The best part of working at Starbucks in Malibu is serving Warren Beatty. It's a true privilege. Of course, our clients include many of America's most famous stars, but it's very different making a chai latte for Larry Hagman or Robin Wright Penn than making one for Warren. Trust me, I know. Over the years, I've made him far too many to count (1,236).
I love when the Beattys come in as a family unit. That cracks me up. As I said to Warren one day when I handed him a scone, "Who'da thunk?" He seemed confused. I gestured to his brood: "Who'da thunk?" "Yeah," he deadpanned, "three girls and a boy. What are the odds?" "I get you," I said, "but I meant the odds of your having a family. Man to man, I mean, come on, you? 'Splendor in the Grass'? 'Shampoo'? 'Bonnie and Clyde'?" He tapped his scone on the counter: "I think I'm waiting on a chai latte." "O.K.," I nodded, "I'll catch you on the flip side."
The next time he stopped by, I was on him like white on rice. "You remember what we were talking about last time you were here?" He seemed confused: "When was that?" "March 26th, 11:38 A.M.," I informed him. "You have quite a memory," he said. "Our register has an internal clock," I explained, "all receipts are time-stamped." "No," he said. "They are," I insisted. "No," said Beatty, "I don't remember what we were discussing at 11:38 on March 26th."
"Let me ask you a question, Warren." "You don't have to," he responded, "I'll tell you: I'd like a chai latte." "Let me ask you a personal question." "Oh," he said warily, "I don't like those." "Because you're a movie star?" "Because I'm a person." "O.K., Warren, why don't you ask me a personal question?" "I just did: may I please have a chai latte?"
I smiled. I had to admit: the guy was sharp. Not like some of these stars who come in and still can't quite believe that someone with no talent and a gut is living in a $16 million house in Malibu. They love to talk. About their $16 million house. But not Warren. He's over himself. Way over himself. He's been famous for nearly fifty years. He turned down ten football scholarships to attend drama school at Northwestern. His life's been cake, but his body language tells me he's open to others.
I tried again: "You've probably never been asked this, but how much sex have you had?" He stared at me: "Can I just have my tea?" "C'mon," I said, "indulge me. How much sex have you had?" He paused for longer than I've ever seen a normal customer pause. Then he answered, "Enough."
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, "don't be coy. That's not an answer." "Well," he said tightly, "it's my answer." "That's a grade-school response," I told him. "I'm rubber; you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," I recited. "You seem to be both rubber and glue in this situation." he said. "In that each is an irritant to one who's seeking tea."
"Let's start alphabetically," I prodded, "Adjani, Bening, Christie..." "Enough," he cut me off. "You don't actually know, do you?" I asked. "That's incredible. And sort of disgusting." "I'd like to speak to the manager," he demanded. "I am the manager." I love saying that. I've said it to Danny DeVito and Illeana Douglas and Rob Lowe. "Warren," I continued,"have you never sat with a cocktail napkin when you were really bored and listed your partners?" Warren Beatty has a very disconcerting gaze. It was evident in a few frames of "Dick Tracy," but most filmgoers probably aren't aware of it.
"Now, I remember you. My children were in a pageant at their preschool...." "Yes," I confirmed, "your youngest wore a pumpkin for a head." "I asked you to stop snapping pictures with your cellphone." "You did indeed." "But you persisted." He appraised me: "You're very persistent." "And you," I said as I handed him his chai latte, "are very observant."
I followed him to his booth: "Do you mind if I join you?" He looked up: "You want to have sex?" "Now, that's the Warren I know and admire," I laughed. "The Warren who wrote and directed 'Reds' and 'Bulworth.'"
"Don't sit down," he said.
"'Parallax View' is extremely underrated."
"You seem to know me pretty well," he said, "why don't you answer your own question?"
"Cryptic," I smiled, "I like that."
"Don't sit down."
"How about a scone on the house?"
"No."
"O.K. I will answer my own question: Adjani, Bening, Christie..."
"There's a line."
"And you're saying I've crossed it?"
"There's a line at the counter."
"It doesn't matter: I'm the manager."
"Why don't you answer your own question from behind the counter? You could reduce the line."
"Warren, at this point, it's your question. You asked me, 'Why don't you answer your own question?'"
"It wasn't a question. It was a request. Actually, more of a command."
"There are no commands at Starbucks. It's posted in the staff room. We're a team."
"The team seems to have its hands full with that queue."
"Let me explain something, Warren. I travel in coach. I'm not the last one to board the plane or whatever. I'm worth $38,000, $39,000 tops. There's no special booth for me at the Malibu Starbucks. I return my rental car on time like everybody else. There's a 59-minute grace period and then I get hit for two extra hours just like every other sucker...."
"Christ, you're hyperventilating."
"Because I've served you 1,236 chai lattes. Excuse me, 1,237, and you won't answer a simple question."
"1,237? You keep a tally?"
"That's my question for you, Warren: do you keep a tally?"
"No."
"Have you made use of a cocktail napkin?"
He was silent.
"At a family reunion, at a bar mitzvah, when Robert Evans was showing slides of his vacation in Gstaad, have you never found yourself tabulating, reminiscing, recollecting?"
"You're talking about mental calculations."
"Precisely."
"O.K., Tim, how many people have you slept with?"
"My name's not Tim. This is somebody else's name tag. Tim's."
"O.K., whatever your name is, how many people have you shagged?"
"That's a bit blunt, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll go letter for letter. You offer up an 'A' for my 'A.'"
I stared at him.
"You linked me with Adjani."
"Right, but that 'A' is taken. Give me another."
"Fine. Andress."
My eyes bulged. "Ursula Andress? 'Dr. No'? The bathing suit, the conch shell, the scabbard?"
"I'm waiting for your 'A.'"
"That's easy," I told him. "My wife's named Amy."
"So you're not using surnames."
I frowned.
He sighed, "My wife's Annette. Annette Bening. A and B."
"You're lucky there," I told him.
"And your 'B' is?"
"Listen, Warren, I'm out of ammo."
He stared at me. "I've read about people like you. It's some sort of movement or something...."
"It's not that unusual," I told him. "If you have a sec, I'll explain..."
"Don't sit down."
