‘Rain Man’ Stole All Her Thunder With Hoffman

It happened last spring when I was sitting at my computer, determined to bring in my column on time and under budget. I had turned down the answering machine, but it was still audible enough to hear a voice say, “I’m calling for Dustin Hoffman. Mr. Hoffman would like to speak to you. . . .”

You may wonder how I could keep a thing like my relationship with Dustin a secret from you. But I figured if I went blabbing, no one would believe me.

Then I went to see “Rain Man” last night, with Hoffman’s fine portrayal of the autistic Raymond Babbitt, and it all came back. You see, it was “Rain Man” that took Dustin away from me.

At the time of the first phone call, the reflex that says “I’m only in for Hoffman, Brando and God himself” instinctively grabbed the phone. I immediately understood why famous people call ahead to let you know they’re going to be calling. It gives you a couple hours to untie your tongue.

Generally, I hate to do stories about celebrities. You quickly realize you’ve either got a beautiful, well-trained animal on your hands or someone who is much smarter and more manipulative than you are. There’s no way you can have an equal relationship. For journalism’s sake, I usually pretend I’m Barbara Walters and say things like, “Tell me about your pain, Sly. . . .”

But then Dustin himself called me. Why? The scratchy Ratso Rizzo voice on the car phone explained that he had seen me on a TV show called “Women on Sex.” The show had been taped months earlier for the Playboy channel, although I had never seen it. In it, University of Washington sociologist Pepper Schwartz and I were having an intellectual discussion of “Mating Habits of the North American Yuppie.”

In between my nervous giggles and the sounds of Los Angeles traffic, I heard Dustin say that I talked out of the corner of my mouth, that I took everything in and “cuisinarted” it out, that his wife, Lisa, and his children enjoyed the show and that Lisa thought he should call and let me know this. We talked some more about life, relationships and sex roles.

“I usually talk to people who’ve seen me in movies,” he said. “But I’ve seen you on television, so we already share a voyeuristic relationship.”

Wow.

Unfortunately, I had to pick up my daughter from school. He said he would call back. “Tell your wife she’s a real prince,” I told him.

“Tell your husband he’s a real princess,” he responded.

My exact notes from the conversation read: “Corner. Everything coming in--cuisinarted. Nichols and May. Wife Lisa. As Paddy Chayefsky said.” That’s how cogent I was.

When my daughter came in from school and realized that I had been talking to the actor who was about to make a movie with Tom Cruise, she said, “Tell him to get me Tom Cruise’s autograph.”

“I don’t think you understand,” I told her. “I can’t ask him to do that. He’s a great actor. A legend. . . . an artist.”

“So get his autograph, too.”

I guess I was pretty star-struck myself because when I woke up the morning after the phone call, my husband looked at me and said, “Dustin: Day Two.”

The phone calls continued over the next few weeks. I listened as Dustin drove around Los Angeles and talked to me about life as if I were a . . . well, a person. It was just like talking to one of my best friends. He was funny, hip and weird.

He described the physical exam they made him take before “Rain Man.” He told me how his doctor reassured him of the simplicity of a proctological exam by taking one alongside him. (This obviously is not a service the doctor provides for anyone below the A list.) He told me Oprah Winfrey jokes. He mentioned--what else?--a project. He told me stuff he learned while researching the life of Lenny Bruce. Stuff Shecky told him about Frank.

He had his people call my people (who were me). When I returned one of his phone calls, I got one of his people who said, “I could lose my job for saying this, but he is kind of like the character in ‘Rain Man.’ He’s brilliant, but he starts lots of things and then forgets them. Kind of an idiot-savant himself.”

I guess my disappointment came through the wires because that was when the assistant said, “But your number is at the top of his dashboard.”

I missed another call, and that was it. He went off to make “Rain Man” instead of my day.

When we came out of the theater last night, my daughter looked at me with venom in her eyes and said, “You could have gotten their autographs.”

Meanwhile, I was updating my resume, trying to figure out what all this could mean to my career:

1965--B.A. English Lit.

1973--B.S. Nursing.

1988--Number at the top of Dustin Hoffman’s dashboard.