In July of 2005, a great comedy writer and actor named Pat McCormick died. The importance of Pat to comedy and to the lives of many people in comedy might best be demonstrated if I listed just some of the people who spoke at his funeral: George Carlin, Buck Henry, Jack Burns, Chuck McCann, Gary Owens, Paul Williams, Shelley Berman, Paul Mazursky, Henry Gibson, Fred Willard and many, many more. They didn't have time for Carl Reiner…that's how jammed the place was with funny folks.
Pat died in July, 2005 but for seven years before that, he lived out in the hospital of the Motion Picture Country Home in Woodland Hills — the one which they just announced is being shuttered due to economic woes. Pat could not speak and his brain seemed to only function occasionally. Back in this post, I told the story of the tragic events that put him there. You don't have to click and go read them. I'll quote the relevant part here…
In 1998, Pat was scheduled to perform with his friend and sometimes partner, Jack Riley, at a live show Merv Griffin was hosting at the Beverly Hilton hotel. They had a routine called "The Smartest Man in the World" in which Jack acted as straight man, peppering Pat with questions. The show was about to start but Pat had not arrived. Suddenly, from the direction of the garage, everyone heard some sort of explosion and they ran out to see what it was.
Pat had driven his car in and…well, he either suffered a stroke which caused him to crash his car into a concrete wall in the parking lot or he crashed his car into the wall and that triggered the stroke. Either way, it was an awful crash that caused the auto to catch fire. Unreported at the time, for some reason, was that Pat's life was saved by a little old lady. Some tiny woman, reportedly in her sixties or seventies, pulled his 6-foot-7 body out of the flaming car and dragged it to safety.
That's the way the story was told to me by one of Pat's closest friends and it's true…except that the little old lady was not a little old lady. It would be a more colorful story if it was and I guess that's why whoever changed it changed it. Anyway, the rest of the tale is true, as affirmed here by a woman named Danielle Villegas. And she oughta know, seeing as how she was the lady who pulled Pat out of that car…
I was happy to read your story about Pat McCormick written in 2005. The last time I checked about him was before then. He was at at the Motion Picture nursing home — no details.
I would like to clarify the story since you got it pretty close, and you were right, no one else had or has ever told that story.
I was the "little old lady" who pulled Pat McCormick out of his burning car, however I was not old (good story, though). In 1998 during the weeklong set-up for the Golden Globes, I was working for Merv Griffin Productions setting up for the parties. I had a crew of two guys working with me. We drove a small pick-up, up and down the parking structure delivering equipment and props to the rooftop tent. It was on one of the trips up (around 4 PM) with the loaded truck that I noticed a car parked in an odd position with hood up in the garage. I slowed to see what was up but when I saw someone inside the car move, I figured things were OK (regrettable moment).
We drove up to the roof to unload the truck. After about ten minutes, I noticed smoke rising from a lower level. We jumped in the truck, sped down the ramp to see the vehicle totally engulfed in smoke. Although we could not see flames, the engine was burning furiously. The engine screech was deafening, the tachometer must have been up around 5000. I jumped out of the truck, ran into the blinding smoke, opened the door and as I feared, discovered there was someone still in the car.
Eyes and lungs burning, I darted away to catch my breath. The crew bolted away with me. It was going to explode any moment. "Get back here" I cried, "there's someone in there!" They followed me right back into the inferno. After unhooking his seat belt, the guys (who were no bigger than 150 lbs. each) heaved his 6' 7" motionless body out of the car. I grabbed his heavy feet and we rushed him off, away from the now flaming vehicle, which only then exploded.
Since I had once been a certified EMT, I guessed by his signs he had suffered a stroke. I loosened his tie, his eyes bugging out more than usual, were pleading for me to help him. For the next few minutes, he struggled to talk, get up, be done. I made sure he stayed still, held his hand and assured him "everything is going to be okay." By the time the paramedics arrived, the crew from the rooftop had put the fire out and cut the motor. There was quite a crowd. After giving my statements to the authorities, I went back to work.
Having formerly worked with stroke patients, I knew his condition was dire. I had an overwhelming feeling of guilt that I had not stopped when I first noticed the car with the hood up. The stroke would have been debilitating enough but with the added smoke inhalation which would have compromised any oxygen available for those vital minutes, I felt that had sealed a sad fate. My guilt worsened over the rest of the evening. I kept telling my coworkers, "If you ever notice something unusual, stop and check it out!" I failed to do this and felt absolutely terrible. By 10 PM, I was a wreck and asked to go home early (we often pulled 24 hr. shifts the night before the event), my sense of regret totally consuming me.
Now this is where it even gets weirder. I lived in Sylmar at this time, so I hopped on the 405 and headed north. It was a foggy January night with fairly low visibility as I drove home. My coworker/roomate was carpooling with me that night. He was angry with me about something and unaware of my experiences earlier in the day since he was working at another location. I listened numbly to him complain about his day. Tears began to run down my cheeks as he continued to spout off.
That night on the highway, the two center lanes northbound (my direction) were coned off. Suddenly, I noticed "something unusual" across the median. I veered into the coned-off center lanes, skidding to a stop. A car stalled in a southbound lane. As I jumped out of my car, the white sub-compact was struck by a pick-up truck going 65 MPH, which proceeded to flip over several times, ending up fifty yards down the freeway. Now there were two cars down and people hurt. I ran out into the southbound lanes, hoping my spread palms would reflect enough light to see me in my black crew uniform. Somehow, I stopped traffic on the 405 on that foggy night.
I immediately went over to the now-mangled white car. Inside was a limp, young woman with severe head injuries and broken body. For the second time in the same day I was rescuing someone in a life threatening situation. I stabilized her as well as possible, trying to keep her calm and breathing. She too struggled to talk, get out, be done. The paramedics eventually showed up and as they extricated her from the vehicle they ordered me "take her feet." We carried her over to the board, I held her hand and told her, "Everything is going to be okay!" WHEW!
I gave my statements, went home, and had a drink.
This experience changed my life. It was obvious that some greater force (God?) was not about to let me beat myself up for too long (more than six hours to be exact). There were more important things for me to do. I never found out exactly what happened to either of the people I "saved" that night. So I was glad to read your story and actually have something to add. I did recognize Pat as someone famous when I pulled him out of the burning car. Although I told him everything was going to be okay, I knew it probably wouldn't be. I would much rather have told him the story I just told you, about some "other" poor schmuck and the message from God…this was not to be.
It feels good to have finally written this story I have told so many times. You wrote, "A lot of comedy writers are, when you meet them, indistinguishable from guys who sell life insurance for a living. Not Pat." I have to take some comfort in this. I consider myself a writer too, however while networking for my "day job," I am often cornered by grinning people who cock their heads, wrinkle their brows when they ask, "You sell Life Insurance?"
I told Danielle in an e-mail that I can't imagine anyone who knew Pat having anything but sheer gratitude for her actions that day. Guilt that she could have or should have acted sooner is utterly unnecessary…especially when you think of all the people who probably wouldn't have helped at all. (I think it's also to her credit that she sought no reward or recognition for it. Here it is, eleven years later and she's finally telling someone her story…and agreeing to let me reproduce it here. I'll bet few of Pat's friends even knew her name.)
Thanks, Danielle…for what you did and for letting me share your e-mail here. Wish there were more people like you on this planet.