Make 'Em Laugh

by Debbie Reynolds

  I was lucky to meet Wayland in his early days, before he became truly famous, when he was still performing in clubs. I first saw him during one of his gigs in Los Angeles, in the mid-1970s. After the show, I went backstage to say hello. We wound up sitting and talking for hours.

  Wayland and I became fast friends. Sometimes we performed simultaneously in the same city. He often played the Sahara or the Sands hotels in Vegas while I was at the Desert Inn or the MGM Grand. Madame used to say, “Vegas isn’t the end of the world, but you can see it from there.”

  I loved Madame so much that I decided to become her in my act. I’m always updating it with impressions of stars I admire such as Mae West, Barbra Streisand, my friends Phyllis Diller and Bette Davis.

  It was 1981. By then Wayland was playing the large rooms in casinos as well as appearing regularly on television. I hired two of his writers to work on my Madame material, and his puppeteer to create a Madame mask. Madame’s seamstress designed my sequined gown. I found a small, blond doll to represent Wayland that we dressed in a little suit.

  I tried out the material at the LA Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. I began as myself, singing Stephen Sondheim’s “I’m Still Here” from Follies with special lyrics I wrote. Then I went backstage to change into Madame. Halfway into my routine, the crowd suddenly screamed with laughter. “This is working great,” I thought. But the audience kept cheering even when I wasn’t doing anything.

  A small hand tapped me on the shoulder. I could hardly see through the rubber mask that covered my head. I spun my head around to find out who was touching me. All I saw were feathers. Pink feathers.

  It was Madame herself. She and Wayland had come to see what I’d put together with their people, and Wayland couldn’t resist the urge to join me onstage. The three of us bantered for several minutes before I went back to my act. The crowd loved it—and so did I. How did I feel about being upstaged? It was a tryout, to see what worked and what didn’t. And as a performer, I’d learned early to rely on my old Girl Scout motto—“Be prepared!” For anything.

  One summer around that time we were both appearing in Lake Tahoe. I was staying at the Harrah’s guesthouse, a large stone building by the edge of the lake. Wayland was playing at the Sahara. After a long week of shows, we were ready to party. So I invited Wayland and his crew to join my musicians, dancers, and the rest of my tour gang at my place. The guesthouse was huge and elegant, but rustic. Downstairs was the living room lined with banquettes, with a stone fireplace as the focal point and a stairway made of tree trunks to the left—the ultimate party place.

  We all went back around 1:00 A.M. Everyone danced, told jokes, and had a good time. Wayland brought his musical director, Gary Simmons, his road manager, and a few other friends. How did they stay so skinny? I wondered. It must have been the diet so popular at the time—drugs and disco dancing.

  My hairdresser, Pinky, loaned Wayland her bathing suit so he could swim in the pool. Wayland was a mere slip of a thing, and the suit was too big. So he tried wrapping it around his waist to keep it from falling off. He should have just stayed underwater.

  At 4:00 A.M. I decided to turn in, and slipped upstairs to my bedroom. I was in my pajamas under the covers when I heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I said without getting up.

  Wayland entered, with Madame on his arm.

  “Hi, Debbie,” he said. “Are you going to bed now?”

  I laughed.

  “Yes, dear. Do you need something?”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “Both of you?”

  I wondered how he would get any rest with Madame on his arm.

  He giggled.

  “Yes, but I’ve never slept with a woman before, except for Madame.”

  “Well, dear, that’s all you’ll be doing. Sleeping. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  I motioned him to the bed.

  “I’m going to stay on my side, under the covers. You and Madame stay on your side of the bed, on top of them.”

  I was surprised to see him blush (maybe because he’d been drinking).

  Wayland lay down with Madame’s head next to his between us. A rhinestone sparkled in the middle of each of her wide eyes under her large eyelashes. I should have given her one of my sleep masks so she wouldn’t be staring at me all night.

  In the morning, the maids from Harrah’s knocked on my door. Wayland was still sound asleep. Madame was still staring at me. The ladies were a bit surprised to see me in bed with a puppet and a man lying on top of my covers. I wasn’t dating anybody at this time in my life so a man in the bed was a novelty. I have no idea what they thought about Madame, but I’m sure it gave them something to talk about over lunch.

  Wayland looked angelic, sleeping in his clothes with his tousled blond hair on the pillow, more like a youngster than a man in his forties. A few years later, we lost this great talent to AIDS. Sleep well, dear friend.

  A FAMILY FAVORITE

  Don Rickles is famous for insulting his audience to make them laugh. He developed his comedic style by talking back to hecklers, before he became famous. He didn’t do a lot of jokes, but played off the audience. In the late 1950s and early 1960s Don used to play clubs in New York and Miami, but I usually caught his act in LA, somewhere on La Cienega Boulevard. I’d always sit in the front, by the stage, and Don used to go after me, saying outrageous things like “Eddie Fisher married to Elizabeth Taylor is like me trying to wash the Empire State Building with a bar of soap.” I found it very embarrassing. Finally I had to ask him to stop.

  When he noticed Frank Sinatra at one of his shows, he treated Frank like everybody else.

  “Make yourself at home, Frank,” Don said. “Hit somebody.”

  Don used to joke about Jilly Rizzo, who owned a famous nightclub in Manhattan where Frank hung out when he was in New York. They were very close friends. Don would say that Frank kept Jilly around to check for bombs under his car.

  Don waving good-bye after his last appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman. You gotta love this guy.

  John Filo / © 2015 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All rights reserved.

  Frank loved Don. Everyone who knows Don loves him. He’s the sweetest. He was so dear when we worked together in The Rat Race in 1959, and surprisingly very shy.

  Some comics keep a clock onstage when they perform, to let them know when it’s time for intermission. Don has his own inner time meter.

  When we both performed in Tahoe, we stayed in houses next to each other that were separated by hedges. After our shows, instead of sitting up together, we tossed empty wine bottles over the hedges while yelling at each other.

  “Do you want a drink? Here’s some Chablis.”

  “Thanks, have a Merlot.”

  Don recently was renewed at the Orleans Hotel in Las Vegas for two years. He says his doctor wants him to keep working.

  “Which is fine,” he told me. “I love working.”

  I just had to tease him.

  “Of course you love working. You’re ugly. You don’t have a hair on your head. All you have to do to get ready is put on your suit. Do you know how much work it is for me to get into a gown, do my makeup and hair, go over my lines, and warm up to sing and dance? Hockey pucks don’t need makeup.”

  Then I added the punch line.

  “And you’re funny as shit.”

  I really do love Don.

  HOUSEWORK WON’T KILL YOU, BUT WHY TAKE THE CHANCE?

  Phyllis Diller used to say the following about mealtime: “I serve dinner in three waves. (1) Serve the dinner. (2) Clear the table. (3) Bury the dead.”

  No one can ever accuse me of cooking, but I have a wonderful assistant who does. Phyllis loved Donald’s shepherd’s pie, and would ask me to bring some whenever I visited her for dinner. Donald always was happy to oblige.

  Watching the sunset in Malibu with Phyllis Diller. Did we laugh all the time? You bet!

  Going to visit Phyllis was a bl
ast. A long driveway led from the gate through the grounds, with enormous trees on either side spectacularly lit by John Watson, whom Time magazine named “Mr. Moonlight.” He calls his designs “Moon Shadows,” and they can cost thousands of dollars. He has also worked for Johnny Carson, Kenny Rogers, Willie Nelson, a Saudi prince, and many other famous people and institutions.

  Phyllis’s beautiful home was a sharp contrast to her comedy material about housekeeping. She had names for all her rooms. Her music room/office was the “Bach Room.” The powder room was the “Edith Head,” with a sketch of a gown designed by Edith Head in it. The foyer to her sitting area was the “Loggia.” To the left of the foyer was the “Bob Hope Salon,” named for her mentor. She had a telephone room she called the “John Wilkes Booth.” Phyllis would escort me and the shepherd’s pie to the “Scarlet Scullery”—her kitchen—which had vivid red walls and appliances.

  After dinner Phyllis would play the piano, often yelling at me over the music to dance for her. If her friend Karla was there, at around 9:00 P.M. one of us would suggest going to Shutters Hotel to listen to their jazz trio. Karla would drive us to the beach at Santa Monica. Sometimes Phyllis and I danced together in front of the bandstand. Other times I’d sing along to the standards they played. It didn’t take long for people to realize I was doing a show. Drinks would arrive at our table. At closing time Karla, Phyllis, and I would rummage in our purses for cash to keep the band going another hour.

  Here’s Donald’s recipe. You really should try it.

  Donald’s Shepherd’s Pie

  Makes approximately 8 servings

  6–7 medium Yukon Gold potatoes

  3–4 quarts salted water

  ½ cup milk, or more as needed

  2 tablespoons butter

  ½ medium red pepper, chopped

  ½ medium green pepper, chopped

  ½ medium yellow onion, chopped

  1½ pounds chopped sirloin

  Seasoned salt

  One 15-ounce can cream-style corn

  One 15-ounce can tomato sauce

  ½ cup shredded cheddar cheese for topping

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Peel and dice the potatoes and boil them in salted water until tender. Drain and mash the potatoes, adding milk as needed for a smooth consistency. Stir in butter, and salt to taste. In a skillet, sauté chopped peppers and onion until tender. Add chopped sirloin and sprinkle with seasoned salt to taste. Cook thoroughly.

  Stir corn and tomato sauce into cooked meat mixture.

  Spoon half of the mashed potatoes into the bottom of a baking dish and pour meat mixture over potatoes. Cover the meat mixture with the rest of the mashed potatoes.

  Spread the shredded cheese over the top of the potatoes. Bake in the preheated oven for 30 minutes.

  Call Phyllis so she can start shaking the martinis she loved so much.

  Drive to Phyllis’s house as fast as possible to serve hot.

  Now let me tell you a little about this wonderful man.

  THE MAX TO MY NORMA

  At MGM we were taught to value our fans. When I received fan mail, I answered every letter. Sometimes my mother would help me.

  One of my most ardent fans was a lady from New Jersey named Agnes Light. Agnes in turn taught her son, Donald, all about his mother’s favorite star. How lucky for me that she felt that way. Donald, too.

  On a trip to California in the early 1960s Donald tried to visit my address, which was listed at the time as 120 El Camino Drive in Beverly Hills. That was actually the address for a business office right down the street from my agents at William Morris, whose office was at 151 El Camino. Donald was very disappointed to discover that I didn’t live on that little street right behind the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.

  But he continued to correspond with me. In one of my letters to him, I actually used my real address, 813 Greenway Drive in Beverly Hills. On their next trip to Los Angeles, the Lights stopped by to see my house. They peeked around the front, where there wasn’t a lot visible from the street. While they were poking around hoping to catch a glimpse of their star at home, Agnes discovered some ivy in front of the house. She reached in her purse, pulled out a pair of scissors, and took a cutting of the ivy to keep as a souvenir. When Donald and his mother got back to their hotel, she put the cutting in a glass of water until it rooted. (They were there for a week or so.) She then packed it carefully in a wet paper towel, put it in a plastic bag, carried it all the way back to New Jersey, and planted it in her yard, where it thrived.

  The first time Donald came to see me perform live was in the late 1960s when I appeared at the Garden State Performing Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey. He and his friend Lillian, who worked with him at Valley National Bank, got tickets for my show. At that time I was working with a cast of twenty-five people, including Carrie and Todd. After the show Donald and Lillian waited in line for my autograph outside the stage door. They kept letting people ahead of them so Donald could watch me longer. He noticed that sometimes I kissed someone on the cheek after I signed the program. Donald is usually very shy, but seeing me do this made him bold. When he and his friend finally reached the front of the line, he asked me what he had to do to get a kiss.

  “That’s easy. Do you want a kiss, dear?”

  I was happy to give him a peck on the cheek along with my autograph.

  On March 13, 1973, my musical Irene opened at the Minskoff Theatre on Broadway. Donald was there that night, hoping to get a ticket for the sold-out performance. He waited near the box office for any held-back tickets to be released. Also waiting at the box office was a stewardess. She told Donald that this was her only night in town and she was anxious to get a seat. The box office had only one ticket to release. Donald let the young lady have it. He’s such a gentleman.

  Then Donald waited outside the theater, hoping to see me after the show. As the audience streamed out, the stewardess came to find Donald.

  “They’re doing something onstage,” she said, “You should come in.”

  Donald couldn’t resist. While everyone else was leaving, he and the stewardess went back into the Minskoff. From their spot near the orchestra pit, they could hear the cast and crew laughing and talking backstage. After a while Donald said they should leave. He took up his post outside the theater waiting to see me. His moment came when I left through the lobby, down the sixty-foot escalator to the doors on the ground floor, on my way to the opening-night party across the street at Sardi’s. Donald remembers me wearing a black velvet dress. So do I—it was a Halston.

  Donald didn’t approach me that night, nor on any of the many other nights he came back to see Irene and waited at the stage door afterward to see me. He would always hold back and watch while I chatted with other people who had seen the show. But I noticed him, and after a while I encouraged him to join us, and then we’d say a few words to each other.

  That finally changed in April. My children were staying with me at the town house I rented while I was doing Irene. Todd accidentally shot himself in the leg while playing with an antique prop gun I had bought for my memorabilia collection. (We’re prone to drama in this household.) I took Todd to the hospital and called to tell Carrie to flush all the bullets as well as any of her pot before the police came to search the town house for other weapons. When I got back I was arrested. The incident became front-page news, and some of the papers that picked up the story printed my address.

  The next afternoon Donald and Agnes were in front of the town house waiting when I was leaving to do my Sunday matinee. I came out of the house carrying my French poodle Killer. Donald had brought me flowers, along with some of the postcards I had written to him—to prove that I had corresponded with him, that he wasn’t just someone who showed up regularly at the stage door. It seems he was too shy to mention this all those times that he had the chance to.

  Donald offered us a ride to the theater. He was so polite. I knew he wasn’t any danger to me. What stalker brings his mother alo
ng? I already had a car to go the theater, so I thanked him and said no.

  Donald was not deterred. He continued to pay to see Irene and wait at the stage door afterward to chat with me. It was very much like All About Eve, where a starstruck youngster waits outside the theater every day for her idol to appear. Thank goodness Donald didn’t want to be an actor.

  Over the years, Donald would plan his vacations to see me on the road while corresponding with me and my wardrobe supervisor, Stephanie Loren. He visited Denver when I performed the stage version of The Unsinkable Molly Brown there as part of a road tour. One summer he came to see my show at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. During that visit, I invited him for an afternoon on Mr. Harrah’s yacht with Stephanie and me. We spent a lovely time on the lake followed by a nice dinner in my guesthouse. Donald and I were becoming friends.

  When I opened my Debbie Reynolds Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas in 1993, Donald came to visit. I planned extensive renovations for the property, which included adding a museum to showcase my beloved collection of Hollywood memorabilia. There was a lot to do; it was so chaotic that I asked Donald to help out. He went back to New Jersey to give notice at Valley National, then returned to Vegas and reported for duty in the basement to work with a man from the Hollywood Wax Museum who was there to help get the mannequins ready for my museum presentation. They slaved away in the sweltering August heat, which would have melted anyone. The only air in that dungeon was from a six-inch oscillating fan. What a glamorous job! But Donald was a good sport. He worked hard anyplace we needed him.

  Mrs. Light moved to Vegas in the spring of 1994 to help her son in the gift shop. Donald managed the shop while his mother spent her time knitting. Everyone thought Agnes was my mother, which was just fine with both of us. She had the most beautiful blue eyes.

  Agnes moved back to New Jersey when the hotel began to falter. In 1996 we finally had to close it. Donald came to Los Angeles with me. In addition to working at my dance studio, he’s been my friend, companion, and warden. He’s been part of the family now for so many years.