Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life

by Cindy Williams

  But he was already gone. I tried calling Penny, but couldn’t get ahold of her. I never did find out if there was actually a fire.

  I called home. I asked my mother if she had watched the parade. She had and of course loved our performance. My mother had become a one-woman booster club. She was now working at Bill White’s Foods for Health in Van Nuys, dishing out healthy organic food. Bill White’s was very popular with actors like Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw, all kinds of celebrities came in. And I was happy to sign pictures as she dispensed health advice for her adoring friends and customers. This was her purpose-driven life and it made her happy, kept her healthy, and she reveled in it. One day a reporter came into Bill White’s and asked my mother for an interview for a ladies’ magazine. My mother, of course, was thrilled to participate. They even took a picture of her. Well, when the article came out, lo and behold it was not for a ladies’ magazine as she had been told, it was for The Enquirer and the headline read: “Daughter Makes Millions While Mother Works as a Waitress.”

  It was accompanied by a picture of my mother in a waitress uniform holding a plate of food in each hand and smiling into what seemed to be a fish-eyed lens. My poor little mama, sucked in by a show business rag sheet. But you know what I hope? I hope the reporter did think long and hard about how she turned something that should have been upbeat into crap. My mother phoned the “reporter” not to give her a piece of her mind but to ask her why and how she could deceive her. My mother said she wanted her to think about it. The reporter had no answer except to say “I’m sorry, Frances.” If that reporter had only asked, she would have known that I had tried many times to get her to stop working, and she turned my offer down every time. She loved her job and at this point in her life she had no intention of quitting. She also knew I would have given her anything her little ol’ heart desired. All she had to do was ask!

  In 1980, Penny and I were sent by Paramount to the TV Festival de Cannes. It’s a once-a-year gathering of foreign distributers seeking to buy shows for programming in their country. We were the ambassadors for Laverne & Shirley and were scheduled to attend cocktail parties and dinners, hosting and meeting distributors. Paramount was hoping to sell the show to foreign markets.

  Our plane was late arriving in Orly Airport in Paris and we were both in a pretty wretched state. Of course neither of us spoke French and making our connecting flight to Cannes was more than challenging. We had to gather our luggage and run like bats out of hell to catch the flight. We didn’t understand any of the instructions we were given. All we could figure out was that we had to hurry from one terminal to another with our luggage piled on one trolley. Penny pushed, I steered! It must have been a mile. We rounded one corner and lost our balance, careening into a wall, ping-ponging back, and trying to keep the luggage from falling. We sailed down one corridor after the next. We ran faster and faster. Finally we rounded one last bend and made it. Our luggage was checked. We now had to run to the gate and run we did! We were out of breath when we got there. The last few passengers were boarding. There was a table with boxes and bottles of wine. The people ahead of us each grabbed a box and a bottle. We did the same.

  Everyone on the plane had skis and was dressed in winter attire. We took our seats at the back of the plane, which took off like a rocket and without much warning. People immediately started drinking wine and eating their lunches. We did the same. Neither of us drank, but halfway through the flight, when we were over the Alps, we hit major turbulence. Penny frantically lit a cigarette. I gulped down all of my wine. The turbulence never ended. We looked at each other, then at the passengers around us. In fact they were oblivious to the bumpy flight. It looked like a disco party in full swing. We shrugged our shoulders figuring everything was fine. We finished the wine. The landing was like the takeoff, fast and sudden. But we made it.

  We were picked up and taken to one of the most beautiful places on earth as far as I’m concerned, the Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc in Antibes, France. It sits on the Mediterranean Sea. We were jet-lagged and exhausted. Our rooms were next door to each other and were beautiful. Each room provided a butler and a maid. They were situated in the hallway in little cubicles. Whenever we’d come in or go out of the room, they’d both stand at attention. They were each dressed impeccably. I commented to Penny that they were dressed better than we were.

  Penny commented back, “Ugly Americans, Cin, we’re ugly Americans!”

  I told her to stop it. We were so exhausted, but we had to stay awake because we had a big business dinner that night. Even though it was cold, we decided to take a walk. The hotel is situated on the Mediterranean with a beautiful, lilac-trellised path that leads to the sea. It was spectacular. There was a hothouse where they grew the flowers that sat in large vases in the hotel, and fruits and vegetables for the restaurant. We were so tired we huddled together as we walked, keeping in step with each other.

  At one point Penny lit a cigarette and the smoke was blown into my face by a nice little ocean breeze. There was no use asking her to put it out. I knew she wouldn’t and anyway I didn’t want to see her stomping it out among the lilac petals scattered about the ground. We kept in step, never missing a beat, and made it to the stone cliff that rose high above the water. We didn’t stop. Gazing briefly at the crystal turquoise sea, we headed back. Penny lit another cigarette off the butt from the first one; a lovely picture of delicate charm. As we made our way back up the path to the hotel, still walking under the lilac-strewn trellis, I noticed up ahead what I thought to be a graveyard, only with small headstones.

  “Look!” I said to Penny. “They have their own pet cemetery.”

  “What?” Penny said.

  “Look!” I pointed. “They have their own cemetery where they bury their pets.”

  Penny glanced to the tiny headstones. “That’s not a pet cemetery.”

  “What is it then? Look at the headstones, they’re so small.” We were getting closer to where the headstones were lined up.

  “It’s probably a place where they bury the help!” she said.

  “The help? Don’t be crazy!”

  “Yeah, the help, the small help—the butlers, the maids that have worked here.”

  “I’m telling you it’s a pet cemetery; the French love their animals.”

  “The French love their butlers and maids who die here too,” she said, taking a final triumphant drag from her cigarette. We had arrived at one of the graves.

  “Really,” I said, reading a headstone to her.

  “Au revoir mon petite Skippy?” I turned to her, “Skippy was the butler?”

  She didn’t care, she had gone on to light another cigarette.

  That evening we were scheduled to have dinner with buyers at Le Grand Hotel in Cannes. We were wretched creatures by this time. We were among the living dead! We tried to dress up, but no matter what either of us put on, we always looked like we were wearing pajamas and slippers. When we walked out of our rooms to meet in the hallway, once again the butler and maid stood at attention in their cubicle. Again as we walked, Penny says, “Ugly Americans, Cin, we’re ugly Americans!” Once again, I told her to shut up.

  We arrived at the Le Grand Hotel in Cannes and were escorted into the ornate private dining room, complete with ceiling-to-floor beveled glass windows, French crystal chandeliers, and a long dining table that was set for about sixty people. Everywhere in the room there were exquisite flower arrangements set in crystal vases. Penny and I were alone in the room. Exhausted, we sat down at the table next to each other. A waiter came over and politely asked in English if we would like to order drinks. We each requested double espressos, laid our heads down in the beautiful Lalique dinner plates, and fell fast asleep.

  We were awakened by a voice saying, “Penny! Cindy!”

  When we raised our heads we saw Loretta Switt about thirty feet away smiling and sitting at the other end of the table. “Come here an
d sit with me,” she said.

  Penny said, “We’re too exhausted, Loretta. We can’t move!”

  Our espressos had been placed in front of us. We started drinking them, hoping to come to. People started trickling in, buyers and Paramount representatives. Soon we were asked to separate and sit apart so we could interact with more buyers. We refused. The reps were not happy with it, but we held our ground. It wouldn’t have mattered too much anyway. We fell asleep again.

  The next day there was an afternoon cocktail party, a “meet-and-greet,” with buyers from Belgium, Germany, Holland, and other western European countries. This was a party set up by Paramount specifically for Laverne & Shirley. We held a reception line as representatives from these countries passed by to greet us. I will not say which country it was, but as I was shaking hands with one gentleman he boldly announced his country would not be buying Laverne & Shirley. He found nothing funny about it.

  I was shocked at his rudeness. I don’t know what possessed me, but I said to him, “Really? Well, maybe you’ll find this funny.”

  And as I was preparing to give him a “stage punch,” Penny, overhearing this, told the surprised guest, “Just move along, buddy.”

  When we got back to the hotel, we went straight to bed. As I lay there in my beautiful big bed looking forward to drifting off into a comalike sleep, it came to my attention that I could hear moving around above me. It was thumping disco music and the sound of a thousand feet shaking their booties down to the ground. Evidently there was a dance club above my head. I called Penny and asked her if she could hear the music and dancing.

  She said, “No.” She suggested I come and sleep in her room, which I did. I ran out into the hall in my mismatched pajamas only to be greeted again by my personal butler, standing at the ready. I gave up on trying to seem appropriate. It would never happen, not even if I had been born in Paris. The ugly American smiled and entered the other ugly American’s room. I fell onto a bed and slipped into a wonderful coma.

  The End of Laverne & Shirley

  Laverne & Shirley ended abruptly for me. I had married Bill Hudson and was pregnant. At first there didn’t seem to be a problem with me returning to the eighth season of the show. When we shot the first episode, I was four months pregnant. But when it came time to sign the contract for that season I realized that the studio had scheduled me to work on my delivery due date. I thought this was an oversight, but my attorney assured me there was no mistake. That was Paramount’s schedule for the show.

  I had assumed we were going to be doing wraparound shows. (This is when one actor is only in the first and last scenes of the episode and the lion’s share of the show is carried by the rest of the cast.) I thought we would handle it by me working most of the shows in the beginning of the season and as I was closer to my due date, Penny would work them.

  Well, I guess I had assumed wrong. In the wink of an eye, I found myself off the show. It was so abrupt that I didn’t even have time to gather my personal things that I had brought from home to help decorate the set. That season my name was removed from the credits. So my eighth season of the show turned out to be my beautiful baby, Emily.

  A few years later, I was doing a TV series with Telma Hopkins called Getting By. We shot on the Warner Brothers lot. One day, Rennie our prop man from Laverne & Shirley called and said he was also working on the lot, and would I meet him outside the commissary at lunch. When I arrived, Rennie wasn’t there. I waited for a few minutes and then heard my name being called. I turned to see him walking toward me. He was holding Boo Boo Kitty. I started to cry. My cat had been returned because of the tender thoughtfulness of my friend, Rennie.

  Ten

  Outtakes

  Like most of the world, I continue to be enamored with all types of talented people; be it Rodney Dangerfield, Joni Mitchell, or Shaquille O’Neal. Here are some stories of encounters and situations I have found myself in with the great and talented—named and unnamed.

  the tonight Show

  I had been entertained by Johnny Carson since he hosted Who Do You Trust? I can still hear my mother saying, “It should be Whom Do You Trust? That’s the proper English! Whom Do You Trust?” It didn’t matter who—or whom—we loved Johnny Carson and we certainly trusted him! When I was invited on The Tonight Show many years later, I was thrilled. I must offer a proviso here. I have not been able to review the shows I appeared in, or who the guests were alongside me. I have no personal tapes; the Internet offered little help and I could not find the shows on YouTube. The following are the general strokes to the best of my recollection.

  So far, I’ve been on The Tonight Show seven times. The first time was with the man himself. I had no idea, really, just how prepared you must be to venture out on that stage and sit in that chair next to Johnny Carson. I naively assumed it was just a question of having a fun conversation. But it was more than that, much more. You are out there batting with the big boys! You had to be ready with your arsenal of wit. That’s what was expected of the guests on the show; seamless wit and snappy patter. I was (and had been for years) a loyal fan of Johnny Carson and The Tonight Show; entertained and soothed by the charm of Johnny and his guests. It comforted in the nighttime hours.

  My publicist, Dick Guttman, booked me on the show. I was assigned to a segment producer. He asked me about fun things that had happened to me recently; little stories I might tell Johnny. The joke back then was if you’re an actress, tell a story about your cat! At the time I did have an apartment full of kittens I was trying to find homes, I thought maybe I could make a plea to the audience to adopt them. But this might backfire on me because I wasn’t allowed to have animals in my apartment and couldn’t run the risk of my landlord seeing the show and booting me and the kittens out! No, that wouldn’t be a story I could use this time. Maybe later, after I had found homes for them and was living somewhere else. But not for this show. I told my segment producer general things about my mother being a health nut and working in Bill White’s Foods for Health in Van Nuys; being directed by Larry Hagman in Return of the Blob; failing miserably at my high school cheerleading tryouts, and of course there would be talk about American Graffiti. Well, let me tell you that’s all well and good in theory, but when you’re out there you need nerves of steel, the strength of an Olympic athlete and the presence of mind of a William F. Buckley!

  I arrived at NBC Studios in Burbank and was already experiencing a case of “monkey nerves” as Penny used to refer to them. I went to makeup. Doc Severinsen was sitting in the chair next to me and greeted me so sweetly that it almost had a calming effect on me, but then I caught a glimpse of Johnny in another makeup chair. My heart began racing again. (How do people do this without being sedated first?) After makeup, I went to my producer who was waiting in my dressing room to go over my “snappy patter.”

  Blah, blah, blah Mama, health food. Blah, blah, blah, The Blob. Blah, blah, blah cheerleader. None of it seemed funny to me. He then invited me to wait in the Green Room. I did. It was too lonely in my dressing room. I had instructed Dick Guttman, agents, and managers to stay away—this was not the time to hang out! The Green Room was like the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, filled with actors and their friends and reps. I was offered a drink but declined. There was a TV mounted on the wall so you could watch the show as it progressed. I watched as the guests scored in their stories and repartee with Johnny. It neared the end of the show and looked like I was going to get bumped. Secretly I was relieved. Then all of a sudden my producer came in; pointed at me and said, “You’re on!”

  He led me backstage to stand by. He left me in the trusty hands of the stage manager reminding me about Blah, blah, blah Mama, health food. Blah, blah, blah, The Blob. Blah, blah, blah cheerleader. I don’t mind confessing I was faintish. I was standing in front of a full-length mirror with a TV monitor hanging above, broadcasting the show in real time. The stage manager was standing there smiling at me.
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  I gave a weak smile back and said, “Hi!”

  “You look nice!” he said.

  I glanced at myself at the full-length mirror. I was dressed in all brown, the only good outfit I owned at that time.

  He continues, “Okay, here’s how it goes. When you’re announced, I pull the curtain back for you, and you’ll step out on to the stage. The audience is in front of you and Johnny will be to your right. Take a bow if you like, turn right, and cross to Johnny.”

  “Do I kiss him or hug him?” I asked.

  The stage manager took a beat to ponder as though he had never been asked this question before, “Uh, usually Johnny acknowledges you by standing, the rest is up to you. But then you go to the seat stage-right of Johnny’s desk, and if the audience is still applauding you can take another acknowledgment and then sit.”

  “OK,” I said, weakly.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Just nervous.”

  “Yeah, everyone is!”

  I stood there during the commercial watching it on the monitor. I could see myself in the mirror, full-length, of course. The commercial was over, and all I saw now were the curtains I was supposed to step out from. Everything was backward to me! Now Johnny was saying something like: My next guest recently starred in—.

  I stood there listening to Johnny Carson introduce me. Still watching the monitor and the curtains and glancing down to see myself in the full-length mirror. I got all turned around as though I was caught in the Bermuda Triangle. The stage manager snapped me out of it when he beckoned me to stand by him, and he prepared to pull the curtains back as Johnny finished. Please welcome Cindy Williams.

  Doc Severinsen struck up the band to play me onto the stage. I don’t remember what they played, maybe “Rock around the Clock.” The stage manager said, “Here you go, and remember, Johnny’s on your right!”