Shelly Winters

It was kinda neat. It must have been in November or December when Shelly Winters was headed to the 9th floor SAG Credit Union and had caught my eye in the parking lot of 5757 Wilshire Blvd. Together, we walked up the tile causeway, past the lobby clerk's rotunda and the wall of blinking lights of the Museum Square building, finally parting when I stepped out of the elevator at 7, and she continued to 9.

In the parking lot, she saw that I had recognized her, and she had slowed her pace and leaned into me with a quip to entice me into a conversation--something few people in Los Angeles have time for. She was now just a California Old Lady who had thrown together a nice outfit and paired it up with flip flop sandals that had toes hanging over the edge in front. She was flirty and kittenish and wanted to talk. It was very easy for me to overcome my awkward shyness and be alive with the energy she was giving, and I felt lucky.

She was also carrying a small lap dog, and I believe that was the extent of our conversation: How much she appreciated her little dog. Ever since the Lucie Arnaz Luckinbill incident, I've come to understand that one isn't supposed to compliment celebrities on their work, so I didn't say anything about any of that, but later on, I remembered all of the great movies I had seen her in. She was quite a performer. Her dog must be very sad.