By Steve Fenton
I first met Jan-Michael Vincent in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico in October of 1992. We sat on the steps of a quiet pool with our feet in the water, squawking about surfing and the days in Baja long before anything resembling a highway could get you to the most remote, virgin surf spots. What struck me out of the chute was his casual demeanor, sporting a firm handshake and his flagship boyish grin. His piercing, steel-blue eyes grew wild as ricochets when our small talk segued from fishing to surfing. For two hours we shared short stories about long-boards in the curling surf of our favorite beaches, when I was just a guppy and JMV was at the summit of his career.
I reflect on the encounter every now and then, but for the most part, kept the meeting to myself, considering that afternoon nothing more than a of a couple of long-boarders eager to jaw-bust on a common passion.
Last November, I saw someone whom I believed to be him in a dark restaurant in the French Quarter in New Orleans. This is my account of our second, chance meeting seventeen years later.
~~~
November 18, 2009
New Orleans, LA
Holly and I had began our adventure in Key West driving westward across the South to California. With no charted agenda, we ruled our world from a GPS, stopping to scatter some of her mother’s ashes in places that she loved, and a few places we believed she’d love to have known; before the orbit of Phyllis’s 79th pass around the sun suddenly decayed.
On approaching the City of New Orleans in the evening of our first night we had to detour through the downtown area while a film crew shot a stuntman repelling down the face of a tall office building. The intensity of the flood lights were hard to miss and illuminated the sizeable crowd gathered to witness the calculated dangle. Phyllis might have liked this place.
The next night on a tip for a good Cajun dinner in the French Quarter of the City, Holly and I found the entrance of the white trimmed doorway on Decatur Street. Our momentum was stalled at the entrance where we waited for a slower moving older gentleman while his companion helped him clear the threshold of the doorway. I studied the room for a good seat, but had to settle for a table near the entrance as I watched the man in tow, led by the younger woman lay claim to the last suitable table in the place.
While Holly studied the menu, I glanced around the room and found my eyes wandering back in the direction of the man and the woman who had taken our spot. There was something about the man that intrigued me. His posture was beyond his years and he sported a rather undomesticated look. The hair struck me as somewhat long for his age, shoulder length and combed straight back--though it seemed to follow character. He had a refined look about his face, particularly his eyes--a steely, piercing gaze that I could have picked out of a crowd from across the street.
By the time I had become aware that my interest in the man might appear awkward, his eyes peered up from his menu and caught my stare. Our eye contact was on the short side of brief, yet long enough to determine that we’d met somewhere once before--only, how? Where? When?
Holly had been trying to figure out what dish from the white-chalk lettering on the blackboard wall might be mild enough for her palate. “I think I might know that man over there,” I told her, tipping my head toward the man across the open floor. “We're two-thousand miles from home. How would you know him?” She quizzed. Before I could reveal my hunch, the waitress appeared to take our order. I interrupted her. “Do you know that man over there? Is he a regular here?” I asked. “Never seen him before,” she said, casually tossing a look in his direction. We ordered and the waitress disappeared. Now Holly understood that my interest in the man was more than curious.
“I met an actor from the ‘70s and ‘80s on a fishing trip in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, in 1992 named Jan-Michael Vincent. He was the “Brad Pitt” of the time and the highest paid television actor at the height of his career. We talked for at least a couple of hours, just he and I, drinking beers and trading cigarettes by the pool at the Solmar resort. He told me all about his early surf days when he and his buddies would pile into a VW van and look for the right breaks at beaches that had never seen a surfboard, all along Baja. He was in Cabo for a celebrity fishing tournament. When I mentioned who he was to my girlfriend, she not only embarrassed me by going over to talk to him, but brought him to where I was sitting by the pool. We sat and talked for two hours, then ran into him again the next day at the marina, where he told me all about their tournament boat catching fire at sea, and then another day back at the resort where my girl friend took our picture. I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
“That guy doesn’t look like any movie actor I’ve ever seen. I think your way off on this one,” Holly teased in her Eastern drawl.
On a whim, only a few months earlier, I had Googled JMV’s name to see if he was still acting. He was my favorite film actor when I was just a punk and at one time he was one of the biggest box office draws in the film industry. I knew that he’d been in and out of rehab with some legal scrapes and his drinking had pretty much scuttled his career since we first met. A bad accident had fractured three vertebrae in his neck. He had retreated into relative obscurity and hadn’t been seen or heard from in years.
The man sported a pair of black Harry Potter reading glasses but his eyes were unique and unmistakable. Disregarding my own policy about cell phones in restaurants, I discreetly Googled JMV's name and turned my Blackberry around for Holly to see the actor’s most recent known photo, though it was from some years back. The stunned look on Holly’s face confirmed my hunch. “Oh my God--You’re right! That’s him!” Holly doesn’t often telegraph excitement so I knew I was on the money.
Our waitress returned and began dropping hot plates in front of us. ”I’d like to buy an anonymous round of whatever that couple is having,” I said, gesturing toward the former stranger. "Why do you want to remain anonymous to them?” Holly asked. “I just don’t want to intrude. The guy obviously wants his privacy and I don’t think he’s looking for an audience these days. It’s less complicated--he’d never remember me, anyway!”
The waitress managed a smile as she returned some time later to our table. “The couple that you bought a round for would like to know who to thank,” she announced. Before I could assemble the verbiage to declare that it would be better to leave it as such, the two figures from the prime seats stood and began making their way toward us. Seventeen years earlier Jan-Michael Vincent had insisted on sitting down with me to talk about many of the same common surf spots we knew up and down California, from Laguna Beach to Santa Cruz. Now, so many years later, Jan-Michael Vincent was again walking toward me. My instinct was to grab Holly and leave, but “chew and screw” or a fraudulent medical emergency wouldn’t get us out of the door fast enough.
The woman with JMV was a reasonably attractive looking blonde with shoulder length hair, hazel eyes, and by my guess, in her mid fifties. She set a course straight at me with open arms, anticipating a hug while calling out a name I did not know. I stood to meet her, explaining “We don’t know each other, but I met Jan many years ago while on a fishing trip in Mexico. We didn’t mean to intrude, but only wanted to send a 'Welcome to New Orleans' beverage your way.”
She stopped just short of me and in place of a hug extended her hand, but kept her smile. “You’re not with the Ashton Kutcher people from “Punked?” “I’m afraid not. I’m Steve and this is Holly. We’re just here grabbing a bite.”
At that moment, Jan-Michael Vincent moved into my sight line from behind the woman, raising his shoulders and filling his chest to straighten himself as best he could. He moved face to face, our eyes leveling off while extending his hand for a sturdier grasp than I expected. I had remembered JMV slightly taller the first time we met.
“We met many years ago while in Cabo San Lucas, out by a pool, sharing stories about surfing and the early days in Baja,” I explained, forgetting to take a breath. Instead of a dubious scowl, he studied my eyes and softly said in a strained voice, “Yes, I remember you. Many years ago! How have you been?” His eyes still had the riveting intensity, demonstrating a unique quality that made you feel as though no one else was present.
I introduced him to Holly whose North Eastern grace and stunning blues could smooth out any awkwardness I could ever get myself into. The only natural thing for JMV at this point was to invite himself to take a seat next to Holly as he could venture himself welcome. He introduced “Anna” his wife just as she was scurrying away to some unfinished business with another party near their table. Anna seemed sincerely relieved that we were only a couple of harmless admirers, and not a TV crew trying to perpetrate some cruel hoax for a cable TV show.
Mr. Vincent was now a guest at my table. Holly smiled with amusement at the notion that I would have anything remotely interesting enough to engage JMV in any kind of meaningful dialogue. I had recalled however, just how easy he was to talk to. He asked me about my occupation and said that although he’d never operated as a general contractor, he had designed and built four custom homes and had a healthy respect for the trade. We talked about our fathers and their time in the service during WWII. Both our fathers had been pilots in the Army Air Corp and had flown B-25s. His economy with words was evident yet his speech was clear and direct. “Your face reminds me of my father’s. I’m not saying that you look old, but you have some similarities to his, especially the eyes,” he said. JMV seemed much more lucid than his appearance would lead.
I didn’t quite know how to respond, but assumed it a compliment considering the source. He commented on my watch, a modest dive watch and showed me his, a rather unadorned, but large faced Seiko. JMV’s demeanor was abruptly disarming from the moment he welcomed dialogue. The way I had remembered JMV from our first meeting was exactly as it was now—it’s not all about him--he is as interested in your world as one might be in his.
Watching his eyes light up as they did when we talked about our fathers and their aircraft, and quite aware of his most famous role as "Stringfellow Hawk" in the TV series Airwolf, I considered that he might be interested in what I had to share with him. I showed him a photo I had stored in my BB. "This is me with one of my clients. You might remember him and his flying boat adventure landing a jet on the Hudson River last January." JMV leaned forward, his eyes squinting to fine-tune the small image of Sully and me. The million-dollar boyish grin that I'd seen so many times on film joined the wrinkles where a life of smiles had been. "He's one of your clients?" he asked. His eyes were wide like those of a child watching his Sundae under construction. "Yes, he’s from my hometown, back in California. I knew it was only a matter of time before the media would pick up on his sharp mind, but soft spoken character.”
As time with our incidental table guest began to lose dimension, I knew it would end as abruptly as it began. Though he gave no indication of losing interest in our small talk, I remembered the photo I still had of our first meeting in Cabo San Lucas. When a pause occurred in our shares, I asked if he’d mind a photo as a footnote to our re-encounter. He eagerly agreed and asked Anna to manage the camera so that Holly could be in the picture. Anna had been buzzing back and forth between tables and the request employed some consideration. “We’ll have to move to another table where we can get the proper lighting,” declared Anna.
Anna directed the three of us toward a table next to where they had been sitting. I slid in next to JMV, and Holly, next to me. With every camera flash I noticed a subtle, perhaps second-nature, realignment of the contour of his face—his eyes to the lens as a marksmen’s target in the cross hairs. He was cognizant of his appearance and assembled terrific composure for the camera. His own enthusiasm offer his best made me wonder just how long he’d been hidden secluded.
The bar had come alive by now with gossip about our table—most patrons not old enough to have seen the actor’s work, or if they had would never have connected his face, but tonight somebody was at Coop’s Place across the street from the sea-wall where the Mississippi begins to taste the ocean.
Anna now sat hip-to-hip with me on my left and I found myself trying to politely manage two very different conversations at once. Anna began to describe the documentary about “Big Wednesday”, a 1978 film starring Jan-Michael Vincent, with Gary Busey and Bill Katt. The innovative cinematography captured much of JMV’s own stunt work in the big surf of O’ahu’s North Shore. He and Anna were in New Orleans working with some producers on the documentary.
The conversation turned back to surfing and long boards. JMV’s voice strained to be heard causing him to lean directly into my ear, ensuring that no words could be spilled. “I was a ‘surf-rat’ long before I got into acting,” he was clear to point out. In a quieter voice, as though to enlist my confidence, he began to detail a secret surf spot on land he owned above Santa Barbara that had no public access, but would make arrangements if I would let him know. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t surfed in years.
Anna talked quite closely into my other ear, describing the documentary and the cooperation with some of the original actors from “Big Wednesday.” Eager to be fair to both storytellers, my head swiveled constantly back-and-forth. Holly found humor in my graceless position.
As the story sharing continued on for a couple of hours toward last call with Anna in my left ear and JMV in my right ear, something unexpected occurred. He gripped my right hand. "Why are your hands so cold?" He inquired. I could not offer a worthwhile explanation, but he extended his other hand, cradling both my hands, while Anna now moved her hands over both of ours. Feeling rather sheepish, I looked over to Holly for a reading. She smiled back, amused at my clumsy brush with the actor and his wife.
The bartender was now indicating "Last Call" while urging, Stephanie, our waitress who had taken a seat with us, to get up and help with closing. Before I could get to my feet, Anna asked if I would be kind enough to settle the bill and calculate the tip for her as she handed me her credit card, adding "We've included your check as well!" I handled her bill with the management, thanking her for her gesture but declined to let her buy our meal.
Holly and Anna exchanged emails; we said our goodbyes, and left the couple to wait for their driver. Walking out into the balmy night from the cozy darkness of Coop's Place and up Decatur Street, there was a quiet moment of reflection on the way that our Cajun-dinner-adventure had ended up.
"I'm glad that we were able to stop them from paying for our dinner, when we were the ones that had sent a round to their table," I said.
Holly teased back in a sarcastic exaggerated Southern flavor.
"Well Mister Sexy Pants, I think that it was their way of showing their delight and appreciation to share some short stories and long laughs with a nice couple. One thing that I noticed about them was how they take care of each other. You have to consider that just about everyone they come into contact with wants something from them. Even though you sounded like a ten-year-old asking for a photo, he somehow remembered you and seemed pleased that you asked. The pride that you thought you were reserving probably would have been outweighed ten times by the pleasure it would have given them to pick up our tab. You could have told your future grandchildren that Jan-Michael Vincent bought us dinner!" Holly teased.
“What about his career? Do you think that we’ll ever see him in front of a camera again?” I asked rhetorically. “Right now, at this moment, everything is exactly the way it is supposed to be,” she insisted.
Holly had a knack for putting things in naked perspective, while not offering a towel.
On a newsstand the next morning I noticed the caption under a photo from the movie stunt work that had been filming when we arrived in town two nights before. The scene was for a remake of the 1972 production THE MECHANIC that had featured Charles Bronson and Jan-Michael Vincent in the title roles.
The next morning--guided by good intuition--we released a handful of Phyllis’s ashes to join the “color guard” of characters at the world’s spiritual “assignment desk” off our hotel balcony on St. Ann St. I turned on the radio as we merged onto I-10 toward the left coast. A Jimmy Buffett song I’d never heard before called Surfing in a Hurricane, escorted Holly and me out of town toward the Mississippi, offering just the right amount of seasoning to these crossroads of coincidence.
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