Total Recall: My Unbelievably True Life Story

punch-the-clock mentality. They became like members of my family. They looked out for one another and saw me as a challenge. They would accelerate to my speed, and when I sped up, they sped up.

Fostering this atmosphere didn’t require extraordinary effort or management genius. For starters, all three were warm, wonderful people. I paid them fairly and drew on my Austrian upbringing to make myself a good employer. A pension plan and great medical insurance were automatic—nobody had to ask for that. And I paid fourteen months of salary per year rather than twelve—the thirteenth month was your summer vacation pay, and the fourteenth was your holiday bonus so that you could take care of your family at Christmas. That was the tradition in Austria, and my office was not on a tight budget, so I could afford it.

My other technique was to make them feel included. They were learning on the job just like I was. When I was in the office, we would analyze all the stuff that was happening to me. The women would sit around, and each would give her point of view. Even if I didn’t agree, I’d take it in. The funny thing was, they were all liberal Democrats. Even as we added more people, it was rare to find another Republican besides me in the office for many years.

To me the work didn’t feel intense at all—just normal. You do a movie or a book, you promote the hell out of it, you travel around the world because the world is your marketplace, and in the meantime, you work out and take care of business and explore even more. It was all a joyride, which is why I never thought, “Oh my God, look how much work there is. It’s so much pressure.”

When I had to work at night, it might mean going to a meeting to talk about movies. How bad was that? I was talking about movies! Or some business guys would ask me to fly to Washington. That was great too—always the laughs and the stogies. I’d get to see Ronald Reagan give a speech. Then at midnight, we’d all go to adult shops and look at the latest of the latest. Seeing the other side of some of these straitlaced conservative guys was pretty funny.

So for me work just meant discovery and fun. If I heard somebody complaining, “Oh, I work so hard, I put in ten- and twelve-hour days,” I would crucify him. “What the fuck are you talking about, when the day is twenty-four hours? What else did you do?”

I loved the variety in my life. One day I’d be in a meeting about developing an office building or a shopping center, trying to maximize the space. What would we need to get the permits? What were the politics of the project?

The next day I’d be talking to the publisher of my latest book about what photos needed to be in it. Next I’d be working with Joe Weider on a cover story. Then I’d be in meetings about a movie. Or I’d be in Austria talking politics with Fredi Gerstl and his friends.

Everything I did could have been my hobby. It was my hobby, in a way. I was passionate about all of it. My definition of living is to have excitement always; that’s the difference between living and existing. Later, when I learned about the Terminator, I loved the idea that he was a machine that never had to sleep. I said to myself, “Imagine what an advantage that would be to have those extra six hours every day for something else? Imagine, you could study a whole new profession. You could learn an instrument.” That would be unbelievable, because for me the question was always how to fit in all the stuff I want to do.

Therefore, I seldom saw my life as hectic. The thought rarely even crossed my mind. Only later, as Maria and I went from being boyfriend and girlfriend to being engaged and then married, did I pay any attention to balancing my work and my home life.

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When I wanted to know more about business and politics, I used the same approach I did when I wanted to learn about acting: I got to know as many people as I could who were really good at it. One place to find them was the Regency Club, a newly opened retreat for LA’s business elite. It occupied the top floor and penthouse of a new high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard, with sweeping views of the whole LA Basin. Both the building and the club belonged to David Murdock, one of the city’s richest men. His life was another of those great American rags-to-riches stories. David was an Ohio-born high school dropout who, after serving in World War II, turned a $1,200 loan into a fortune in Arizona and California real estate. Now he owned huge stakes in International Mining, and Occidental Petroleum, as well as real estate and hotels, and was a collector of animals, orchids, fine furniture, and chandeliers. His wife, Gabrielle, an interior designer who was born and raised in Munich, decorated the new club in a formal, elegant, Old World style. That reinforced the tone: very proper, very genteel. You couldn’t go there without a tie.

Pete Wilson, who won his US Senate seat during the months that I was promoting Conan the Barbarian, later hung out there with his whole team. So did George Deukmejian, who’d won the governorship by edging out Democrat Tom Bradley in the same 1982 election. Heavy hitters from the Reagan administration who were passing through town would stop to have dinner and spend time at the Regency. A lot of conservative businesspeople were regulars, and so were some liberal Hollywood agents and show business executives. I started going there to attend events for Wilson, supporting his successful bid to succeed Deukmejian in 1990. Gradually I expanded my circle of friends.

Guido’s restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard was another good place to make business connections and soak up ideas. Likewise, if you wanted to hang out with actors, there was the 72 Market Street eatery in Venice, or the Rock Store in Malibu Canyon if you wanted bikers. I took Maria to the Regency several times; even though she liked Gabrielle’s decor, the conservative crowd and the gentility put her off. I was not really into the formality either, but you just had to be disciplined and embrace it. I felt like there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to play both sides: my very outrageous side, wearing motorcycle boots and leather, and my conservative side, with the elegant suit and tie and British wing-tip shoes. I wanted to feel comfortable in both worlds.

Maria and I circulated in the liberal community too. In fact, it was at Jane Fonda’s invitation that I first connected with the Simon Wiesenthal Center, at a benefit where Jane had agreed to appear as a celebrity and recruit guests. Maria and I were friendly with her and her then husband, activist and California assemblyman Tom Hayden. They invited us to their house several times to meet political or religious leaders, including Bishop Desmond Tutu. On the night of the benefit, Jane introduced me to Marvin Hier, a rabbi from New York who had moved to LA to found the Simon Wiesenthal Center there in 1978. His goal was to combat anti-Semitism and promote religious and racial tolerance. You’d think that in a town with as many powerful Jewish people as Hollywood, he’d have had an easy time. But he was struggling, he told me. “If you’re at all into this, I would appreciate your help,” he said. “You’re a rising star; people will pay attention to you in the future. We’ve had a difficult time getting Hollywood people involved, beyond just buying a seat or a table at a benefit. We need people coming in and joining our board and donating a million dollars, or three million, and holding fund-raisers. That’s where the big money is, and we need it because we’re trying to build a Museum of Tolerance, which will cost fifty- seven million dollars.”

“I’m not at that level,” I warned. But the idea of building a museum made sense to me. If you want to promote fitness and fight obesity, you need gyms; if you want to feed people, you need grocery stores. So if you want to fight prejudice, you have to have tolerance centers everywhere, places where kids can go and learn the history of what happens when people are prejudiced and hate one another.

The more I learned of his mission, the more I felt it was my responsibility to get involved. I’m not a religious person, but I said to myself, “This can only be God’s doing.” Jewish people had played such key roles in my life: Fredi Gerstl, Artie Zeller, Joe and Ben Weider, Joe Gold, my new film agent Lou Pitt. And yet, I wasn’t even sure that I was free from prejudice myself. I’d made prejudiced comments, I’d said stupid things. This was almost like God telling me, “If that’s the way you want to be, then I’m going to put you right here, where the dialogue of tolerance begins, and you’re going to raise funds for them, and you’re going to fight for them, and you’re going to battle against that side of yourself that may or may not be there.” I donated regularly to the center after that and took part in many fund-raising events. The museum, housed in a magnificent building, opened in 1993.

Though I made no secret of my support for Reagan and gave what I could to Republican candidates and causes, I stayed off the political stage. My movie career was my focus. When you promote a movie, you want to win over everybody, and if you give political speeches, you are bound to turn off some percentage of viewers no matter what you say. Why do that?

Besides, I wasn’t famous enough yet for very many people to be interested in my views or for politicians to seek my endorsement. I wasn’t even an American citizen yet! I had my green card, paid my taxes, and considered the United States my permanent home, but I couldn’t vote. I put stickers on my car for the candidates I supported, but I gave no speeches.