Paul Newman in orbit …

One of my myriad of part-time jobs was being in charge of the fruit and vegetable concession at the corner of Pacific Coast Highway and Topanga Canyon in Malibu. It was perfectly situated near the Feed Bin in an area where passing motorists could see it and find plenty of room to easily pull off either road and park. The owner would load up the truck at the markets in the wee-hours of the morning, set up on the corner and leave the rest for me to handle while he went off and took care of his other business interests. I only worked a few days a week, the money was good and I got to meet a lot of amazing people surrounded by the kind of food I liked eating while enjoying the sun and sea views.

Many of the customers were old friends and neighbors from Topanga Beach just across the highway. And many were regulars who would stop by on their ways home to Malibu and the canyon from work or from Malibu and Topanga Canyon back down the coast. Quite a few were tourists or visitors. It could be frenetically busy or totally quiet.

It was an quiet afternoon and not long before I’d call it a day and close up shop when an old, beat up older Mustang abruptly veered off the Pacific Coast Highway and skidded to a stop near the intersection instead of parking nearer the truck. I was starting to wonder if the driver was headed towards the truck or just waiting for someone when the driver’s door opened followed by the clatter empty beer can falling out from behind his seat and hitting the pavement as the driver pulled himself out.

In the moment of silence that followed the noise, the driver paused, looked briefly at the beer cans as a few more fell out, shook his head, adjusted his dark glasses and walked slowly, but deliberately towards where I was standing. He was wearing well worn jeans, a pair of well worn and dirty low rise boots, an oil stained T-shirt with a few holes and a worn old leather jacket that was reminiscent of an old bomber jacket without a fur collar. The dark glasses looked like aviator glasses. The driver’s door is still wide open and the cans still on the ground. I can see even more cans behind the seat.

He smiles, hooks an arm of the glasses over the neck of the T-shirt and says, “Never trust an empty beer can.” We both laugh. It’s Paul Newman and he’s going to buy some fruit and vegetables before he he continues on up the coast. I’ve been brought up around people in “the business” and have learned not to fawn or start talking about their movies. I’m there to sell fruit and veggies and so we talk about the weather and what’s good to eat. I am curious about the car and when I ask him if it’s his, he laughs again and tells me it’s one of many old cars he drives around so people don’t recognize him so easily.

I do smell some beer fumes but they’re not coming from his skin so I figure he’s not drunk. He’s totally in control and used to it. He’s easy to be with and doesn’t ask too many questions about me except to ask if I own he place. I answer no and he smiles again and comments that this must be a really good job out in the sun next to the beach. “Guess you meet a lot of different people,” he says. And when I when I say, “Well I’m meeting you” he laughs, puts out his hand, introduces himself as if I didn’t already know and asks my name.

He asks me to recommend the various fruits and vegetables on display and decides on the best of the best because he’s expected up the coast for dinner because he wants to arrive at wherever he’s headed with something useful and a bit special. He pays for it in cash and takes the change. No big noter tips from this guy.

The glasses go back on, he says “Good to meet you Bob … stay loose.” He puts the bags in the car, turfs the cans back behind the seat and gives me a brief salute before he fishtails out into the highway.

Having grown up in a place where it’s not uncommon to run into famous. and in some cases, unusually remarkable people, I’ve come to accept and appreciate that while our lives may revolve in different orbits, those orbits can overlap and sometimes even merge before continuing on their separate ways.

Years later I ran into him again while I was house-sitting the beach house owned by friends in the Malibu Colony. He was coming off their tennis court with Robert Redford and they were toweling off after what must have been a vigorous match. I was there checking up on another friend who was doing some landscaping work around the outside of the court and they both acknowledged us with smiles and nods before continuing up the private drive to wherever they were heading next in their orbits.

Orbits within orbits within a universe of orbits.

Paul Newman in orbit © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved