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Issue link: https://fairweathermagazine.epubxp.com/i/144159
W hen I first met Elaine, she had just moved into the second home she had ever had, a stately place on Main Street in Sag Harbor, NY. I had walked into my frst-ever Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in January of 1999. I was scared to death. I happened to sit next to this woman who was eating, moving, shooting up (for her diabetes), and generally very busy in her seat. At one point she reached across my face, grabbed my cheek and pulled my face around. She examined me and cackled, "You know, you would not be half bad looking if you were not as bloated and bright red." I thought, I am so out of here. Then she asked me for a ride home. I picked up all her bags and brought her to my beat-up truck. She opened the door, and out of one of her bags produced two Regency towels. She put one on the back of the seat, and the other on the actual seat to cover the dog hairs. I drove her to her house and her parting shot was, "You can pick me up at 3 p.m., bring me some decaf Diet Coke, and clean this fucking car." I drove away with no intention of coming back, ever. Yet, I cleaned the car anyway—with no intention of picking her up. I bought the decaf Diet Coke, maybe I'd drink it. Then at 3 p.m., I picked her up. And somehow, I fell in love with Elaine Stritch. In turn, she saved my life. Elaine kept me sober as I watched her with John Lahr and George C. Wolfe write and re-write the play Elaine Stritch at Liberty that would go on to win a Tony and an Emmy. I got to know her through that show. Becoming her friend was a tremendous gift. It also came with a unique set of perks: namely, Bays English Mufns at Christmastime, birthdays, and other occasions. Her husband and one true love was John Bay, actor and member of the Bay family. Bay died in 1982, but the mufns keep coming. Nathan Lane sent Elaine a note after the third case: "Dear Elaine, as God is my judge I will never go hungry again. Nathan." With a peculiar mixture of wild courage and abject fear, Elaine Stritch stood on stages, had dinner with presidents, queens, and all the "swells." She captivated each and every one of them like a mid-century snake charmer. They never had a chance. But the house was a problem. It was difcult for her to hire a housekeeper, and it was confusing to keep track of maintenance, and daunting to be alone at night. She could not understand why the exterminators could not guarantee that she would never see a fy on her property. She became obsessed with decorating, and when the job was done, she no longer understood the purpose to it all and sold it to move back to the city. At the Carlyle, when the phone didn't work, or the lamp needed a light bulb, you picked up the phone and called the desk. The concierge does not quit. The housekeeping staf came into her room with the same expression as the Broadway audiences. You wanted a steak or a lobster, you picked up the phone and dialed room service. There were no fies, feas, or bugs. Clean towels appeared every morning. She never had to deal with a wrong number—there was a switchboard for that. above, top: A telegram from Steven Sondheim, whose Ladies Who Lunch became a signature song for Elaine when she starred in the composer's 1970 musical Company. above, bottom: Elaine's bedside table, showcasing her famous glasses and white gloves. Opposite, top: Elaine's trademark black hat in the foyer entrance of her condo. Opposite, bottom: Elaine showing of one of the many awards she garnered in her extraordinary career. previous spread: Elaine in the living room of her new Michigan condo. FAIRWEATHER | SUMMER 2013 | 37