I've worked for many public figures over the years, for mayors and congressmen, and selectmen who wanted to become mayors. I've given money and advice, hosted fund-raisers and campaigned. Contributing money and resources is my honor and responsibility as a citizen of the greatest nation on earth. (I am, for example, very proud of my work with Not On Our Watch, which battles genocide in Darfur, and which was founded by George Clooney, Matt Damon, Brad Pitt, Don Cheadle, and myself.)

The most liberal politician I've ever worked for was probably Jimmy Carter. He sought me out, reaching me through a friend. This was 1974, even before he won the Democratic presidential nomination. He was just a peanut farmer from Georgia, a nobody really, just a governor, a long shot. I could give you a big, mumbo-jumbo reason why I did not want to support him, but the simple fact is, I did not think he would win. I bet horses that figure to finish in the money. As Dino said, "Don't be a sucker." But Lew Wasserman loved Carter. Just loved the guy. Honest. True. Integrity. All that. He called me and said, "Listen, Jerry, Jimmy Carter is going to be president of the United States. I want you to meet him."

I fought, resisted, dragged my feet. I finally agreed to do a little work for the campaign, just to get Lew off my back, and hosted a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner for Carter. Carter and I were supposed to meet at the Century Plaza Hotel in West Hollywood for lunch, where we would really talk. But I broke the date at the last minute. I told his people I had pinched a nerve in my neck, and it was simply too painful for me to leave the house. Well, a few months go by and what happens? The peanut farmer is elected president. I get a call. President-elect Carter wants you to meet him in Plains, Georgia. I took my son and daughter along-he was a little kid; she was a newborn. We landed on a strip about thirty miles from the Carter farm. I stared out the window as we drove. We went through endless rows of green crops streaming past the window. We finally get to Plains. The Carters were doing that southern hospitality thing. Yes ma'am and no sir and lemonade and whatnot-the kindness that can kill you. My children were taken into the yard to play, and a secret service agent brought me in to see Carter. As I was walking in, Cyrus Vance-the next secretary of state-was walking out.

President Carter was wearing work boots with his blue jeans tucked inside. He looked like Abraham Lincoln or something. We sat down. Rosalyn brought us coffee. "How is that pinched nerve in your neck?" he asked.

"I never really had a pinched nerve," I told him.

"I know that," he said. "But why didn't you want to have lunch with me?"

"Because I didn't think you were going to become president," I said.

"Well, I am president," he said.

"Yes," I said, "I can see that."

He wanted my help in Hollywood, gathering people, getting them on board with his programs. This was outreach. I became very friendly with him. His son Chip used to stay at our house when he visited California. I liked him. I liked the president, too. Then, about six months into his presidency, he invited me to a White House state dinner for Tito. It was a hot ticket. The dictator had never been to America before. Only 110 people are invited to these dinners, so it was an honor. But I could not go. I called the State Department and asked if they could do me a favor and invite my parents instead. They said, "We're sorry, Mr. Weintraub, we just can't. This is a big dinner. We have the Supreme Court justices and senators coming. The world wants to be at this dinner. We'll invite your parents to the next one."

"Okay. Good."

A few months later, my father and mother did indeed get an invitation from the White House. It was for a state dinner honoring the president of Austria, which made sense, as my father's family originally came from Austria. I had told my father none of this, so he was naturally puzzled by the invitation. After talking to my brother, he finally decided, "You know, I bet Jerry has something to do with this."

He called me and asked, "Jerry, if I go to this thing, do I sit next to your mother at dinner?"

"No," I said. "They separate everyone. It makes for better mixing."

"Mixing," he said. "Mixing I don't need. I am not going if I can't sit with your mother. I mean, what's the point if we can't be together?"

"All right," I said. "Let me make a phone call."

I talked to the people at the State Department. It went against protocol, but I got them to seat my parents next to each other.

Before the dinner, they went though the receiving line to meet the president and first lady. As my father walked up, a man whispered in Rosalyn Carter's ear: "Sam and Rose Weintraub-Jerry Weintraub's parents."

The first lady gave them a tremendous welcome. "Oh, my golly, it's so good to meet you. Your son is one of our favorite people. Our son Chip is with him right now in Beverly Hills. Isn't that funny? He's with our son, and we're with his parents."

She called to the president, saying, "Jimmy, look, these wonderful people are Jerry's mother and father!"

Jimmy Carter said to my father, "Oh, we like your son, he's such a nice guy."

After the dinner, my parents were taken home in a town car. Along the way, my father, spotting a pay phone, asked the driver to pull over. He got out and called my brother-not me, but Melvyn!-and said, "You are not going to believe this, but your brother really does know the president."

Dancing with the Rebbe

One day, years ago, when I arrived at work, I spotted a Hasidic Jew in the hall outside my office. These are the guys in the black coats with side curls and beards. This particular rabbi was a Lubavitcher, part of the group from Crown Heights, Brooklyn, who believe their rabbi, Menacham Mendel Schneerson, might be the Messiah. The followers of the Rebbe are devout. Rather than merely study and pray, they want to heal the world, do good work, invest even the smallest errand with a kind of godliness. I don't know all the particulars, but it's hardcore Hebrew, whiskey straight from the jug, no mixers, no water, radically different from my own casual American Judaism, which is practiced in a synagogue designed by modern architects.

I ducked in a side door unseen, walked into my office, got behind my desk, went to work. My secretary came in with the call sheet. As I looked it over, she said, "Do you know there's a rabbi outside waiting to see you?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm aware."

"Well," she asked, "do you want to talk to him?"

"No," I said, "I don't."

"What should I tell him?" she asked.

"Here," I said. "Hand me a pen."

I wrote out a check for ten thousand dollars.

"Give him this," I said. "Tell him I'm too busy to talk, but take the money and good luck."

I would gladly have paid ten grand just to avoid one of those maddeningly circular discussions you have with rabbis.

A few minutes later, my secretary came back. "He said he doesn't want the check," she told me.

"He doesn't want the check?"

"No," she said. "He needs to talk to you, and claims it has nothing to do with money."

Now I was interested, genuinely curious. I mean, those guys never turn down a check! "All right," I said. "Send him in."

He came in and sat down. I got a look at him. I had only noticed his clothes, but now I could see that his face was intelligent and warm. (This, as I then learned, was Schlomo Cunin, who is still my rabbi.) It tells you about judging from a distance, based on generalities. I mean, there are the clothes, then there is the face; there is the face, then there is the brain; there is the brain, then there is the soul. He had a good soul. We're friends to this day. He brings me a fresh challah every week.