Greg's Friends: September 2008 Archives

Piercing blue-eyes. Brilliant smile. Easy-going, if somewhat hurried manner. Tight white tee shirt, blue jeans and some kind of serviceable jacket - he was holding a plastic box filled with fish he and my summer-job boss and her husband had just caught.

Ugh! Of course, it was Paul Newman so I didn't immediately want to tell him 'Are you crazy?' Instead I said something like, 'Isn't that the man's job?' Well, he would have none of that. It was 1965 in Westport, Connecticut, the woodsy and quaint hide-away for liberal New York artists and media types - and he knew more about the nascent Women's Liberation movement than I did.

He seemed amused by my discomfort. He had three teenagers at home - Scott, who was my age, and two daughters. He remembered me later that summer when I was responsible for watching his two daughters Susan and Nell when we all went on this trip to see the Beatles play at Shea Stadium. It felt weird since Susan was just two years younger. But hey - we had great seats and a lot of fun - though it was actually hard to hear with all the screaming.

In 1978, Scott died of an accidental overdose of drugs and alcohol. I always wondered if it might have been more intentional than accidental since I was pretty dark and suicidal by then, too. Luckily, I worked for CBS News, which had an employee assistance program - and I got sober in 1980. Years later, I ran into Paul Newman at a fundraiser. Thinking I might never see him again, I pulled him aside, reminded him of the fish scenario, and then told him how sorry I was to hear about Scott - by then Newman had set up the Scott Newman Foundation to help people learn about the dangers of alcohol and drug abuse. I told him I smoked pot with Scott - and how dark we both had become. And suddenly, in this cocoon of intimacy that surrounded us, I became overwhelmed with emotion and I blurted out: 'I don't know why him and not me."

His eyes welled up and he hugged me. "Just be thankful that you're still alive," he said.

"I am. I'm very grateful. And I'll never forget Scott - I promise," I said.

"Thank you," he said, giving me one more hug before returning to the party.

Last June, I celebrated 28 years clean and sober - and I haven't forgotten Scott Newman.

And I've never forgotten how kind Paul Newman was to a strange teenage girl who didn't want to get her hands dirty cleaning fish. Hell, his little lesson about women's independence may have helped create the rebel I became - and remain.