Dream Reachers
by Chase Von and Betty Dravis
Excerpt from first interview… A BAD HAIR-DAY
by Betty Dravis
In the sixties, I wrote a weekly newspaper column for The East San Jose Sun where I also specialized in human interest stories and profiles of prominent local citizens.
For a Halloween feature story, in the late sixties I profiled a woman named June Cheim who was the delight of trick-or-treaters in her rather exclusive neighborhood. Every year, this gracious woman transformed herself into a frightening witch, acting the part to perfection.
And June--headlined as "The Good Witch of the East Foothills"--brewed a fantastic witch's brew. Topped by roiling clouds of evil-looking, foul-smelling gray smoke, the mixture looked more lethal than Bette Midler's in The Witches of Eastwick. June's brew was apple cider, of course, and it was delicious. The children loved it, and the Cheim home was a favorite haunt on Halloween. Shortly following publication of the story, I was at home doing laundry when June phoned to thank me for the story, commenting that her friends, neighbors, and family enjoyed it tremendously.
She went on to tell me that a popular movie star was visiting them for a few days and asked if I would like to interview him. She explained that she had gone to school with him and she and her husband, Leo, had maintained their friendship throughout the years.
The Cheims' friend was one of the world's top box-office draws, rapidly overtaking Charles Bronson. Wow! Interview that hunk! Ohmigod…ohmigod! I thought, but I managed to stammer, "Y-yes, of course."
I--a low-paid, part-timer at a small weekly--was the only newsperson in San Jose getting a shot at the star. It was my chance to scoop the large daily paper. By no stretch of the i-m-a-g-i-n-a-t-i-o-n was I a career journalist; I was just starting out part-time, not even thinking of going full-time yet. Primarily, I was a mother, struggling to raise six children alone.
I was completely dazzled at the thought of interviewing that man…and a little frightened. In those days, I had no tape recorder and was concerned that I might write too slowly, botch the interview, and make a fool of myself. Could I do the job properly? Would I be professional enough?
The thrill of meeting such a famous, handsome hunk overcame my professional doubts, and I was hot to trot. After all, I told myself, he's only a man. But then, being as vain as the next woman, personal doubts crept in. I began worrying about my appearance. I had always been a natural blonde, but as it faded, I'd started touching it up. Well, that day--of all days--my roots needed touching up and I needed a cut and a style.
In other words, it was a woman's worst nightmare…a bad hair-day.
A very bad hair-day. Even more frustrating was that June had set the interview for five that afternoon, and since the star was leaving the next day, it was my only chance. Time was short, so I called the Sun to schedule a photographer to meet me at the Cheim residence, but none was available. Damn!
Next I phoned my hairstylist only to find that she was booked solid. Double damn!
In desperation, I called a friend, Josie. Yes, Josie had experience! Yes, Josie could do it! And yes, Josie could even baby-sit.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
I thought things were finally going to work out, but that thought was a little premature. Josie thought ash blonde Clairol worked the same as light blonde; you know, the longer you leave it on, the lighter it becomes? Well, ash blonde works the opposite. She let it develop too long, and voila…brown hair! And to make matters worse, she plastered flirtatious little Spanish sideburns to my cheeks, fashioned a curly topknot and a lopsided cut.
"Definitely not me," I moaned, since I considered myself more the girl-next-door, cheerleader type. Could Josie be jealous of my lucky break? I asked myself. Then: Na-ahh…she's not that mean-spirited.
After staring ice-picks at Josie for ruining my looks, I kissed the kiddies good-bye, swallowed my pride, and toodled on to the big interview.
My self-confidence had gone down Josie's drain right along with my hair, but at least I liked my outfit. It was a yellow-and-white polka-dotted number with a slightly-flared skirt. The dress--and white, high-heeled pumps--set off my tan; not much consolation, but it helped a little.
And, as if that weren't enough, with no cameraman in tow, I felt like a complete amateur. Oh-h, well, one lucky break a day is all one can hope for, I told myself as I pulled into the Cheims' circular driveway, hopped out of my clunky old Mercury and sashayed up the walkway.
From somewhere deep within I summoned my usual bravado, and knocked. Several rapid heartbeats later, the door opened and there he stood--Clint Eastwood! The star gazed at me with his gorgeous bed-room eyes, flashed a devastating smile, took my trembling arm and escorted me into the den for the interview...which went great.
(continued in Dream Reachers)