Eric Kaldor’s Blog
Classic TV – Emergency!
I never wanted to be a fireman when I was a kid. I wanted to be a clean-up hitter on The Yankees. I Didn’t quite make that one. But in my early 30’s, I got a shot at being a fireman—at least for a couple of days.
That came about because I was a neophyte writer in Hollywood with some unspectacular credits. My main employment at the time was writing one liners for Soupy Sale, and that’s when my agent called. The hot, new show “Emergency!” was looking for young writers, and it seemed the more established writers wanted no part of the show because it meant spending a weekend at a fire station collecting stories.
I jumped at the chance. After a short interview with the producer, who actually laughed at some of my one liners, he went out on a limb and gave me the job.
I arrived early at a fire station in Duarte, CA. Some of the guys were polishing the hook and ladder, some were unraveling and raveling fire hoses, two guys were playing catch, one guy was perusing a back issue of Penthouse, the cook was preparing lunch and the Dalmatian was snoring under the ambulance.
And As soon as I stepped foot in the station, everyone stopped what they were doing and made me feel at home. They showed me my bunk and prepared a magnificent lunch.
After lunch there were five hours when absolutely nothing happened, and then all hell broke loose.
The first emergency was a heart attack at a 7-Eleven. A 70 year old had keeled over in front of the condom display.
When we arrived at the convenience store, one of the paramedics jumped on his walkie talkie to the hospital. The other guy started checking vital signs that were rapidly approaching a flat line. The victim’s face was a light color blue, and heading towards magenta.
I stood back and marveled at the paramedics’ efficiency. When cardiac comes to arrest me, I decided that I want these two guys at my side. I watched them slap an oxygen mask on the victim and immediately there were signs of life. The victim vomited into the mask. I looked away. When I had the guts to look back the guys had cleared the mask and were administering Lidocaine. Two minutes later, the old man was in the ambulance and we were rushing to the hospital.
It was clear that these two paramedics were keeping the victim alive. The ride to the hospital was hairy. We weaved in out of traffic with the sirens blasting. With NASCAR was just becoming popular, the driver could have gone on that circuit and undoubtedly made himself more money than he was earning now.
We arrived to the hospital fast. The patient was whisked away on the gurney and the two paramedics still had traces of vomit on their uniforms
The ride back to the fire house was rapid and smelly. The guys apologized as if it was their fault. I breathed through my mouth and told them they had probably saved a man’s life. They weren’t so sure. We got back to the fire house where the guys washed up and then checked in on the victim. So far so good they were told. He was in ICU but his vitals were improving rapidly. He was going to make it.
Ten minutes later we got another call. This one wasn’t an emergency, it was actually funny. Someone had caught his arm in one of those big, blue U.S. Mail boxes—which at the time were ubiquitous on every street corner— but now have gone the way of the Dodo.
The fire captain called the postal department and alerted the cops because it could be a robbery, then once again, we sped to the scene. The perpetrator turned out to be an 11 year old girl. After some brief questions, she had been in the process of mailing a “Dear John” letter to her boyfriend. When she changed her mind, she reached into the box for the letter and got stuck.
The paramedics gently lifted the girl off the ground and very gently extricated her arm. She was teary and asked the fireman to retrieve the letter. A postal inspector who had arrived on the scene said, “No can do.”
But one of the fireman had an answer. “Honey, Get right on the phone,” he said. They piled the girl into the fire truck and took her home. Before she ran into the house she kissed all the fireman plus The Dalmatian—twice.
We headed back to the fire house and it was quiet for an hour. We were just about ready to eat when there was an alarm that a chemical fire had started in a tire warehouse. This one wasn’t funny. It was dangerous. The conflagration was roaring when we got there. The guys worked methodically but quickly. Two more stations arrived and as soon as the fire died down, a group of firemen entered the smoldering building in gas masks.
An hour later they had conquered the fire, instead of vomit, everybody was covered in soot.
Back at the station we finally sat down to a cold dinner, but we never had a chance to finish it. The guys were ordered to a car accident where there were injuries. As soon as they packed the injured off to a hospital, they were summoned to a fire in someone’s kitchen. After that, there was a call about another heart attack, then a call about a small brush fire in a canyon, two more strokes, and finally, another car accident.
At 3:00 a.m., the firemen finally piled into their sacks. At 4:30, we were woken again. The captain checked the address of the emergency and groaned. “Not Gertrude again,“ he moaned. And all the guys joined him. Yes, it seemed it was Gertrude’s address and there was nothing they could do about it. They had to go. But this time they drove slowly.
I didn’t ask who or what Gertrude was. I wanted to be surprised. And I was. Gertrude turned out to be a very fat man in bikini underwear. The guys knew him very well and Gertrude was very pleased to see them. “What was it this time?” the paramedics asked.
Gertrude said, “The usual…I’m afraid.”
“You were just lonely again?” One of the firemen asked. The fat man hung his head and said, “I guess so…”
“You want us to check your vital signs, as usual?” One of the firemen asked.
“Would you do that?” Gertrude said.
The paramedics checked his blood pressure and then they all said goodbye and one of them said, “Till next time.” And they left. Not one of the fireman made fun of Gertrude or complained.
There were two more alarms that night. Nobody got any sleep. And yet, after that horrific shift, everybody headed to their respective homes, happy.
I wrote up my story and the producer of “Emergency!” was happy too. I got three more assignments that year and around the “Emergency!” office, I was kind of a hero. I accepted all the accolades gracefully, but I knew who the real heroes of “Emergency!” were.
Naked In Hollywood
I was 78 years old when I got the call from my agent. I had been a writer in Hollywood for 40 odd years, had parts in movies and TV, and did a slew of commercials. I had two pensions, Social Security, and residuals. I had it made, and I didn’t need what he was proposing. But I listened anyway…
Hey buddy I got an audition for you that’s right up your alley.
Tell me about it.
It’s a commercial for Hertz. It’s a national. Maybe worldwide.
But you gotta go naked.
A LONG PAUSE…
You gotta problem with that?
Kind of what?
I Kind of have a problem because I’m pushing 80.
That’s exactly what they’re looking for—old guys.
I was ready to interrupt but the agent was on a roll…as usual.
You still go to the gym dontcha?”
Then you’re lookin good…
It’s not about looking good or bad I just don’t wanta.
AGENT (mimicking me)
Ya just don’t wanta? This is a national, maybe worldwide commercial. Besides, you told me you were a nudist.
That was 50 years ago and I only went to a nudist colony, once.
You told me twice.
That’s enough. Your time is 4:30 at Commercials Etc.. Don’t be late—and oh, there’s something else…
Don’t dress for the part.
At one time my agent had aspirations of being a comedy writer. The would-be comedy writer, now commercial agent, hung up the phone laughing. I wasn’t, and thought about not going on the audition. And then I was thinking, what the hell, this could be a gas. After all, I went to the gym and had gone to a nudist colony, twice.
The audition was in a huge office where I had been many times before. The office was filled with old men in all shapes, colors, and sizes. A lot of them were in slippers and bathrobes. I knew they were naked under those robes. When my time to audition came I was ushered into a smaller room with five other old guys. The room was freezing.
Facing us in that room was a slip of a girl. She couldn’t have been over 18. She reminded me of my granddaughter. She was the casting director.
Mumbles of “Hi” from us guys.
You’re all here cause it doesn’t bother you to go naked. Right?
The remark is met with grumblings.
I need more enthusiasm. But the time has come. C’mon guys. Take it off! Slowly five old men began to strip.
Naked means without boxers or jockeys.
More mumblings were heard, but after a while, all of us were naked. It was after all, a national commercial. We stood as far apart as we could from one another. Everybody looked straight ahead. The room was freezing, but I’ve said that before.
The casting girl took up a position behind her camera. She squinted into the lens.
You guys are standing too far apart. Clump together.
ALL OF US
Yeah, lemme tell ya what this commercial is all about—You. Guys are in the gondola of a balloon. The balloon’s just crashed.
And we’re all naked in the gondola?
Yeah. Your nudists. That’s the tag to the commercial.
C’mon closer together.
We shuffled about, but not looking at each other. Perhaps we were a centimeter closer.
C’mon tighter than that!
I felt somebody’s cold rump against my back. Then somebody stepped on my foot.
C’mon guys don’t look so serious. And all of you keep your eyes open!
We did what we were told with frozen grins on our faces. I looked down at my dick. It was half way up my stomach. It was freezing in there…
Now bend down so no one will see ya in the gondola.
Oh my God…
But I followed instructions. My nose was half an inch from somebody’s withered, old hairy rump. I disregarded the prior instructions and closed my eyes.
￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼Now jump up together. A Honda station wagon is coming. It’s here. Now yell “It’s a Honda! Can we get a ride?”
We did as we were told. But the casting director was dissatisfied that we were not jumping in unison, or not yelling loud enough, or smiling to her satisfaction. She made us repeat the process five times!
When I got home I took the longest shower of my life. And then I got a call back!
I went through the entire process again, this time in front of a roomful of advertising executives. They seemed to like my jumping and yelling “It’s a Honda!”
But I never got the commercial and I called my agent to ask why.
They went in a different direction.
What kind of direction?
You were in too good of shape. They went with really fat guys. Makes it funnier, right?
I’m not laughing.
Not to worry, I got something else that’s right up you’re alley.
ME—being very cautious.
O.K., I’ll bite.
Ya know how to jump around on a pogo stick while ya gyrate with a hula hoop?
Do I have to repeat myself? I’m 80 years old!
That’s exactly the age they’re lookin for. I’ll call you next week with the time. Start practicing…it’s a national.
He hung up before I could, but I actually practiced a bit. Ater all, it was a national commercial. But I didn’t get that one either and I called my agent to find out why again.
They went in a different direction.
They got a trained chimp, funnier right? Again I didn’t laugh.
But I got something else. you’re not afraid of heights or wild animals? Are ya?
I hung up before he could tell me it was for a national.