laughed.

Marty died in 1982, at age 48, of a heart attack. Way too damn young.

I'll never forget him.