Unholy Union: A Jay Leno Adventure

My father was a butcher. Tough, bloody work that enabled him to be a member of a union that would, unfortunately, go on strike every couple of years. I am a television writer. It’s soft, dainty work that has enabled me to be a member of a union that, unfortunately, goes on strike every couple of years. 

I would sometimes picket with my dad, and the similarities between our two situations pretty much ended at a shared ability to walk slowly in an oval while every fifth passing driver shouted “Get back to work” at us. I can certainly tell you that my dad and his union brothers and sisters whilst striking most certainly didn’t get visits from celebrities. We writers got celebs galore! In the early days of both strikes, in 2007 and 2023, the lines of slouching writers would be visited by all manner of glamorous thespian, accompanied by personal photographers to capture all the largess.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus! Bryan Cranston! Susan Sarandon! Heck, I even saw the late M. Emmet Walsh one day (who was not yet late but certainly on his way). And many of these stars would often come bearing donuts. No one came by more frequently and snack-laden, if you were assigned to the sweltering NBC/Universal gate, than Tonight Show with Jay Leno star, Jay Leno. 

Jay got into a bit of trouble with the union during the 2007 strike for supposedly solitarily penning one-liners for his show while his staffers paced around outside. I got the impression that he was making up for this transgression with his daily visits of support. 

Double-parking that day’s classic car from his massive collection, Jay would leap out resplendent in his sky-blue denims. He clearly wanted a high-visibility show of support for the random, perspiring scribes. On the first day of our action, he pulled up in a shiny, 1934 red Alvis Firefly with cream fenders. He quickly shuffled up to me and flipped open a box of sweet, sugary rings from Winchell’s. I grabbed a maple bacon and a napkin. Jay winked at me and complimented my choice. When all had been distributed, he hopped back into the loudly purring roadster and peeled away, while raising his fist and shouting “Joe Hill didn’t die!” I heard more than one person describe him as a scab, but what kind of scab summons up the ghost of executed Wobblies martyr Joe Hill? I really liked “activated” Jay Leno. 

As our days of marching… marched… on, Jay’s breakfast pastries became more elaborate, as did his clear vocal dedication to old school union values. On an overcast Wednesday, he popped the trunk of his 1934 Bantam Model 60 roadster and produced trays of Croquembouche, the French pastry chef masterwork that’s a pyramid of choux pastry puffs held together with hand-spun caramel.  We all put down our signs and stood with paper plates and plastic forks, consuming the melt-in-your-mouth heaven of a dessert. 

We all thanked Jay and I made a point of complimenting his near-pristine Bantam. “Forerunner to the Jeep, you know,” he replied. He then fished around his pocket for a bit, produced a pair of brass knuckles and placed them into my palm. 

“Any Pinkerton thugs come for you guys, give ‘em what’s what!” he announced. Having grown up in a union household, I knew about Joe Hill, and Pinkertons, but the references were lost on my presumably Harvard-educated fellow picketers. Jay raised his voice, “Anyone tries to break this line, you break their face.” There was some stunned silence, and someone in the crowd replied, “Violence isn’t the answer.” 

Jay’s considerable face turned red. “Well maybe you need to ask some different questions, fuck nut.” Jay turned to leave but then stopped and turned to me.

“What are you driving these days?”

I told him it was a 2019 BMW 430i. 

“Divorced guy, huh?” 

I admitted I was. His face turned kinder and we had a laugh. 

The visits continued. On another day Jay showed up in a 1936 Dodge open-air touring bus, in which stood several breakfast buffet chefs, at individual stations, making omelets and carving pristinely marbled sides of prime rib. While I was choking on a particularly abundant helping of freshly made wasabi (there was also sushi), Jay lectured me and two Suits writers about the 1921 assassination of the pro-miner police chief Sid Hatfield and how it led to the Battle of Blair Mountain. As he wound down the story, Jay looked at the 3 of us and asked “You guys wanna touch my Tonight Show money?” 

For those of you in the know, Jay Leno has famously gone on record as saying he’s never “touched” his Tonight Show money and pays for his groceries and extremely rare cars with his earnings from touring. The three of us were very interested in doing so and Jay quickly returned from the cab of the bus with what can best be described as executioner’s hoods, if executioners did not need to see while doing their important work. These coarse canvas headpieces were designed to deprive one of all their senses, save for a small zipper near the mouth area,  which I prayed was utilized only for breathing purposes. 

“I can’t have anyone know where I keep all that money,” Jay explained. 

The Suits guys were more than happy to put the masks on and were guided into the back of the bus by two of the sushi chefs. Being claustrophobic, and not liking a certain mildewy smell to the appliance,  I declined. It may have been a trick on the unrelenting Los Angeles sun, but I could swear Jay’s eyes flashed blood red. 

“Don’t be a wussy!” he hissed. “I’d call you a pussy but I work clean.” He was an inch from my face, his chalky jowls atremble. 

I thanked him for the offer and promised some other time. He forced a smile and took off with the masked Suit-ers. 

Jay didn’t show for a few days, and I figured he had gotten all the publicity he needed. But on the following Monday he returned, pulling up with a mechanical roar in a massive and gleaming hunter green 1931 Packard 840 Deluxe 8. In the open rumble seat were stacked small cardboard boxes, each of which contained an individual Charlotte Russe, the once-popular but now-obscure sponge cake dessert topped with spirals of fluffy whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.

“A bakery in Staten Island is one of the last places in America that makes these things. Had ‘em flown in special last night,” he exalted.

While I happily ate this rapidly wilting confection, I was struck by the beauty of this Packard. Deep, sweeping fenders like ski slopes, a jointed and vented hood that let the massive engine breathe, a fold down windscreen, velvety soft top, and an ornately stitched brown  interior that would be described on a modern car sale sticker as “deep espresso” or something. 

Jay noticed me staring. 

“You a movie buff?”

I don’t remember telling Jay that I was, but I always blab about movies. One of the Suits guys, who I hadn’t seen in a few days, was rude enough one day to acknowledge it. Fuck those guys and their show. I nodded. 

“FW Murnau, the German expressionist director—” Jay started.

“Director of ‘Nosferatu’ and ‘Sunrise?’” I questioned, knowing full well the answer. 

“He was killed in this exact same model in 1931,” Jay said, cocking his thumb at the car, the same way he pointed to co-star Pat Morita in the poster for their 1989 buddy comedy “Collision Course.” (Maybe I could stand to know a little less about movies?)

“There’s a little more to that story,” I added. “Rumor is he died while—”

Jay cut me off. “’Servicing’ his chauffeur while he was driving. Poor guy drove off the road while Murnau was getting a little look under the hood!” 

He is SO clean. But also inaccurate. I don’t know much about cars but I do know movies, and the “FW Murnau blowing his driver” story was the sordid stuff of Kenneth Anger’s showbiz fiction. 

At this point, the crowd began to disperse, not wanting to hear a comedy writer and Jay Leno discuss a long-dead German expressionist. Jay began to go into the finer points of the Murnau wreck: it was a little north of Santa Barbara, how both passengers were hurled from the vehicle, how the engine entered the passenger cabin on impact, and how a bit of the old-fashioned wooden guardrail was still imbedded in the back seat.

“Still?” I asked. 

Jay looked around to see if anyone was looking. 

“I have the wreck. All serious car collectors have at least one celebrity wreck. I’m trying to buy Jackson Pollack’s Olds 88 death car, but Seinfeld is asking too much. Even for me.”

“Wow,” I said. I didn’t really know what to say at the revelation that America’s two most non-confrontational comics had a grisly side. But then I remembered something that might interest him.

“You know, someone broke into Murnau’s tomb in the 80s and stole his head,” I offered. 

Jay looked at me and blinked. Then he clamped his hands on my shoulders, while again scanning the area for folks who might be listening. He smiled oddly. 

“You’re the movie buff, huh? You trying to be a smart guy?”

“No no,” I sputtered. This Jay was a little scary. “I’m a big fan of Murnau. Just thought you might find it interesting.” 

His slab of a face got closer to mine. And again I thought I saw his eyes grow red. 

"You think I don’t know that?  Who do you think has the head?” Then he added, “Wanna see it, movie buff?”