July 9, 2020

When I first started in show business, I had one of the all-time greatest jobs. I was a candy and drink guy at Broadway’s Broadhurst Theatre on 44th Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues. I was paid $7.50 a show. The hours — 7 to 9 p.m. — were great for comedian because the comedy clubs didn’t get rolling until 10 p.m. Eventually, I got fired for pilfering and jerking around. Losing a high-paying job like that is a real kick in the gut. 

The real “pay” was free admission to any other Broadway theater. They let you into their theater and you let them into yours. “A Matter of Gravity,” starring Katharine Hepburn and Christopher Reeve, was at my theater. And believe it or not, this candy guy got to be friends with Katharine Hepburn. I also had the honor of watching Hepburn and Reeve for nearly 70 performances. You would think that it would have made me a better actor but it didn’t.

One afternoon, two hours before curtain and early in the run of the play, I came in early to make sure we had enough Goobers, Chuckles and Orangeade for the evening performance. There was Katharine Hepburn, running around the theater opening every door, upstairs and downstairs. She wanted to cool off the theater. After finishing, she quickly disappeared backstage. One of the workers said to me, “She comes in everyday at 5 and opens the doors. She won’t perform in a hot theater.” 

So the next day, although I didn’t have to I came in early, I was there at 4:50 p.m. Five on the dot, Hepburn arrives and starts opening all of the doors. I worked up the courage to ask her, “Miss Hepburn, can I help you with the doors?” “Who are you?” she barked. “I’m Mark. I run the candy concession if you ever want anything.” “No, thank you,” she said. And then she said, “You need a cold theater to keep the people awake.” I said, “Why don’t you get someone to do it for you?” She said, “Can’t take the chance. They might forget.”

So, practically every day for the next two months, I came in two hours early and met with Hepburn. Eventually, she trusted me enough and let me open the upstairs doors for her. I was honored. After all the doors were open, she would say, “Good job.” Every once in a while, she would even tip me. When I said no, she made me take it.

Then amazingly, every day she would delight me for five or 10 minutes with stories about James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Spencer Tracy and many others. Nice stories, no nasty gossip. Just sweet recollections. It was a mind-blowing experience to hear the “First Lady of Cinema” in her New England accent say, “How are you, Mark?” 

If I could have, I’d have given you an Academy Award for kindness.

Then one day, she ran in and yelled, “Come here.” She then handed me a copy of Cagney’s autobiography “Cagney by Cagney.” Inside of the book, she’d written the most beautiful inscription. About two weeks later, I heard, “Come here.” She handed me a wrapped package and said, “Here, I did this last night.” Removing the paper, I unveiled what became one of my most treasured possessions: an original ink self-portrait of her character in full costume — a signed drawing by Katharine Hepburn for me. Mind-blowing. I imagined her sitting in bed wearing Chinese silk pajamas mumbling out loud, “Mark will love this.” The last time she called for me, she said, “Come here,” she handed me her home phone number. She said, “Give me a call if you ever want to talk.” 

This was the mid-1970s. I was 23 years old and earning $7.50 a night with no career prospects. I was living in a mouse-infested, $150-a-month slum apartment and Katharine Hepburn had handed me a self-portrait and her phone number. That would be the equivalent of the Lubavitcher Rebbe telling a new convert to come to his house to play pinochle and have dinner with him. 

Later that night, in my freezing apartment, staring at her number in disbelief, I thought, “Call her and chat about what? What do I have to say to Katharine Hepburn?”  Perhaps, “Hi, Kate, it’s Mark the candy guy. I’m fine, thanks. Listen, tonight after your standing ovations from 1,200 people, can we grab some Raisinets and then what do you say we hit a movie? Why don’t you call Cagney and Henry Fonda and see if they also want to come? Then after the movie, let’s stop at Lauren Bacall’s place for some drinks. I’m sure she’d love to meet me.” Or should I say, “My father just got a new Bell and Howell 8mm camera. You want to be in some of our home movies? I’ll direct.” 

I never made those calls but the day I did call her, peeing in my pants was the least of my problems. As her phone rang, all I could think was “What are you doing? What am I crazy? Who are you to call Katharine Hepburn?” Then I heard  that distinguished voice, “Who is it?” I said, “Hello. Hi, Miss Hepburn, it’s Mark from the theater.” She said, “Mark, how can I help you?” I said, “I just called (choke) to (choke) say hi.” “Hi to you,” she said. Then very sweetly, she said, “That’s nice of you to call. I’m having a party at my house tonight for some friends. Why don’t you come by?” The word “OK” flew out of my mouth. I hung up and thought, “What was that?” Katharine Hepburn just invited me to a party at her house. That was the last time I wore those pants. 

I can’t tell you how scared I was going by myself to a party at Katharine Hepburn’s house. What was happening? She lived at 244 E. 49th Street in a four-story townhouse in Turtle Bay. I didn’t feel worthy to even walk into her home. She greeted me at the front door and with a hardy handshake said, “Glad you’re here. Go in and have a good time.” I was so stunned that I don’t recall much from that evening. 

I do remember standing on a spiral staircase looking at little gold statues sitting out of plain sight. She saw me looking. I said, “What are these?” She said, “My Academy Awards.” She still holds the record of most Academy Awards for acting: four. 

After the play closed, I lost touch with her. If I didn’t have the book and the drawing, I might have thought I imagined the whole thing. The relationship, like the play, was a limited run. I felt incredibly grateful for the experience but something inside me told me it was over, and I respected that voice. I certainly didn’t want to ask her for help. When you’re given a gift, it’s not polite to ask for another one. 

It was the type of relationship where you wonder why a person was being so nice to you. I had absolutely nothing to offer her in return. I would just sit and listen to one of the greatest actresses who ever lived regale me with stories. Hepburn was very kind to me. What’s more amazing was she seemed to really enjoy talking to me. I think she understood I was a young kid in a difficult world trying to get a leg-up on life. It was written all over my face and she read it perfectly. 

The day we met, she easily could have told me she was busy and had no time to talk and I would have understood. Instead, she talked with me for a few minutes every day. You don’t have to be Katharine Hepburn to be kind to a new kid on the block. You just have to be sensitive. And who was more sensitive than the First Lady of Cinema?

She died in 2003 at 96. It’s nice when kind people live a long time. There are way too many who don’t. Thank you, Miss Hepburn. If I could have, I’d have given you an Academy Award for kindness. I hope I can pay it forward in a small way. After all, you can’t keep it if you don’t give it away.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer.