by Don Rickles
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.
The Sawdust Trail
The 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.
My Hero
In 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 coul
dn’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!
Just the Two of Us
For 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.
Sailing
The 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.”
Elegante
Brooklyn is a beautiful place. Ask any Brooklynite. Ask me. I’ll tell you it’s beautiful, and I’m a kid from Jackson Heights who rooted against the Dodgers. See, Brooklyn gave me my first big break. Without Brooklyn, I’d still be entertaining at bar mitzvahs. But come to think of it, it’s where I started entertaining at bar mitzvahs. Here’s the story.
There was a big upscale club in the heart of Brooklyn on Ocean Parkway called the Elegante. Its owner was Joe Scandore. Joe and the Elegante changed my life.
Joe was an elegantly dressed man with an improbably high-pitched voice and a law degree from Syracuse University. He was a bright guy with a show-biz brain. In addition to having dinner and attending a regular show, you could get married at the Elegante or have any kind of party you wanted. Joe was Italian, but the Elegante, situated in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood, catered to everyone. It was where you went for a classy meal, a special night out, or the best live entertainment on Ocean Parkway.
I clicked at the Elegante. That’s where my style came together. And Joe was there to witness the whole thing. Joe liked me so much he bought my contract from Willie Weber and decided to manage me.
Leaving Willie wasn’t easy, but he understood. He always wanted the best for me. No hard feelings. Besides, Mom was convinced Joe represented a step up. She was crazy about him, and he treated her like a queen. She loved how he cared for her sonny boy.
Before Joe got me jobs outside the Elegante, he had me working his club so often it became a second home. The schedule was nuts.
It went like this:
Saturday morning I wake up at the crack of dawn in Long Beach, take the Long Island Railroad and two subways to get to Brooklyn.
I’d get to a hotel in downtown Brooklyn, check in, shower and put on the tux. Here comes the knock on the door. It’s Rocky, Joe’s man. Rocky was a sweetheart.
“Bar mitzvah time,” he says. “You’re on in an hour.”
Rocky runs me over to the Elegante where I grab a bite in the kitchen. After the tap dancer is done tapping, I come on to entertain the bar mitzvah party. Everyone’s busy eating lunch.
I begin to sell my stuff.
“Is this your father?” I ask the bar mitzvah boy. “What happened? Did a bus hit him?”
“And this is your mother?” I continue.
He nods yes.
“She’s beautiful. What does she see in your father?”
Then I look over the room and say, “I’ll be honest, this crowd looks like a real mercy mission. So just give me the kid’s gifts and let me go home early.”
Right after the show, Rocky takes me back to the hotel. I take off my yarmulke and Rocky says, “Relax, Jew, I’ll be back at seven.”
I stretch out on the bed and think, Why am I killing myself? The answer’s easy: I need the money.
Seven o’clock and Rocky comes knocking at the door. I jump into my tux and he takes me back to the Elegante where I do a show at nine and another at eleven.
By 1 A.M., I’m hanging out at the Elegante bar while Joe, with his smooth-talking style, tries to find me a girl. Usually, I wind up empty-handed, but once in a while when the moon is full and the parking lot deserted, Joe introduces me to a young lady who enjoys my performance and gives me an opportunity to enjoy her in the back of Scandore’s big Cadillac.
Then back to the hotel where I sleep for a few hours.
I’m up Sunday morning for a wedding party and two more shows Sunday night.
This is the Elegante lifestyle.
“Are you happy, sonny boy?” Mom asks.
“Happy enough,” I say.
“Good,” she says, “’cause we’re moving to Miami.”
Hey, Rose,
Pass the Suntan Lotion
Mom moved us to Miami Beach, where
she shared an apartment on Collins Avenue with her friend from Jackson Heights, Honey Schwartz. Honey was also a widow, a lovely lady who became part of our family.
I had my own small place and adjusted easily. Who couldn’t adjust to Florida? In the fifties, Miami Beach was a tropical suburb of New York City. You felt a Jewish atmosphere everywhere you turned: women playing mah-jongg in front of their cabanas; overweight men in bathing suits sitting at bridge tables dealing out their hands in heavy-money card games. At Joe’s Stone Crab Restaurant, the crabs were two bucks and lobster a buck-fifty. At Wolfie’s Deli at Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue, pastrami, tongue and corned beef piled a mile high on rye with all the pickles and cole slaw you could eat were a quarter a sandwich.
The fancy hotels were the Fontainebleau, the Eden Roc, the Americana and the Diplomat. Headliners were playing them all. At the Latin Quarter, Milton Berle was breaking records. Meanwhile, I was appearing at a small, intimate room called Murray Franklin’s, where the audience sat in rocking chairs. That was the gimmick. Your genial host was Murray Franklin, who saw himself as the Ed Sullivan of Miami Beach. I’ll always be grateful to Murray for giving me a shot.
I’ll also always love Rowan and Martin, because when they were headlining the Americana, they caught my act at Murray’s and talked me up all up and down the beach. Dan and Dick became my pals and boosters.
I was working at Murray’s when I met a guy named Larry King. Yes, the same Larry King who today interviews prime ministers and presidents. On the air, his personality was powerful; at Wolfie’s, he became an eccentric who worried that the pastrami was too thick and the pickles too salty.
Back then, Larry had a radio show from 1 A.M. to 5 A.M. He broadcasted from a houseboat. His listeners were mostly waiters, showgirls and anyone with insomnia. King had me on the air many times to take listeners’ phone calls. When the caller talked for more than thirty seconds, I’d say, “Don’t be a hockey puck. Get out of my life.” And I’d hang up. Larry loved it.