A few decades ago, a crowd of people, in confusion, mistook me for a huge Hollywood movie star. The cameras clicked, and the flashbulbs popped in front of me. It was mesmerizing for a moment.
For a couple of years in the late seventies, I worked in the largest bookstore in Philadelphia. It was a B. Dalton’s located at 15th and Chestnut, just around the corner from City Hall. The store was situated in a former bank building, and covered four floors.
We saw many famous and semi-famous people come through. Ben Vereen, the talented entertainer, showed up one day. As he was being shown about, he passed a gigantic display of the John Travolta Scrapbook. Travolta was then enormously popular, after a long run starring on TV’s Welcome Back Kotter and the mega-hit movie, Saturday Night Fever.
Vereen paused to look at the display and said in a voice that I took to be disbelief or jealousy, “John Travolta Scrapbook. God damn!”
Another memorable visit was from Mr. Richard Blackwell, a fashion critic, who regularly opined on the best and worst dressed celebrities. Obviously, I was interested in seeing how he was dressed, so I followed behind him and admired his well-tailored dark blue suit. Then I noticed something up around his shoulders, on the back. Could it be? Yes, Mr. Blackwell had dandruff, and a pretty severe case from the looks of it.
Visits such as these paled in comparison to the much-anticipated book signing by hometown hero, Sylvester Stallone. He was back in Philly shooting Rocky 2. In addition, he was promoting his novel, Paradise Alley, and its movie release, starring you know who. His visit to Dalton’s was heavily promoted, and a good crowd was expected, unlike many of our other author promotions.
The plan was to have Stallone on the fourth floor, with the anticipated line of fans queuing up on the three flights of stairs leading up to Bargain Books – Four. When it was over, we would simply take him down the front customer elevator, which for that day would be otherwise unavailable. My guess is that the fire marshal did not sign off on these plans.
Well before the store opened at 10:00, it was obvious that the PR work had succeeded beyond expectation. There was line of fans stretched down the entire block of Chestnut Street from 15th to Broad Street. As with most Philly crowds, there was a bit of edge to them. Some were pushing up against the plate glass windows on the store’s ground level. Management realized that the couple of security guards they had rented would not be sufficient to contain a throng determined to make human touch with Rocky. So, the Philadelphia Police were called.
This was Frank Rizzo’s Philadelphia. The former Police Commissioner became Mayor in 1972 and served in that capacity for two terms. With its former leader now as the chief authority for the city, the police force retained its iron law and order grip on the populous. Thus, a call regarding a potential unruly mob was likely welcomed – a great excuse to wield a billy club! The next thing we knew, a large police bus rolled up in front of the store, and a couple of dozen cops piled out, ready to keep the peace.
Finally, the front doors were opened, and in an orderly, controlled manner, the line was led slowly up the steps to the fourth floor, where it stopped to await the arrival of the author. A while later, a limo pulled up, and Stallone stepped out. He was hustled into the store and placed on the elevator to Bargain Books. As the elevator door opened on the fourth floor and he was led to the signing table, I am sure that a cheer went up, but I didn’t witness it. I was down on the first floor.
From the moment he arrived, the discussion between store managers and the police was how he was going to get out of the store safely. With the never-ending line out on Chestnut Street and a one-hour signing period, it was obvious that there were going to be many disappointed folks denied the opportunity to be near Stallone and to secure an autograph. A strategy was hatched that would result in him being led down a back emergency exit staircase to the store’s back door. It opened onto an alley – not quite a paradise – but a standard alley for dumpsters and emergency departures such as the one to come.
As Stallone’s signing period was coming to a close, the driver backed his limo into the alley, then a phalanx of cops surrounded the vehicle and blocked off access to the back of the store. Not surprisingly, hundreds of people followed the limo and the cops, and the crowd jammed into the front end of the alley up against 15th Street.
I was given an important responsibility. When Stallone was approaching the bottom of the staircase, I was to open the emergency door, swinging it wide onto a landing that overlooked the alley. We didn’t have walkie-talkies, and inside I couldn’t see more than one set of steps up. I was flying blind, and there was a lot of noise coming from above. Then the noise got louder, and I heard loud footsteps and raised voices approaching from above. This must be it! As soon as I saw the first feet come within view, I pushed open the emergency door and stepped out onto the landing.
I did not expect the scene below me – cops everywhere and a mob of people. A massive cheer went up from the crowd, and flashbulbs went off everywhere. They thought I was Stallone! It was intoxicating.
Then, I thought, where is Stallone? He should have been right behind me. But I was the only one who had come through the door. And there was no one behind me. So, I went back inside, closing the door. I am sure that some in the alley horde booed, as it was a Philly crowd.
Seconds later, I heard from up the staircase, “He’s coming, he’s coming.” Rocky then came into view and onto the last set of steps – I saw him this time – and I opened the door again. This time he went first, and I went out behind him. Once again, the ear-splitting roar began, and the flashbulbs popped, this time for an extended period. Stallone gave a movie star wave from the landing, then quickly moved down the last few steps to the waiting limo. The cops parted the sea of fans, and Rocky was driven away.
Days or weeks later, when those fans got back their developed photos from that day, many of them had one picture of me alone. They had been so eager to see Stallone that they were snapping before they could even verify who it was. What does that say? And did they keep that picture of me?