Three days after our first dinner alone, Burt and I were flying down the back roads of Georgia in that black Trans Am, aided and abetted by Hal Needham and his tribe of stunt folks. I always had an immediate affinity with the crew, any crew, but because I’d grown up with Jocko, a legendary stunt hero, all the stunt guys—and the one stuntwoman—treated me like their little sister, a member of the family. Hal, who not only was Burt’s longtime friend but had been living in his poolhouse for the past twelve years, was incredibly skilled with action: how to plan it, how to perform it, and where to put the camera to capture it, while all the time making sure that the stunt people stayed safe as they accomplished their mind-boggling feats. What’s more, Hal never pretended to be something that he wasn’t: an actor’s director.
Every morning, at the traveling circus of a base camp, Hal would carefully oversee the camera being mounted on the hood of the car, and after he discussed with Burt whose coverage to do first, another camera would be mounted facing the passenger window, or driver’s, depending. Then with a mirror, a powder puff, and a honking goodbye, off we’d go, Burt and I. Which meant that Hal and the camera operator would frequently be left behind. Having only a vague idea of who the Bandit character was or why on earth I was sitting next to him—never mind my character, because I had none—I’d turn on the cameras, clap my hands to emulate the slate, then Burt and I would play the scene with an occasional line of scripted dialogue slipping in along the way. When we’d run out of ideas, Burt would announce into the walkie, “Got it. Heading back.” And whether shooting or returning to base camp, he’d always drive forty thousand miles an hour while peering through the maze of camera equipment clamped and tied and bolted to the car.
The company moved around erratically, in such remote locations most of the time that the civilians never knew where we were until we were packing up to leave. But every now and then, word got out and a huge crowd of rambunctious fans would appear out of nowhere. When they caught sight of that cowboy hat perched atop the Bandit’s recognizable saunter, all hell broke loose. As Burt grabbed my hand, Pete and Tom (his makeup man) would quickly move into position, flanking us while we made a beeline for the safety of his camper. Tom and Pete—blockers to Burt’s quarterback—ran interference, pushing the opposing team back long enough for Burt to pop the door open and scoot in, followed closely by his linemen, who would then slam the tin door behind them—frequently leaving me standing on the outside with the clamoring others. Never sure what to do, I just stood there with my head down, hoping all the frantic admirers would think I was one of them (maybe I was one of them) until slowly I’d slink off, maneuvering a path to my own, but rarely used, motor home. And in the air-conditioned quiet, I’d sit alone, flooded with longing for my children and my life. Eventually Burt would realize I was not in his RV—which sometimes took a while—and Pete would be sent to get me.
In the evenings, when we were away from the set and back in the hotel, Burt’s mysterious and painful episodes seemed to be escalating. Regularly, a doctor would appear with bag in hand, and after a quick check of the patient’s vitals, he’d proceed to give Burt a shot (containing God knows what) directly in his chest. This could not have been a good thing, and I couldn’t understand why everyone around him acted so nonchalant while the man was either writhing in pain, panicked that his heart was about to stop, or was having needles jammed into his thoracic cavity. As the others backed away, quietly leaving the room and shutting the door, I stood there, bewildered that his suffering was being treated so cavalierly by his own team. Little by little, I began to step up, doing anything I could think of: giving him a paper bag to breathe into, wrapping hot towels around his feet, on his face, his hands, assuring him that this was an old and trusted remedy. For what, I didn’t know. The only time he liked me sounding knowledgeable was when it came to his health, and on that particular subject, I didn’t have a clue. I soothed him with dedicated calmness as though he were Peter with asthma or Eli with epilepsy, as if I’d known him my entire adult life, not six or seven days.
Even then, at the very beginning, a sliver of me jabbed, urging me to back out of the room with his guys. I can see it written in my journal, a line here or there, questioning why I was doing this. Why didn’t I run? But those words are disregarded when I write a rebuttal, caught in an argument between me and myself. I’d emphatically state that I had feelings for him, that he had no one but me, that I was concerned about his illness, focusing on my need to heal something unknown—nursing a wound that clearly was not located in him, but in me.
Burt’s condition was nothing new. It had been going on for a while, and though everyone in his inner circle believed—with a shrug—that the episodes were related to stress or anxiety (serious conditions in themselves), I resisted accepting that as an answer because how could you know for sure? Whatever it was, the pain was real to him. As a result, during the day, when we were riding in that car—whether he was in the driver’s seat or I was—part of my attention was on his health, or his heart. Oh, let’s face it, on him. It was my job to dispense the only method he had of dealing with the agony, and whenever he’d signal with a nod of his head or a raise of his eyebrow, I’d hand him a Valium, then another and another, offset by an occasional Percodan or two. Good Christ almighty, he was zooming the car down narrow roads, barely able to see around the forest of equipment, and spouting reams of dialogue while I fed him barbiturates hand over fist. Clearly, I didn’t have my wits about me.
Burt and Hal deciding what to shoot.
Halfway through the shoot I turned into Crusader Rabbit, emphatically insisting that Burt’s health be taken seriously. He needed to know what was causing the pain, whether it was his heart or stress or some unknown condition, because only then could he accurately deal with it. Mind you, I was the girl who could barely call the operator for information—back when there was such a thing. Now I took charge, researching where to go for an examination and when in the schedule the other racing vehicles—either the one containing Jackie Gleason and Mike Henry, or the truck driven by Jerry Reed and the drooling dog—were to be photographed. During that tiny window of time, the occupants of the Trans Am, Burt and I, flew to the Miami Heart Institute with Pete the bodyguard in tow. All very hush-hush—we were to stay the night, then in the morning, under a general anesthetic, a thin tube would be inserted into Burt’s heart to check the coronary arteries and overall functioning of the vital organ. Not a risk-free procedure, but barring any complications, and if no immediate problems were discovered, then he’d be released that day. I was part guardian, part mother, and part spouse, spending the night in his room, sleeping on a chair-like futon in the corner. Early the next day, he bravely kissed me goodbye, saying with a twinkle, “Well, we’ve made it this far.” (Meaning the relationship, not the procedure.) And as they wheeled him away, I stood in the door to his room, tears actually “welling” in my eyes as though I were in a scene from Dark Victory.
I’m not sure if Burt was relieved to hear that he had a strong, healthy heart or if he would rather have heard something dire. Certainly, he wanted to feel that he had the right to be in pain, whether from blockage in a major organ or from signals sent from his brain. It’s still pain. I tried to reassure him that he didn’t need to have heart disease to die, that stress could kill him just as dead as any ol’ thrombosis—which he found oddly soothing. But when I told him that the doctor recommended he get into therapy of some kind, that he needed to learn methods to deal with his stress and anxiety, Burt balked, saying that talking to a shrink was self-delusional poppycock. After that I dropped the subject. We went back to work, back to camera mounts, to dusty roads, to driving with the pedal to the metal, and to pharmaceuticals. Did my children ever visit? No. Did I break Coulter’s heart by telling him I’d met someone else? Yes. Did it make any sense at all—then or now? That’s what I’m trying to figure out.