Legends and Lipstick: My Scandalous Stories of Hollywood's Golden Era by Nancy Bacon

Author:Nancy Bacon [Bacon, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Excessive Nuance
Published: 2017-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

omar takes a drag, and i take the plunge

When I recall all the crazy, wonderful, outrageous nuts I have known and loved I can’t help smiling even as I mourn their passing. All of them were loners of one kind or another. They all had a desire to live it all the way. They were right. They knew that they had to go out and grab any happiness they could because no one was going to hand it to them. We are born alone and we die alone. No one is going to chuck it all and leap into the casket with us when they are planting us six feet under.

One such person who was constantly taking steps to be and do just exactly as he pleased, was Omar Sharif. I met Omar at The Factory (not to be confused with Andy Warhol’s in New York) in a most unusual way. He was sitting in the main room near the fireplace, watching Sammy Davis sing his heart out onstage. His long legs were propped up on another chair and he was leaning back, his huge, liquid brown eyes half-closed. I recognized him at once and pulled my girlfriend, Charlotte Ronan, aside. ‘Charlotte,’ I said, ‘there’s Omar Sharif. Let’s go sit by the fireplace and order a drink. I’ve always wanted to meet him.’

‘Okay,’ said my gorgeous companion and we found a couple of chairs and pulled them up next to the fireplace.

I have to describe Charlotte for you. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known; five-foot nine, long, thick mane of red hair, enormous blue eyes, catlike grace, and the most ladylike manner of anyone anywhere. She reminds people of visiting royalty. Every time we went out together every guy in the place would find some excuse to walk by our table, she is that gorgeous.

Omar was no exception. He glanced up as we sat down, looked harder, did a double take, then flashed us that famous white-toothed grin of his. He offered to buy us a drink and, of course, we accepted. Soon we were chatting with him as we half-watched Sammy Davis. Omar seemed captivated with Charlotte and even a little shy as we spoke together. He fumbled in his pocket, took out a long, brown cigarette, and fired up. I thought I recognized the aroma and couldn’t believe it. Certainly a world-famous movie star like Omar wouldn’t be that stupid, to smoke grass in a public place? (Remember, this was the mid-sixties) But he contentedly puffed away, gaining confidence for the pass he was to make at Charlotte, until a waiter approached us and said, confidentially, ‘Uh, excuse me, Mr. Sharif, you can’t smoke pot in here.’

‘Pot?’ snorted the handsome Egyptian. ‘My good man, I’ll have you know that this is not that wanton weed you Americans seem to favor. This—’ (and he flourished the brown cigarette) ‘is a fine, old, and rare blend of Turkish tobacco.’ With that he took another hit

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