Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny (19 page)

Chapter 33
Oh, Donald

A
nyone who works in comedy knows that, unless you’re a solo performer, you’re only as good as the guy who sets up the joke. Speaking about his wife and comedy partner Gracie Allen, George Burns once said, “Gracie and I worked together for four decades. We walked on stage, I said to Gracie, ‘How is your brother?’ and Gracie talked for the next forty years.”

Gracie Allen was brilliant, no question, but George was one of the greatest straight men who ever lived. It takes perfect comic timing to be a good straight man. First you have to know how to lead into the joke, and then when to talk into the laugh—before it dies down—to lead into the next joke. And being a straight man takes generosity.

I was lucky to have had Ted Bessell as my straight man on
That Girl
. The story line of the series was constructed around the idea of Ann Marie being a free spirit, a force of nature who somehow always got herself into funny jams.

Not many actors with Teddy’s comic abilities would have set Ann up so well, let her take the spotlight, and not been mowed down by her. As Ann’s beleaguered boyfriend, Donald Hollinger, Teddy was the perfect foil. And he was pretty funny himself.

The girls who watched the show all had crushes on Donald Hollinger, and the guys wanted to be like him. But Teddy’s most remarkable skill was being able to step aside from Ann—or be beside her—without diminishing any of his own strength or maleness. Quite an accomplishment. When I spoke to Jerry Seinfeld, he told me that he and a friend had been talking about how much they had admired Don Hollinger—because even as scary as Ann Marie’s father was, Donald dealt with it because he got to be with Ann. In other words, they saw themselves in him.

Teddy was a born jokester. A lot of our show took place in Ann’s apartment, so I was constantly going to the door to let him in—and, of course, let him out, as we had to be absolutely clear that Donald was
not
spending the night. But often when I opened that door, even with the cameras rolling, Teddy would be standing there in some crazy get-up—a policeman’s outfit, a Superman costume, a dress—anything to make me and the crew laugh.

The Donald who all the girls loved.

The Teddy who made us all laugh.

After the series was over, Teddy briefly appeared on a short-lived sitcom about a dentist who lived with his wife and children—and a little monkey. I heard through the grapevine that Ted was unhappy with the show, so I called him to ask what was the matter.

“I can’t believe they’re giving me second billing to a monkey,” he said. They’ve named the show
The Chimp and I
. I was your sidekick for five years. I’m not now going to be the sidekick to a friggin’ chimp!”

God, it made me laugh. But he got the title changed to
Me and the Chimp.
I guess the chimp didn’t have that good an agent.

Of the many signatures of
That Girl
—notably, the opening, in which a character would point at me and say the words “That Girl!”—one of the most popular was Ann’s all-purpose exclamation, “Oh, Donald!” I would say that line to Teddy several times on every show—sometimes sweetly, other times angrily, often romantically.

When we were doing the series, I had no idea that this recurring bit of dialogue would become memorable. But it did. And to this day, I’m still regularly approached on the street by someone who says, “Please say ‘Oh, Donald!’ for me.”

Whenever that happens, I remember all the great times with Teddy. And it always makes me smile.

Chapter 34
Lew Parker

L
ew Parker, who played my father on
That Girl,
was on Broadway in 1972, in the role of Senex in a revival of Larry Gelbart’s
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,
starring Phil Silvers. He had started his career on the New York stage, so this was a wonderful homecoming for him.

Lew was a true Damon Runyon character. Dapper as hell. When we were doing
That Girl,
the rest of us would come to work in sweat suits and jeans. But Lew always showed up wearing a checked or tweed sport jacket with a pocket hanky, sometimes an ascot. And he loved the horses. Any day he wasn’t on the call sheet, he was at the track at Santa Anita.

We’d had five terrific years together on the series. Lew played Lou Marie, the owner of a neighborhood restaurant, and I played his struggling actress daughter, Ann Marie. But before we found Lew, we saw a lot of actors for the role.

Early on in the casting, Billy Persky, the show’s co-creator, came to me and said that Groucho Marx was interested in reading for the part of the father. Everyone involved with the show knew he wasn’t right for it—but how could anyone refuse Groucho?

“I can’t read with Groucho!” I said to Billy. “He’s the Mount Rushmore of comedians. What agent had this brilliant idea?”

“It will be worse if we have him read with the casting director,” Billy said. “You have to do it.”

So out of respect, I read with Groucho for the audition—but I could barely look him in the eye. I’d grown up on the Marx Brothers—my whole family adored all of their movies—and it pained me to be put in the position of having to read with this legend, knowing that he wasn’t right for the role. But I was touched, too, that he was game to do it. Someone once said that show business is not for sissies. And Groucho was no sissy.

Soon after, Lew came in to read—and from the first line, we all knew that he was perfect for the part. He was in almost every episode, and he and I not only developed a terrific on-screen rapport, but we grew close offscreen as well. Though married, Lew never had children, and I think he saw me as the daughter he’d like to have had.

I remember an episode of the show in which it was Ann’s birthday, and her dad was taking her out for dinner, just the two of them. In the script, we had the following exchange:

Ann:
Daddy, tell the truth. When I was about to be born, were you hoping for a son?

Lou:
No. You were, and are, the only child I’ve ever wanted, and I loved you the minute I saw you.

When Lew got to his line, he couldn’t say it without choking up. He tried it again, but still couldn’t get through it. I held his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. We started again. This time he delivered the line beautifully, and with a glimmer of tears in his eyes. It is a moment with him I will always remember.

Horrors! Dad (Lew Parker) finds Donald’s pants in Ann Marie’s closet. It was the Sixties, and free love was in the streets —but not on TV.

When I went to see Lew in
Forum,
it was clear he was just where he wanted to be—on stage, with wonderful comic actors, in one of the great guy comedies, having the time of his life.

But it was all cut short one month into the run when, during a performance, he became ill. The diagnosis was as bad as it gets: advanced lung cancer. Lew had been a heavy smoker—I remember him always with his pack of Kents nearby. I visited him in the hospital and asked him what I could do for him. He said he just wanted some good ice cream. So I brought him Baskin-Robbins every day.

Every day wasn’t long enough. I got the call from his wife, Betty, on October 28, the day before his 65th birthday, telling me that he had passed in the night.

She told me that one of the last things he said was that he wanted me to do his eulogy. Of course, I said yes.

Then I panicked. I was very saddened by Lew’s death, and I wasn’t sure I was up to giving his eulogy. I had also never done one before.

I called my father for advice. He had done plenty. The old Catholic beatitude “Visit the sick and bury the dead” was something my father had taken as a personal command.

“I’m terrified to do this,” I told Dad. “It’s such a responsibility to speak on behalf of someone’s life, especially this darling man.”

“You’re not giving a speech about his life,” Dad said. “You’re telling stories about him—the man you knew and worked with and loved. Tell funny stories. That’s what the people who loved him want to remember.”

So that’s what I wrote.

The day of the funeral, I was still apprehensive about giving the eulogy. I was also very emotional and worried that I’d cry. When it was time for me to go to the pulpit, I walked unsteadily past the open casket, trying hard not to look inside. But I caught a glimpse of the hanky, and it hurt my heart to see it.

I collected myself, looked out at the congregation and began to read:

“Lew was my friend . . .”

But it wasn’t my voice. Instead, the sound that came out of me was small and high-pitched. I cleared my throat and started again.

“Lew was my friend . . .”

Again that tiny, high voice. This time I kept going, trying to clear my throat along the way. I delivered my entire speech in that voice, until I got to the funny parts about him, and a few of the little stories my dad had given me. Then, miraculously, I clicked into the rhythm of a storyteller. Lew’s friends laughed, and so did I.

My friend Elaine May was married to a psychiatrist at the time. I told him what had happened with my voice when I was giving the eulogy.

“That was the voice of the five-year-old inside of you, before you knew about death and funerals and eulogies,” he said. “Of course, you would run to that safe place.”

At one point in the eulogy, I had tried to tell the story about that birthday scene Lew and I did on the show, but, like Lew, I got too choked up to tell it. He wasn’t there to squeeze my hand.

But I did tell a few of the stories my father gave me to weave into my comments. He said they would lift some weight off the hearts of the people who were there. And they did.

ONE OF THE STORIES DAD GAVE
ME TO TELL LEW’S FRIENDS

There was a time when George Jessel was the Toastmaster General of the United States. At every important political and show business event, he was the master of ceremonies. And when an important person died, he was asked to deliver the eulogy, for which he was paid $5000.

One day an old man, in terrible grief, came to see Jessel.

“Oh, Mr. Jessel,” he said. “I have had the most awful loss. I have lost my dearest companion of many years. I would be most honored if you would do the eulogy.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jessel responded. “Who was it, your wife?”

“No,” the man said. “It was my cat, Fluffy.”

“No, absolutely not,” Jessel snapped. “I would never do a eulogy for an animal.”

The man begged him. “Please,” he said, “I’ll pay you double—$10,000.”

Jessel said okay.

The service was held in the backyard of the old man’s house with only his housekeeper and a few neighbors in attendance. He solemnly brought out a small box and placed it near a small hole he had dug in the ground. Jessel began his eulogy, and it was magnificent, as always. Everyone cried. It was beautiful.

When it was over, the old man handed Jessel the check.

“Mr. Jessel,” he said, crying, “how can I ever thank you? How beautifully you spoke, it brought tears to my eyes. And not until today did I realize how much my Fluffy had done for Israel.”