For the last four years I’ve bartended at the Academy Awards and will do so again this year. This is part three of my experiences (Part one, part two)

One reason I think working the Academy Awards is a hassle is because it involves some pre-show effort on my part like going to one location to fill out paper work for the background check then another location to have my picture taken for an Academy Awards access pass.

Security for the Oscars is tight. They slide mirrors under all vehicles entering the garage then force you to clear one or two metal detectors before entering the building. Actually, the security looks tighter than it really is. Since I live around the corner from the Kodak Theatre, I just walk to the event but for some reason I’m not allowed to just walk into the building, I have to be in a car. So last year I just jumped in someone’s car and none of the security checked my credentials, nor did they examine my bag which was large enough to contain all kinds of dangerous materials. They did sift through my bag at the metal detector station but I later realized I got through with a decent sized knife. I remember thinking at the time, “I could stab Nicole Kidman right now if I wanted to.” Not that I have anything against Nicole Kidman (or that I’d stab anybody in couture, for that matter) it’s just one of those things that popped in my head when I discovered the security lapse.

Two years ago, I was lucky I even made it to the event. Due to some poor scheduling on my part, I was working at Laffs in Tucson up until the night before the Oscars. As soon as I finished my Saturday night late show set, I hit the road. All I wanted to do was get home as fast as possible so I could get a couple hours of sleep.

I stopped in Quartzite for gas and went into the bathroom to change into sweats and wash my face. As I was doing so, a woman walked into the restroom and asked me something, which I missed because of the running water. I said, “What?” And she mumbled it again. I still missed it so I was about to turn off the water when she said “Nevermind.”

I finished up then realized what she’d asked: “Is that your wallet there.” I figured this out because I knew I’d brought my little wallet in with me and no longer had it so I must have left it in the stall.

When she came out I said, “I just realized you were asking if I’d left my wallet in there. Yeah, I did.”

She said, “What wallet?”

I glanced inside the stall and sure enough, my wallet was gone.

I asked her to repeat what she asked me when she entered the stall and she said “Nothing.” I told her, “Look, I had my wallet when I went into the stall and now I don’t and I know you saw it and asked if that was mine.”

Little Miss Ghetto Bitch said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I rushed out to the convenience store to see if there was a security guard to assist. At 2 am in the morning, there were about six people in the store, but no security guard. I told the two employees what happened and asked them to call the police, which one did. In the meantime, I tried to block the exit but her husband, who looked like he’s no stranger to a police line-up, got in my face and started calling me names for suggesting his wife had my wallet. They left through another door and I ran out to my car to make absolutely certain my wallet wasn’t there, which it wasn’t. With no way to stop them, they drove off.

Here’s the lucky part of the situation: I’d been paid for the week’s shows in cash but because I was taking off immediately following my set, my purse was jam-packed and I couldn’t reach my wallet at the time so I put the cash in the side pocket of my purse. So there was only about eight dollars in the wallet when I brought it into the bathroom. If my week’s salary had been in there, I don’t know what I would have done. There’s no way I would have let her just take off like that but getting the wallet back would have surely ended up with some bloodshed (mine). Even though she was a couple inches shorter than me, she was carrying at least an extra 50 pounds and I’m guessing she’s thrown down a few times. It would have been a bad scene if I’d really wanted that wallet back. As it was, I was mostly concerned with the annoyance of replacing the contents.

About 10 minutes later, a cop arrived and I told her the story. She said she would drive up and down the freeway a couple times and see if she could find the car. Great, I was never going to get out of Quartzite. As expected, she returned with no luck and asked if I wanted to file a police report. I didn’t want to spend another half hour filling out paperwork- I just wanted to get home. But she really pushed me to do so saying that it would assist me in the event of credit card charges or identity theft. Having been the victim of a nightmarish identity theft situation before, this sold me and I filled out the paperwork. At least an hour after my “quick stop for gas,” I finally hit the road.

I tore off down the freeway still fuming about my wallet and the delay. I travelled about five miles when what to my wondering eyes should appear? Bright flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I instantly laughted thinking, “This is sooo typical.” But it was no time for laughs as I knew I’d been speeding. It was show time and I had to put my game face on. I’m not much of a crier however I possess the ability to cry almost on cue. It’s a skill I’ve used to get out of tickets and work in the past and knew I’d need every tear I could squeeze out this time.

I mustered up a decent mist by the time the officer approached my window. He immediately yelled at me, “DO YOU WANT TO GO TO JAIL? DO YOU WANT TO GO TO JAIL???!!”

I said, “No.”

He replied, “THEN WHY ARE YOU DRIVING 90 MILES AN HOUR IN A 45 MILE AN HOUR CONSTRUCTION ZONE???”

Remembering all the signs I’ve ever seen saying “Traffic fines double in construction zones,” I think my fake tears turned to real ones upon hearing this. I knew I’d have to pull out all the stops to get out of this one.

He asked for my license and registration and I gave him the whole sob story about my wallet being stolen just a few exits back and then showed him the police report card (thankful at this point that I’d decided to file the report). I threw in some shaky hands for dramatic effect. Then he asked where I was coming from and I told him that I’m a comedian and had spent the last week working in Tucson. I mentioned the comedian part simply because people always want to be a “part of the act” so I figured it couldn’t hurt. He asked if the club was Laffs and I was happy he was familiar with it. PLEASE be a comedy fan, I thought.

Finally he asked the question I was really hoping for: “Why are you driving at this hour?”

It was the perfect opportunity to tell him, “I’m working at the Academy Awards tomorrow morning and have to drive through the night to get there in time- I can show you my backstage pass if you’d like.”

I didn’t mention I was bartending and don’t know what I would have said if he’d asked. But, as I’d hoped, the words “I’m working at the Academy Awards” seemed to put the small-town cop under some sort of spell. He handed me back my registration and said, “I’m going to let you go, but slow down and remember this when you do your show tomorrow.”

Jackpot! For some reason, he assumed a nobody like me was actually performing at the Oscars and I guess he hoped I’d throw a shout out to him during the telecast. As I said, everybody wants to be a part of the act.