Johnny Carson

by Henry Bushkin

  “Don’t be so confident,” Johnny said. “This isn’t 1960.”

  “He’s still Sinatra.”

  “Okay, then he’s got Dean. Big deal.”

  “Okay, look, do you want me to tell Rudin you’ll think about it?”

  “No, tell Mickey I’ll do it—for Frank, as a favor to Frank. But no screwups like on that Radio City deal.” He threw in that along with the condition that the Inaugural Committee would have to pay for two of his writers to prepare special material for the show. Johnny was always good about getting extra money for his guys.

  Before lunch, I heard from Sinatra, who called to thank me for my help, and also from Charles Wick, the cochairman of the Inaugural Committee.

  Wick was a veteran agent and an occasional movie and TV producer (he was the man behind Snow White and the Three Stooges), who had grown close to Reagan when he was governor of California. Reportedly in line to head the United States Information Agency, he would go on to become its longest-serving director. “I can’t tell you how pleased and grateful the president-elect is that Johnny has agreed to this,” said the slick Wick, who was famously fond of Savile Row suits and salty humor. “We’re committed to making this the very best inauguration ever. Would you mind giving me Johnny’s number at NBC? I’d really like to call him and thank him personally.” Johnny later told me that he was pleased by the attention.

  In mid-January, Johnny and Joanna and Judy and I flew to Washington for the big weekend that would culminate with the swearing in of the new president on January 20, 1981. Yes, Judy was with me. I had the brilliant idea that this weekend would be an opportunity to see if reconciliation was possible. I loved her, but I had not been the best of husbands. We had separated in August, but over the holidays, the family feelings and sentimentality ran high, and we both had second thoughts. Johnny’s big crisis with NBC was behind me, and maybe with this new company, the demands on my time wouldn’t be so personal, so hands-on. We both hoped the weekend would work to help the process of getting back together.

  It was bitterly cold in the capital, even for ex-Easterners, who thought they remembered what winter was like. Johnny was especially uncomfortable because he never traveled with a coat. He never bothered to even own one, no matter the city or the weather; there was always the waiting car and driver. We were met by a military attaché and two military drivers with limousines who were assigned to our party for the duration of our stay in our nation’s capital. We were impressed by the attention, but we all wondered how a group of private guests warranted military chauffeurs.

  We were installed at the elegant Hay-Adams Hotel, which had been named for John Hay, who had been an assistant to President Lincoln and was later secretary of state, and Henry Adams, author and direct descendant of John Adams and John Quincy Adams. The men had had adjoining townhouses opposite Lafayette Square on the site where the hotel was built. Johnny and Joanna had been given a palatial suite on the top floor with an unparalleled view of the White House. We were all finding it hard to resist feeling a bit presidential ourselves.

  Very quickly we entered a social whirl. That evening, the Carsons were invited to a small dinner hosted by Ambassador Walter Annenberg (publisher of the Philadelphia Inquirer and the enormously profitable TV Guide) and his wife, Leonore. Meanwhile, Judy and I had dinner with our good friends Connie and Donald Santarelli at their home in Alexandria, Virginia. Donald was one of the partners in my firm and an important figure in Republican Party circles. The next day, while Joanna was a guest of Nancy Reagan at an exclusive party, and Judy and Connie hit the historic landmarks, Donald and the Republican Inaugural Committee honored Johnny with a luncheon at a private club.

  Donald had assembled many Republican senators and congressmen who were quite anxious to meet the host of The Tonight Show. I was enjoying myself, meeting all of these people whose names and faces I had known only from Time magazine and the evening news, and I was happy that Donald was enjoying a moment in the limelight. Unfortunately we forgot the first and by far the most important rule regarding Carson and social occasions: surround him with people he likes. In trying to give Santarelli a little boost, I neglected to tell Johnny how many senators and congressmen would be present at the luncheon, and there were dozens, every one of whom wanted his moment with Johnny. This is pretty much exactly the opposite of what Johnny wanted, and he was practically coming out of his skin. “This is a goddamn three-ring circus,” he said. “We have got to get the hell out of here.”

  His next line was hardly a surprise. “No good deed goes unpunished,” he snarled. In the course of eighteen years I must have heard that line a million times. This was pure Carson, and he was letting me know that I should never have talked him into doing this event. The spectacle of politicians jockeying for autographs and photos annoyed him far more than it flattered him. “I can make some excuse and we can get out of here,” I said. “Santarelli will cover you. It is your choice.” His ingrained good manners took over and he stayed, but as soon as possible I got him to a more secluded spot where there was less chaos. Looking down at the seventy-five people who were queuing to meet him, he shook his head and muttered, “Can you imagine standing in line to have your picture taken with one of these guys?” It was a rhetorical question but it made Santarelli and me laugh. It was a good sign; it meant Johnny was going to stop fighting and submit to the absurdity of the situation.

  Ultimately Johnny was gracious and took pictures with everyone, but afterward, in the limo, he made his unhappiness clear. “Let’s never do that again,” he said. But he took immense delight in recounting the scene later that day, mocking the congressmen and aping their eagerness and generally showing how much contempt he had for the whole event. His irritation was disappearing, and I was glad, but I knew him well enough to know that it was bubbling around under a thin surface. The trip had not gotten off to a great start, and I hoped nothing else would go wrong.

  The next afternoon we went to Capital Centre in Landover, Maryland, for the rehearsal of the upcoming gala. Carson went through all his paces, and I made sure to show him where Joanna would be sitting so that he could acknowledge her from the stage. For a time, Sinatra, Bob Hope, and Carson were all onstage together. It was quite a treat for a fan, although not everyone was entirely thrilled. You could see Johnny was bothered, and he kept coming over to me, complaining about the performers that Sinatra booked on the show. The list included Hope, Debby Boone, Grace Bumbry, Charlton Heston, Rich Little, Dean Martin, Donny and Marie Osmond, Ethel Merman, Charley Pride, Mel Tillis, Ben Vereen, and the United States Naval Academy Glee Club. On the whole, Johnny felt they were a little too vanilla and a little too beyond their sell-by date. “Frank can still sing but he sucks at producing,” muttered Johnny.

  A green room of sorts was set up, and the big boys adjourned there to have a few drinks together in private. The prospect of a Carson, Hope, and Sinatra convocation struck me as a rare and exciting event, and I horned in. I was glad that I did.

  Hope kicked things off by asking if we had heard the story about Jesus playing golf with Saint Peter. “They’re teeing off on the 180-yard par-three sixth hole. Saint Peter hits a perfect five iron ten feet from the cup. Jesus then shanks his five iron out of bounds and it’s heading over a fence. Suddenly an eagle flies overhead, and before the ball can land in the bushes, the eagle plucks it in midair and circles the green. A moment later, the bird drops the ball directly on the green. And it rolls right into the cup for a hole in one. Saint Peter looks at Jesus and says, ‘All right—are you going to play golf or are you just going to fuck around?’”

  The room erupted, and when things settled down, Sinatra took his turn. “This guy is chugging beers at the Rainbow Room,” he said, referring to the famous bar and restaurant on the sixty-fifth floor of 30 Rockefeller Center. “After he puts a few away, he gets up, walks out onto the terrace, and proceeds to jump off the sixty-fifth-story balcony. The guy who had been sitting at the bar next to him is in shock. He can’t
believe it. Guy’s just jumped off the balcony! But he ain’t seen nuthin’! Five minutes later, the elevator door opens, and there’s the jumper! He comes over, orders five more beers, chugs them, and then—another shock—he goes up and jumps off the balcony again. Unbelievably enough, five minutes later, the elevator opens, and once more the jumper comes back to the bar. The guy who’s been sitting there drinking finally asks, ‘How the hell were you able to survive two jumps from the sixty-fifth floor?’

  “‘Well,’ the guy says, ‘when you drink beer it creates these air pockets throughout your stomach. Pretty soon you become lighter than air, and you can float like a blimp.’

  “‘No shit,’ says the other guy. So he orders a few beers, chugs them, walks up to the balcony, and jumps. Seconds later—splat! He crashes into the ground below.

  “The bartender turns to the first guy and says, ‘You can be such an asshole when you’re drunk, Superman.’”

  It was a special moment, and a good overture for the big event that was to take place.

  Finally Johnny took his turn. “Once there was a young couple who were very much in love. The girl became pregnant and gave birth to their first child. It was a difficult pregnancy and there were complications, and surgery was required. When it was finished and the young woman came out of the recovery room, the surgeon met with the couple. ‘I have some good news and some bad news,’ the doctor said. ‘The good news is that you are the parents of a seven-pound baby. The bad news, I’m afraid, is that there is an abnormality. Your baby is just a head. It was born without a torso.’

  “Well, the young couple was very brave, and they took their baby home, and loved it, and cared for it, and played with it. And on the baby’s twelfth birthday, the doctor called. ‘I have amazing news,’ he said. ‘A torso has been found that would be a perfect match for a head. Come in immediately, for it is ready for transplant.’

  “The couple was elated, not only by the news, but that this amazing stroke of fortune should fall on their son’s birthday. They ran to his room. ‘Son!’ the father exclaimed. ‘We have the best birthday present a boy like you could ever dream of!’

  “‘Oh yeah?’ said the lad, looking up from the floor. ‘Well, it better not be another fucking hat!’”

  Even Hope laughed.

  By the time everything wrapped up, traffic was at a standstill, and the two of us thought it would be safer to hang out backstage at the facility rather than go back to the hotel and risk being trapped in traffic on our return. Johnny and I killed time playing blackjack with a minimum five-dollar bet per hand. Las Vegas rules applied for the dealer, and I kept score on a notepad. I was getting hosed. Johnny started telling Bob Hope stories. His head writers, Hal Goodman and Larry Klein, had previously worked for Hope, who was known for being one of the cheapest stars in the business.

  Carson told me, “At Christmas, Hope would invite Goodman and Klein over to his home in Toluca Lake in order to give them their gifts. Hope’s idea of yuletide generosity was to lead the guys to a large room filled with all of the freebies that he had received from commercial sponsors and then give them their choice of whatever was in the room. ‘Take whatever you like, fellows,’ said Hope.” Carson loved that story and laughed all the while he told it.

  From there, Johnny segued into doing “cheap” jokes that had me doubled up. “You want to know how cheap Hope is?” he asked.

  “How cheap?” I obliged him.

  “I’ll tell you how cheap he is. When Bob pulls a dollar from his pocket, it blinks at the light of day! Do you want to know how cheap Hope is?”

  “How cheap?”

  “Bob is so cheap that he takes off his glasses when he’s not looking at anything. Do you want to know how cheap Bob Hope is?”

  “How cheap?”

  “Bob is so cheap that he won’t buy new clothes. He’s worn his suits so long, they’ve been in style four times!”

  He then began dishing about other notorious Hollywood cheapskates such as Cary Grant and Fred MacMurray. “You know the short seventh hole at the Bel-Air Country Club? One day, when Fred was a member, he had a hole in one there. Now, you know, it’s tradition—Fred’s supposed to buy a round of drinks for everyone in the club. No way Fred was going to do that. Instead he marked down a two on his card and paid each of his three playing partners $100 apiece to keep their mouths shut.

  “Can you believe how cheap that son of a bitch was?” Carson laughed. He mercifully gave Cary Grant a pass on the cheap jokes.

  (Johnny, by the way, was never remotely cheap. Money was of very little concern to him, and he spread it around liberally. Restaurant and hotel staffers were never disappointed when he was eating or staying in their establishment. During that weekend in Washington, I know we passed out thousands in tips and gratuities.)

  I have been privy to a lot of Johnny’s jokes, and I have been the butt of a lot of them, but on this occasion I was getting a command performance as he played for an audience of one. And he was hilarious. All it cost me was about seventy-five dollars in blackjack losses. The president of the United States could ask for Johnny to perform, but I was the lucky son of a bitch who saw a comic maestro one- on-one.

  We were alone for about an hour before the Secret Service guys came backstage to let us know the ladies had arrived, and I went out to say hello. That evening the bejeweled Mrs. Carson looked quite regal, and Judy looked gorgeous as well. Satisfied that everyone was happy, I returned to the Capital Centre dressing area, which normally served as the visiting team’s locker room. We spent the next twenty minutes reviewing Johnny’s monologue for the show, which had been written by Mike Barrie and Jim Mulholland, the Tonight Show team he relied on for special material. Everything was cool.

  But now, surprisingly, Johnny was beginning to get a little bit anxious, and he had been so relaxed just a little while before. “I think Sinatra could have done a better job,” he said, returning to the misgivings he had entertained earlier in the day. “Look who he booked—Debby Boone! Rich Little!” Never a favorite of Johnny’s, Little always seemed to bring out the worst in Carson. It was beginning to dawn on him that the gala was a three-hour show, and if things started to flop, people would blame the ringmaster. Now Johnny was acting pissed.

  Dean Martin arrived backstage with his agent, Mort Viner, an old tennis friend of ours. Dean, it was clear, was thoroughly plastered, with no idea where he was.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Dean said. “A good friend passed away and I’m in mourning.”

  Carson thought of Martin as a friend, and he responded with concern. “That’s awful, Dean,” he said. “Who died?”

  “My old driver,” Dean mumbled, “but I can’t remember his goddamn name.”

  “Dean, do you know where you are?” asked Johnny, half concerned, half irritated.

  Dean looked at Johnny, not comprehending. Finally he murmured, “Do you have any lamb chops?”

  “Dean, I’m not the goddamn maitre d’,” Johnny sputtered. “I’m hosting, for chrissakes, not serving!” Then Johnny turned to me and whispered, “Speak to Viner because I won’t introduce Dean. The son of a bitch can’t stand up, let alone perform.”

  I called Mort over and delivered the news. Despite the obvious disaster in waiting that was staring us in the face, Viner assured me that Dean would sober up the moment the TV camera’s red light came on.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, stunned. “Dean hasn’t even got a clue where he is. There is no way Johnny will allow Martin to perform. Not tonight. Not before this crowd, on this occasion. He’ll be humiliated.”

  “Oh, this happens all the time,” said Viner, but he knew it was a lost cause.

  I told Viner we’d see how things went, but as show time neared, Martin reeled out of the green room, followed by a cloud of Scotch and nicotine; being near him was like opening the door to a bar opposite a navy base at three a.m. “Jesus,” said Johnny, “I hope he doesn’t vomit on someone during my monologue.”

  Next Cha
rlton Heston came in. Here was the man known for playing epic heroes, and for once the man in the room lived up to the image on the screen; he strode into the room like Moses. Heston wasn’t a favorite of Johnny’s; he was a little too outspoken about his politics, too given to pontification. In truth, he was also a little too conservative for Johnny’s tastes. Heston famously supported the NRA, which Johnny countered on The Tonight Show as the plaid-wool-hat-wearing Floyd R. Turbo: “If God didn’t want us to hunt, He wouldn’t have given us plaid shirts; I only kill in self-defense—what would you do if a rabbit pulled a knife on you?”

  Heston’s job was to be part of a relay: he would introduce President-elect Reagan after Carson introduced Heston. Like the good actor he was, Heston was focused on his part. Standing in front of the mirror, checking the fit of his tux, he saw Dean Martin slumped in a chair in the corner and then refocused on his appearance without batting an eye.

  Johnny sensed an opening. “I think you have a tear in your tux,” he said.

  “Where?” asked Heston, twisting and turning.

  “In the back,” said Johnny. He kept Heston twisting and turning for a bit more until the actor ripped off the jacket in order to find the renegade rip. “I must have been seeing things,” said Johnny, winking.

  “Heh,” laughed Heston.

  At about that moment, Bob Hope arrived and right away started looking for Johnny. “Here,” he said, handing Carson some papers. “I’ve written some lines that you might like to use.” From Carson’s point of view, this was a sign of disrespect, an indication that the older man didn’t think Johnny was up to the occasion. I guess I could see that protocol was being violated here, but Bob Hope had been entertaining presidents since FDR; maybe this was just his way of coping with being bumped down the bill.