Namesakes of the Rich and Famous : Bill Murray Wanted His Name to Be a Household Word, but Someone Got There First

I’ve always wanted to be a celebrity. Ever since I first stayed with my father at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I’ve known what I’ve been missing. He was a talent agent, and we spent most of our social time in studio commissaries, the Brown Derby (all of them) and at show-biz parties--locations where to be instantly recognized was everything. In New York, where I grew up, nobody cares who you are, but in Hollywood to be unknown is to be invisible. And to be a writer, especially of books and magazine pieces, is almost to be nonexistent.

I discovered all this when I moved out here 20 years ago, but I kept believing I would make it. After all, Andy Warhol once predicted we’d all eventually be famous for 15 minutes. Also, I noticed that some of my fellow authors had qualified. Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal hobnob with Johnny Carson, Mickey Spillane makes beer commercials, and what Joan has Didion, John Gregory has also Dunne. I kept waiting for the mantle of popular recognition to settle on me, but the closest I’ve come is to be said hello to at the race track by John Forsythe. He says hello to almost everyone, however, so that doesn’t count.

To make matters even more frustrating, my very identity has recently been stolen from me. Although I write under the formal name of William, everyone calls me Bill, except my children (to them I’m either Nero or Scrooge). Fans of “Saturday Night Live” and “Ghostbusters” will appreciate the extent of my loss. I’ve become a pretender to my own moniker.

I have to constantly modify myself on the phone. “This is the original Bill Murray,” I sometimes say, leaving my listener to figure out what that could possibly mean. Or, “This is the authentic writing Bill Murray,” I explain, thus implying that this other chap is an illiterate impostor. I rarely impress anybody, but I’m absolutely determined not to disappear, especially since the sudden rise of my namesake has given me a strong whiff of the perks involved.

There are even some compensations. I can now get through immediately on the phone to any movie producer, studio head or network executive. Agents actually call me back within minutes. Receptionists, secretaries, maitre d’s, travel agents and hotel clerks dissolve into gelatinous blobs of unctuous servility at the sound of my name. Occasionally, I get late-night calls from breathless groupies who want to know if I’m the real Bill Murray, to which I always answer yes. I’ve thought about asking them to send me snapshots of themselves, but I don’t think my wife would understand.

Still, it’s been a rough few years, knowing that the pages of People and the National Enquirer are closed to me and that I’m condemned to remain a disembodied voice. Then, a few weeks ago, a friend called to tell me she had bought my latest book at “the scene of the crime.” I asked her what she was talking about, and she informed me that she was referring to a bookstore by that name on Ventura Boulevard. The Scene of the Crime specializes in mysteries and true-life crime stories, she told me, and both of my efforts in the genre were prominently on view there.

A few days later, I went by to have a look. Sure enough, there were copies of my novel stacked on the front counter and lots of copies of my first mystery on the shelves. And the store itself was a delight, occupying two large rooms entertainingly furnished with Victoriana and selling not only crime books but also deerstalker hats, games and handcrafted objects. Best of all, when I introduced myself to the owners, Ruth and Al Windfeldt, they knew immediately who I was and set me to autographing copies of my books. A personable young man named Bob Ragan, who is a mystery buff and has worked in the shop since 1981, asked me if I’d mind coming back one day to sign his personal copies of my collected works. When I called him a week later to set a date and began to explain to him which Bill Murray was on the phone, he said, “Oh, I know who you are. The other guy doesn’t write, does he?”

Andy Warhol was wrong. It’s not a question of time, but of geography.