Rickles' Book (4 page)

I
’m in the backseat of a Plymouth, nestled between two ladies. Their dresses are plain. Their figures need work. Faye and Sue are their real names. But tonight they go by Tantalizing Tanya and Regina the Redheaded Bombshell.

We’ve all been hired to play a so-called supper club off the highway somewhere in Nowhere, Connecticut. I’m supposed to open the show.

In those days, I didn’t drive, so the agent is playing chauffeur. Meanwhile, Faye and Sue are chatting up a storm, talking about intimate experiences as though I’m not even there. They talk about lovemaking like other ladies talk about buying lox at the local deli.

At the club, I do my opening. The only ones listening are two busboys and an off-duty cop. My Jimmy Durante imitation is right on. My Jack Benny is solid. And my rendition of Sophie Tucker’s “One of These Days” is a big finish. So why is the audience looking at me like I should be driving a tar truck in Newark?

The only line that gets any response is, “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to bring you, directly from New York City, the beautiful, wild, sensational bodies of Tantalizing Tanya and Regina the Redheaded Bombshell!”

The bass drum goes boom! and the girls go right into their high-energy bump and grind. They might have looked average in the car, but when the lights hit the runway, they come alive. The explosive music is that famous stripper soundtrack “Night Train.” The crowd is theirs. The guys are yelling “Take it off! Take it off!”

Taking their own sweet time, the girls slip into their tease mode. Feathers slowly start falling. They show you a little of this and a little of that. Compared to today, these girls could be librarians, but back then it’s hot stuff.

Next thing I know, we’re heading back to the city in the car. As I look at these two exotic artistes illuminated by the lights of the road, right before my eyes Tantalizing Tanya and Regina the Redheaded Bombshell turn back into Faye and Sue, plain-looking girls from the neighborhood.

So much for my introduction to romantic show business.

T
he Sawdust Trail wasn’t in Montana. It wasn’t in the wilds of Wyoming or the dusty Texas panhandle. No, the Sawdust Trail was on Broadway, right in the center of the concrete jungle. The Sawdust Trail was a place where they charged no cover and no nothing and the door was always open. I knew that because when it rained, the room was always wet. People outside would stare at me. What’s that dummy doing? That poor dummy was me.

Those were the days when I was still less than nobody. I was a chair.

The only reason comics played the Sawdust Trail was because we’d heard that Leo DeLyon, a star back then, got his break there. But I didn’t get any breaks at the Sawdust. Fact is, when cigarette butts and debris came blowing in from the street, I pretended it was applause.

Compared to the Sawdust, the Valley Stream Park Inn on Long Island felt like the Copacabana. It was a nightspot where firemen held banquets and hired guys like me. They’d sit at tables of ten and get engrossed in deep conversation. Sometimes they’d look up and say, “Let’s give the kid a hand.”

Wait a minute, guys, I’d say to myself, I’m not finished.

And then they’d go back to their conversation like I didn’t exist.

None of this did wonders for my self-esteem. Which is why I was fortunate to finally find a manager who cared. God bless Willie Weber. He was a second father.

Willie was right out of Damon Runyon. He talked like a corner man in the heat of a heavyweight bout. He had a right hook you had to love. And I was lucky that he saw me as a contender.

“What do ya mean, is Rickles funny?” he’d say to a club owner. “Would I be talking to ya’ if the guy wasn’t funny? And believe me, I know funny.”

Willie believed in me. He worked his ass off for me, and even though the jobs he got weren’t exactly spectacular, they were jobs. He kept me going when someone else would have given up. I tell you how loyal he was.

Willie booked me back in a club in Montreal where I once had a problem. Most of the audience was French-speaking. Sitting ringside was a guy in a checkered shirt, dungarees, big boots and a stunning snow hat.

“Hey, fella,” I said, “buy yourself an ax, chop down some trees and ride downriver.”

In a heavy French accent, he said, “Monsieur, how would you like a punch in the face?”

I thought that was the end of my career in Montreal.

But Willie wouldn’t give up. Months later, Willie calls the club’s boss and says, “I got a great kid who tells stories the French crowd will love. Plus, he plays harmonica.”

Next thing I know, I’m back on stage in Montreal, harmonica in hand. I can’t play a note. And as luck would have it, another woodsman is sitting ringside. Only this guy is bigger.

I tell the audience how much I love the French-Canadian people before taking a humble bow, calmly walking off stage, and throwing myself into a moving taxi headed for the airport.

Having a second dad like Willie took on even greater importance on the night I was playing the Wayne Room in Washington, D.C. That was when everything changed. After that night, my life was never the same again.

I
n politics, you talk about FDR. In sports, there’s Joe Louis and Hank Greenberg. In entertainment, Jack Benny and Milton Berle. These are my heroes, men I admire. These are famous people whose accomplishments history will never forget.

But sometimes your biggest hero of all isn’t famous. Sometimes he’s only known to his family, his friends and his business associates. Sometimes his accomplishments are modest. Maybe he isn’t rich. Maybe he hasn’t made a contribution that will change the world. But all that doesn’t matter when the hero changes your world.

That’s what my dad did. Max Rickles showed me how to make it through tough times and hang in when things didn’t seem to be happening.

I wasn’t thinking of him when I was playing the Wayne Room. I was thinking of making the audience laugh. As usual, I was opening for strippers. In fact, in those days one of the strippers I worked with was Sally Marr, the mother of Lenny Bruce. Sally was a caring person. Her son Lenny would wind up, by accident, playing a big role in my career—but I’ll save that story for later.

Meanwhile, back in the Wayne Room in D.C., my career was sputtering along. A couple of politicians came out to see me. On this particular night, I was feeling good. My juices were flowing. I decided to take a chance and do my Peter Lorre dramatic piece, hoping the audience would eat it up.

I called the routine “The Man with the Glass Head.” It was a weird performance where Lorre, believing everyone could see into his glass head, was going to the electric chair.

The lights came down. I did what I did best: pure Rickles, making it up as I went along. I took on Lorre’s voice. I grabbed my head and started yelling, “Warden, stop looking into my head! Stop looking into my head!”

The audience was stunned. But after a few seconds, they broke into applause. They couldn’t believe I had the courage to try and sell dramatics in a strip club.

To anyone who’s interested in how I developed my style, I have an easy answer: I talked to the audience and prayed. I stumbled upon a self-styled theatrical performance. I discovered that my kind of storytelling had nothing to do with canned jokes and written routines. I just let it happen.

It took a while, but I found a distinct sense of sarcasm and humorous exaggeration; I found my own comedic voice—whatever the hell that means.

There was nothing comedic, though, about the voice that greeted me after the show in D.C. I was shocked to see my cousin Jerry Rickles.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I just flew in from New York,” he replied. “Can we talk in private?”

We found a couple of chairs and sat down.

“What’s wrong, Jerry?”

“Don,” he said in an emotional voice, “it’s your dad.”

I immediately froze up. I didn’t want to hear what was coming next.

“Your dad had a heart attack. He was on the street when it happened. They tried to save him, but they couldn’t.”

Dad was only fifty-five, a strong man in the prime of his life. I thought he’d live another fifty-five years. He’d always be with me and Mom.

My first thought was, I have to be strong for Mom because she’s always there for me.

Only later did I learn this detail of Dad’s death: By pure chance, it was my cousin Sol, then an intern, who arrived at the scene in an ambulance from Bellevue Hospital to try and resuscitate him. The odds of that were a million to one. Even my dear cousin couldn’t bring back his uncle. Dad was gone.

Rabbi Berliant, my father’s dear friend, officiated at the funeral. “Max S. Rickles,” he said, “is gone, but he’ll never leave us. His spirit will always remain.”

Bet on it.

“Life goes on,” my mother said to me. “You’ll get through this, sonny boy. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

And imagine, I was the one worrying about Mom!

F
or years we were a trio. Now we were a duo, just me and my mother.

This was strange and new. For so many years, we were rolling along as one happy family. And just like that, a light went out. Now what?

“We’re moving to Long Beach out on Long Island,” my mom said. And knowing her, there was no voting.

Understandably, with her husband gone, Mom wanted to be close to what family remained. She wanted to be near her sister.

We lived in a basement apartment with a lovely view of the sidewalk. Aunt Frieda, whom I loved, lived right above us. She was a wonderful woman with an especially warm relationship with her pocketbook. She owned the apartment where we stayed, and reduced our rent. (At least a little.)

When it came to my career, Mom became even more encouraging.

“Don’t worry, my darling,” she’d say. “Keep your chin up. You’ll make it.”

“When, Mom, when?”

“When” took a while.

I started playing places like the Atlantic Beach Club and the Boulevard in Queens. The crowds were warming up to me. And Mom thought it was helpful to stand in the wings and tell anyone who would listen, “Isn’t he fabulous? Isn’t he great?”

After the show, she’d go to the boss and say, “Did you see the reception my Don got?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rickles,” the owner would say, wanting to appease Mom.

But Mom wanted more. She wouldn’t be happy unless the boss gave her a bouquet of roses and told her I was dynamite. But the boss wasn’t about to show enthusiasm. He was afraid the agent would call and ask for more money.

So my money remained modest while my style got more aggressive. Some people in the audience loved it; some got scared.

The only thing that got me scared, though, was when the phone stopped ringing. As long as it rang, I knew I was in business. And if Rickles was in business, at least somebody was laughing.

T
he sea is calm.

The moonlight is bright.

The ship silently sails along.

I look out at the distant shore.

I see the twinkling lights.

I could be sailing into Venice. Or Barcelona. Or maybe Monte Carlo.

Actually, I’m sailing to Staten Island. On a run-down ferryboat.

I got a job at a joint that doesn’t even have a name. Just an address that Willie gave me. It’s a private party, a wedding, an anniversary, an Italian cookout. Who knows? Who cares?

I look around the ferry and imagine what the Jews, Irish and Italians felt like when they first came over from the Old Country. Confused. Frightened. Excited. Hoping to make some kind of living. All that describes me.

It takes hours to get from Long Island to Staten Island, but I make the trip more than once. I’d do anything to keep from taking a normal job. I just can’t handle normal. So the journey continues.

To break the monotony, I day dream that the ferry is a luxury liner. I’m entertaining royalty on the
lle de France
. The King and Queen are giving me a standing ovation. The foghorn from the ferry destroys my dream.

I get off on Staten Island and find my way to the restaurant where I’ve been hired to entertain at a party for Tony and Maria Gabazano, who are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Everyone’s doing the tarantella. Staten Island turns into Naples, Italy.

After a couple of glasses of Chianti, I say, “Hold it, folks. When do we get to do the hora?”

“Relax, Rickles. First the salad, then the spaghetti, then the veal, then the bowl of fruit, and then it’s your turn to be funny.”

“Gimme a break. Look at the shape this crowd is in. If I dropped my pants and fired a rocket, I wouldn’t get their attention.”