The Smoke Weaver's Other Daughter

I miss my old friend Thomas Barbour.

He died a few months ago.

Many know him from his movies-- "Arthur", "Suspect", "The Age of Innocence" and "Girlfight".
I knew the real Tom Barbour off-stage.

He was not the most famous person I ever worked for but he will always be my favorite actor.

I never watched the movie ‘Arthur’. I was very young when it first came out and could not manage to sit for two hours when it finally appeared on the small screen.

I have always liked the theme song by Christopher Cross and the verse that warns listeners “you can get caught between the moon and New York City”. The song hauntly echos in the wide open spaces of my musical mind every time it is played on the radio.

When I was a child riding in the back seat of my step-father’s Chevy, we argued over the lyrics to that song. Dad always insisted the the words from Arthur's Theme were “You can get drunk between the moon and New York City.”

“That’s stupid,” I said. “That’s not what he’s singing.”

The family would laugh at my obsession with poetry and musical lyrics.

Those lyrics always seemed odd to me. They were prophetic in nature, even while listening to them as a kid.

I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.

After I started working for the man who played an important role in "Suspect" with Cher, I ran to Blockbuster to see my boss at work as a professional actor in the Dudley Moore classic, “Arthur on the Rocks”.

The Hollywood scene didn’t impress Tom. He came from money and he didn’t pursue acting for the fortune and fame. He never bothered applying for a star on the Hollywood walk of fame.

It didn’t really matter all that much to him that he portrayed Arthur’s father,--at least he pretended to be modest when I asked him about being a movie star.

“I rented Arthur last night. It was weird watching you in it. Now here you are sitting right in front of me,” I said like a star-struck employee.

“You did? Well good! I got lots for you to do today,” he said while brushing off the compliments.

Tom was a Harvard graduate with a degree in literature. In addition to acting he spent his life writing plays. His favorite was “The Smoke Weaver’s Daughter”.

When I worked for him on weekends to afford my outrageously expensive New York City rent we spent many hours trying to figure out which draft of ‘The Smoke Weaver’s Daughter" was the most recent.

"I’m not sure if this is the one, it’s dated August 1952."

"Hell no! It was much later than that."

He was a member of the Screen Actor’s Guild and a registered voter for the annual awards ceremony when Hollywood honors its own.

Tom, who started to lose his vision at the end of his life, hired me as his personal seeing- eye- secretary.

The accomplished actor asked me who we should vote for as we went into his personal mail and stumbled upon the SAG ballot.

I had recently been discharged from an in-patient psychiatric unit in New Jersey and could hardly organize my thoughts while on Lithium. My hands trembled while I held up the ballot and read off the names to my boss.

It was hard reading the fine print. He was patient with me as my mind slowly learned to read again.

The job working for Tom was heaven sent for someone in the mind-shattered state that I was in at the time.

St. Vincent Hospital's $120 session per visit cost to see a shrink was killing me financially despite the fact that I was a member of a reputable HMO.

Tom was willing to allow me to work for as many hours as I needed to help cover my medical costs. His company and patience helped to pull me back. It was comforting to be in his presence when I was alone in my post-psychotic state and nobody else seemed to want to spend too much time with me.

He was a lot like a father to me.

On his desk, beneath piles and piles of unfinished drafts of “The Smoke Weaver’s Daughter” was something called "Brain Gum". The gum was one of those practical joke products that one can buy as a gag gift.

"She sucks, don’t vote for her!" I said while chewing the stale gum as we read the piece of mail from the Screen Actor’s Guild.

"Then we’ll vote for someone else. Read a little more to me," he giggled.

The hours ticked by and he payed me the the salary he promised– $20 per hour, plus personal insight to his "magic drawer" in the bedroom.

It was a drawer filled to the top with twenties.

Every Saturday before returning home, Tom often needed something from the corner deli.

“Will you do me a big favor before you leave me and run home to your lover?” He asked.

“Sure, do you need something from the deli?” I would ask.

“As a matter of fact I do. Do you know where my magic drawer is?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well, take out one twenty dollar bill, buy me a bagel and coffee, and bring back the change,” he ordered.

I gave him his food, filled out my own check and guided his hand to the proper place for signature.

He grew sad as I left him there in the dark and headed home to a lover with whom I was in a monogamous relationship with.

"I never had a real lover like you do," he said.

"I can't imagine why not! Hell, you are loaded! Half of gay New York City would marry you if you would just ask." I replied.

"Oh, you are a naughty one," he said while laughing in the dark like an actor from a silent movie.

“There’s tons to do around here, you don’t have to leave so soon!” he said temptingly with his magic drawer calling from from the bedroom.

"I have to go home, Tom. Bradley does not like it when we don’t get to spend our Saturdays together."

“Well then, suit yourself,” he said while I led him to his bedroom in the dark and the theme from Arthur whispered in my mind, like an intrusive thought.