I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.
It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak of- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.
I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a blue suit the color of a robin’s egg and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.
After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out: “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.
The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, the producer possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.
It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled. We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.
That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.
I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full- and needlessly aggressive- advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state). Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.
After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.
That night, like more than a few drunken escapades over the years, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More pointedly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.
David Agnew Penn 