A visit from my best friend from sixth grade who flew in from Boston precluded a stroll down First Street last week to gather material for a column. The following story is a blast from the past when I worked as a lobbyist in Sacramento.
My thoroughbred clients had been promising to introduce me to Burt Bacharach, who’d I’d had a mad crush on for years. It is the summer Del Mar racing season and a recording of Bing Crosby crooning “Where the Turf Meets the Surf” is wafting over the stands.
As lobbyist for the owners, trainers and breeders, I’m sitting in the Turf Club with four of my clients and their attorney, Don Johnson, the lawyer not the PI, who asks me to meet him in the paddock after the next race. Arriving early, I see Don and another fellow heading toward me. Holy Toledo! It’s him!!! My legs go weak as I try to keep my balance in three inch Bruno Maglis. Dressed in Levis and a baby blue tee shirt, Burt is even more handsome in person.
“Hey, Sarah, can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure, sure, I’d love to,” I babble.
Don departs, as I somehow make it through the drink as we talk shop and I act nonchalant like I do this every day. Thank God I’m wearing my glamorous white suit.
As we part he casually says, “I’d love for you to be my guest at my show in Reno in November. I’ll give you a call.”
Thrilled and flattered, I think, He’ll never call. A couple of months later he calls me at the office.
Arriving in Reno by train that November, I’m ushered into Burts dressing room — a vast lounge with a grand piano anchoring a corner where Burt is seated doing some last minute rehearsing. “Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head …..”
Then his manager announces, “It’s time,” and Burt vanishes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Burt Bacharach,” I hear over the sound system as his manager directs me to a plush, leather booth in the theater and joins me.
Is this really happening? Wait ’til I tell my friends. After the show, still vibrating with the thrill of it all, I’m escorted back to his dressing room.
“Would you like to stay for the midnight show?” Burt asks. “Yes!” I say, too loudly as he returns to the piano.
Between shows, Dusty Springfield, Burt’s warm-up singer, and I hit it off as we ravish the buffet and Burt practices. Then a tap on the door and a swarthy, dashing man pops his head in. No freakin’ way! It’s Paul Anka! He’s charming and very attentive and he refills my plate and refreshes my drink. He has flown in to work with Burt tonight, right after the show.
“Would you join me to watch Burt’s midnight show?” Paul asked. Would I! Settling into our booth, we hear Burt announce that Paul Anka is in the house. Paul says something about not being dressed properly. Suddenly a blinding spotlight is trained on us and Paul jogs to the stage.
“Any requests?” he hollers.
“Diana,” someone yells and Paul improvises —“I’m so glad to be here on this stage. I left a lovely lass sitting in my booth.”
This time the spotlight is focused only on me. “Who’s she?” I hear someone say. I’m beside myself with excitement and hoping that my hair hasn’t frizzed up.
The following year, our client who breeds thoroughbreds, offers me the use of his private box at Santa Anita. It ’s opening day, and I’ve invited my two sisters along. We’re hoping to run into Burt and also check out the movie stars.
“If you don’t introduce me to Burt, my younger sister threatens, I’ll kill you!”
We spot comedian Tim Conway and then John Forsyth who was then staring as Blake Carrington in the TV series Dynasty. Pumped up as we head to the restroom, I see Burt just ahead.
“Burt, it’s Sarah Beserra!” I gush, as he graciously greets me and I introduce him to my sisters.
“Sarah, great to see you. I’d like you to meet my wife, Carole Bayer Sager.” Wow, she’s major. What a lucky pup! A diminutive and glamorous woman, she hangs on tightly to Burt’s arm.
“Who are they?” she blurts out, clearly annoyed, as she whisks Burt away. We look at each other and giggle.
Sarah Beserra is an artist, collector, Dharma practitioner and former lobbyist.
Letters From Benicia 