In those days, I was working as a stage hand at MGM (and sometimes lover to Meryl Streep, but I won't go into that here) when I was one day approached by a short fellow with curly hair and big Lennon eye-glasses wrapped around his eyes like tin can cut outs. MGM was in the midst of a frantic search for the new Tarzan. The whole studio was abuzz with rumors: who would it be? Tom Selleck? Michael J. Fox? The guy who played Potsie? Alas, fate was on my side when Mr. Rollins approached me that blessed day and was lucky enough to spot my sweaty hairless chest.
I had only been in this country a few years at that time, and my knowledge of English was limited to sayings which I had learned from the Sony black and white television I kept on the windowsill in my Burbank apartment. "Kid," this fellow said to me, "you're just what we've been looking for." In shock, I put down my hammer, spit out the nails that I had nestled between my rosey red lips, and said the first thing that came to mind, the only phrase which I could muster in my still young vocabulary, "Yabba Dabba Doo."
What followed was a grueling three week process of photo shoots, weight training, vine swinging, yodeling lessons, and the search for the perfect g-string which wouldn't reveal my unslightly cellulose. Mr. Rollins soon became my companion day and night. He slept in my bed, he cleaned my toilet, he made my message appointments, he taught me the depth of the Tarzan role: the chest beating, the cool, unruly hair, the inspired speech (Me Tarzan. You Jane. Strip.). Yes, it wasn't long that I honestly began to believe in my heart that I was Tarzan!
I shaved my chest hair (not that there was much to get rid of; just one unslightly long hair emerging from my left nipple). I ran laps in my apartment. I did deep knee bends. I was prepared. "Ishmail, kid," Mr. Rollins told me the morning we were about to head off to the sound stage for my first screen test, "You'll win an Oscar for this." I still believe I would have too.
So what happened? Those were still the early days of the filming of Lord Greystoke. John Derek was directing. Don't ask me why, but to this day, John Derek and I don't get along. It may have something to do with my accidently sticking my hand in his plate of guacomoloe bean dip during the cast party after 10 was wrapped up. My apology seems to have mattered little. But whatever the reason may be, it took just one look, and John had me thrown off the set, got the union to cancel my work card, had the studio take back my g-string, and in short, I didn't get the part. Eventually, I left Burbank and headed east, intent on landing a job in New York on Broadway. But that's another story.
