Growing Up Brady: I Was a Teenage Greg, Special Collector's Edition (17 page)

Luckily, the drive to her apartment went smoothly. I got to the
gate, rang for my date, waited nervously in the lobby for her to
come down, made small talk with the doorman, heard my name,
looked up, and was stunned.

Florence had arrived in the lobby and looked absolutely beautiful-sexy, sophisticated, and not at all like Carol Brady. As she
stood shimmering in chiffon, I stood stammering in the doorway,
dumbstruck by the fact that this amazing creature had actually consented to a date with me. Still, as my teenager's sense of cockiness
overrode my genuine astonishment, I came to the conclusion that
for me to land a babe like this, I must be pretty hot stuff too! I convinced myself that Florence had gotten all dolled up just to
impress me, and we headed toward my brother's car.

"Oh, this is ... uh ... nice," Florence said, half-smiling at my
brother Craig's creation. "I've never ... uh ... seen anything quite
like it."

"Why, thank you, Florence!" I beamed, still too naive to accurately read between the lines.

I suavely opened her door, helped her in, ran around to the
other side, got in, turned the ignition, stiffly shifted into reverse,
and promptly backed the car into a wall. It was the rear retaining
wall of Florence's building. Still trying to keep cool, I sputtered
out, "It's ... uh ... no problem. I'll just take a quick look-see."

Happily, while I had put a small hole in the building's cinderblock wall, I hadn't damaged my brother's roadhog in the least,
thus sparing my entrails. I jumped back into the car, reassured
Florence that there was nothing to worry about (I don't think she
believed me), and sped off. I was still feeling pretty good ... except
I noticed that I had started to sweat, profusely.

We drove to the Grove, watched a valet wrestle with the car,
and went inside. Since I'd never before been any place as ornate
as the Coconut Grove, my immediate thought was "Wow!"; my
second, "Good choice"; and my third, "Oh my God, this is gonna
be expensive!" Still, I had the prettiest date in the place, and cast
aside my monetary concerns in favor of just plain having a great
time.

At the door we were immediately met by a slick-haired, nose-inthe-air, tuxedo-clad "captain". Having no experience in frequenting
swanky supper clubs, I had the mistaken impression that since I
had bought our tickets in advance, we would simply pick them up
at the door, find our assigned seats, eat, drink, and be merry. Now,
however, we were faced with this frowning guy who asked for my
reservation. I still didn't understand what was going on, and I
knew that the room was sold out, but felt confident that we'd get a
nice table. I mean, I had phoned in my reservation over a week
ago. So I smiled, gave the guy my name, and Florence and I were
promptly and courteously escorted to the back corner of the room
... behind a pole.

I wanted to die, and wasn't even sure what had just transpired.
In my mind, I couldn't understand how. We'd arrived early, with
plenty of good tables still unoccupied, but were seated in these
awful nosebleed/binocular seats (that even Bob Uecker would've
turned down). My disappointment must have showed, because
Florence suggested, quite sweetly, that if I wanted better seats, I
might try talking to the captain again, perhaps even offering him a
little gratuity.

"Good idea," I replied, kicking myself for not knowing enough
to think of that myself. It made perfect sense. "Of course," I
thought. "Tip the man-grease his palm." I'd seen James Bond do
it a hundred times, and now it was my turn. But ... oh, shit ... how
much? The biggest tip I had ever given anyone up until now was a buck, and I couldn't ask Florence, because that might tip her off to
the fact that I was completely clueless.

Not wanting to take any chances, I dug into my wallet, pulled
out three one-dollar bills, folded them up, clutched them between
thumb and forefinger "Bond style," and slipped them to the captain, while politely asking if there might not be an available table
somewhat closer to the stage. To this day I don't know if he just
didn't bother to count his cash or if he just somehow understood
my predicament; but he smiled, nodded, and promptly moved us
to a much better location.

I was thrilled, so thrilled that I barely noticed that the crowd
was now staring at the two of us, and quite obviously wondering
why in the world Carol Brady would date Greg. As we started crisscrossing through the club toward our new, improved seats, the
stares seemed to intensify; but for her part, Florence just smiled
and calmly went along with the program.

Of our evening on the town, Florence told me, that "I could tell
you were very nervous, and trying to make sure that every last
detail was absolutely perfect, but at the same time I didn't want to
take over. It was more fun just watching you try and take charge of
the evening."

The rest of the evening went pretty well. Dinner was good, and
the show was ... well, strange. Rouvan turned out to be a sort of
poor man's Enrico Caruso, with a huge, pompous voice that belted
out songs like "Laugh, Clown, Laugh" with a vocal ferocity that
would make even Robert Goulet cringe. Anyway, we talked about
singers (good ones and Rouvan), songs, and traveling, and I confided to her that I wanted someday to sing and do my own shows.
She was very encouraging.

Afterward, we piled back into Craig's Formula Firebird and tore
out toward home. I ground a few gears, and stalled once at a red
light while fighting with it's musclebound clutch; but no matter,
because back at Florence's place, she told me that she'd had a
wonderful time.

I'm forever grateful to Florence, because even though she was
on to my secret that evening, she never let me know. In my mind,
I had taken on all the potential disasters of our date and kicked
'em in the ass.

We said goodbye, Florence let me give her a kiss goodnight (no
tongue, but nice), and I drew my first deep breath in what seemed
like hours.

I went home feeling like a major stud.

Twenty years later, Florence and I talked about our escapade
over a long, long, long lunch, where she spilled this quote: "We
went from liking each other to having a crush on each other and you were always on the make with me. I had to worry about that.
You were really cute, and I was tempted a few times. I think we're
lucky Carol never slept with Greg, but ... uh ... it coulda been,
coulda been."

I went home feeling like a major stud ... again.

It's funny, but when I think of "The Brady Bunch, " I
never think ofguest stars, I just think of us.

-Florence Henderson

While most people would probably agree with Florence's
point of view, there's no way this book could be considered
complete without giving a once-over to the "Brady Bunch" guest
list. Guest stars show up on a lot of the "Brady" episodes that
have attained fan-favorite status, and I'm asked about them constantly. People just naturally seem to assume that any time a
guest star showed up in our "Brady Bunch" living room, we'd
become fast friends, bosom buddies, and pals for life. That, I'm sorry to say, was never the case. Hectic shooting schedules and
lack of free time made socializing with our guests nearly impossible.

Knight meets
Jones.
(© Capital
Cities/ABC, Inc.)

That's not to say we didn't give it our best shot. Whenever a
sports star would appear on the show, Chris, Mike, and I would
make a beeline toward them and start hounding them until they'd
consent to playing ball with us or at least offer up a coupla training
tips. Wes Parker, Don Drysdale, and Deacon Jones all went home
exhausted from our triple-teaming. But the biggest sporting thrill
we ever had on set, was to meet and work with NY Jets' quarterback Joe Namath.

In 1973 "Broadway Joe" was something much larger than just a
football hero. With his awards, personal mystique, mountains of
press, and high-profile luxury life-style, he had become a bona
fide superstar. The anticipation of his visit to our set had all of us
really excited. We expected an entourage; we expected babes
draped on each arm with spares following behind; we expected
cheerleaders to do cartwheels over his every move. But none of
that happened.

What we did get was a genuinely nice, genuinely down-to-earth
guy, who wasn't at all flashy, wasn't nearly as slick as we'd
assumed, and wasn't nearly the invincible superjock we'd envisioned. Clobbered through season after season of abuse and
injury, Joe's legendarily wobbly knees were obviously causing him
an incredible amount of pain. Ann B. Davis remembers that she
was "crazy about the guy and had a bit of a crush on him too" but
that when he actually showed up, she just "felt sorry for the man,
because he could barely walk."

Lookinland
meets Namath.
(© Capital
Cities/ABC, Inc.)

(©1991 Capital
Cities/ABC, Inc.)

Florence, on the other hand, made no bones about her infatuation with the handsome Number 12. She was simply nuts about
the guy, and her behavior on the set during his visit made that
fact crystal clear. All week long she flirted with Joe, hugged him,
teased him, and finally-Well, maybe I should let her tell it.