Garry Marshall, R.I.P.

He's gone? If you knew Garry Marshall, you probably can't believe it.

He had a boundless and enduring energy that seemed to transcend mortal limitations. Although he probed to be merely flesh and blood after all, the legacy he leaves goes beyond the iconic movie "Pretty Woman," or the classic TV shows, "Happy Days," Mork and Mindy," and "Odd Couple." Garry Marshall was more than a writer, producer and director: He was a mentor and inspiration to young people in whom he recognized talent. Ron Howard was one of many who belonged to this anointed group. As an actor on "Happy Days," he told Garry he wanted to watch him and learn how to be a director. It seemed an unlikely career path for the teenager, but it obviously worked for him.

Dennis Klein, creator of several series, including "The Larry Sanders Show," and my boss on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," was also a member of Garry's youth brigade.

And, for a time, so was I.

I met Garry after a U.C. Berkeley school friend got a summer job in Tom Pollock and Jake Bloom's law firm. When she saw they dealt with scripts, I got the call to write one. Fast! As if I knew how. But I did it, somehow, and within a few weeks the silly script had gone from Jake Bloom and Tom Pollock, to Chuck Shyer, to Harvey Miller, and finally, to Garry. Incredibly, they all liked it, and Garry asked me to fly down and have lunch with him. He said--in that unique ninety-year-old-tired-New Yorker voice--he had a plan to make me "rich and famous."

"You're so young," was the first thing he said to me when we met at his Paramount office. I could've said the same thing to him. This was no senior citizen. Garry was a youthful, dynamic force of nature. We sat at the bar while waiting for our table. He said I could have whatever I wanted, but he, "only ordered sissy drinks" for himself. Lunch was spaghetti and meatballs which he, being Italian, especially enjoyed. "But," he groaned, "I always get sauce all over my shirt."

His humor was often boyishly self-deprecating and endearing. He called himself the "King of Cute," and in his mind he probably spelled cute with a K. Garry didn't want to dwell in darkness; he preferred happy people, living in a workd that was "kute." If there was no such place, all he had to do was create one.

An actress who starred in a pilot for Garry was fired by studio executives for being "fat." She wasn't, and I complained to him that the firing was unfair. He shook his head sadly and said, "Sweetheart"--everyone was a "sweetheart" to Garry--"Who said life has to be fair?" Then he stroked his chin and paced a little bit. "I get philosophical like that sometimes," he said, feeling embarrassed, no doubt, for having expressed an unpleasant thought.

One day, he and I went to another studio to view a pilot Garry had done with a major producer whose name was known and respected. When Garry introduced me to him, the man recoiled as he barely extended his hand. The pilot was awful. It didn't sell--which was instantly predictable. On the way back to Paramount, I asked Garry what was wrong with the powerhouse producer. I saw he was almost afraid of me. "You'd be afraid, too," he said, "if you had stepped on as many people as he has."

I never liked show business because fairness was not exactly coin of the realm. It bothered Garry, too, in some ways, but he was able--better than almost anyone--to escape into a world of his own design. Now, he can truly rest in peace.