While I was reading the the latest question at How To Do The Right Thing, I was reminded of my Peter Bergman story, i.e. the ONE time I was not spastic around a celebrity I actually care about.
One of the few perks of my internship at the now-defunct Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn was working at CBS Television City on Beverly Blvd. In addition to my little show, TVC was home to The Price is Right, The Young and the Restless, and Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher among others. I still have my parking pass, allowing me to drive onto the lot with just a nod to the security guard at the gate, which made me more than a little giddy. But the best part of working at TVC was getting to eat in the commissary. Not of the food itself, though it was reasonably priced and the previous class of interns had taught us how to get the most salad into the smallest container, but it was the one place where almost everyone who worked at TVC would venture at one point during the day.
During my first week at Television City, I was still getting a regular lunch break, occurring during a normal lunch time (something that would fade into oblivion as the summer wore on). I was also still feeling out the different lunch options and wanted to try having a hot lunch for the first time since 9th grade. The line was rather long and I was starting to get nervous about having enough time to eat before needing to get back (since it was still my first week and I was hoping to make a good impression – that hope would fade as the summer wore on as well). A tall man cut in front of me as we approached the counter, which was annoying, but not uncommon given my limited height. The chefs behind the counter seemed to know him well and I, ever the people pleaser, was happy to keep them happy.
I studied the menu behind the chefs, waiting for my turn to order. I heard the chef in front of me ask if he was going to have his usual. Then I heard a very familiar laugh. I looked up and saw Peter Bergman, AKA Jack Abbot from The Young and The Restless, standing next to me. It seems Mr. Bergman was on a short lunch break from the set across the way and had ducked into the commissary for his usual sandwich. And now he was looking at me with a mixture of embarrassment and apology, while the chef behind the counter laughed. “I do always get the same thing,” he said to me, shrugging his shoulders. I giggled nervously, looking at his VERY blue eyes and nodded. “When you have something you like, it’s best to stick with it.” He smiled at me and then the chef, who’d been busy making whatever creation Mr. Bergman eats on a daily basis. He grabbed the box from the counter and slipped out of line to pay. I was left with a line full of people behind me and an expectant line cook, waiting for my order as if I could possibly order food at a time like this.
I can’t remember what Mr. Bergman ordered nor what I ate that day. I spent the afternoon counting down until I could call my mom and squeal that I’d seen Peter Bergman in the commissary that day and HE’d talked to ME. This television gig was really starting to look up! (Who knew that’d be one of the only highlights of the whole summer?!)