by Tim Conway
“Hurry, hurry,” Harvey cried.
At that moment I left the script. I got down on my knees on the floor next to Harvey. I put my right arm underneath his shoulders and pulled him up in a we’re-about-to-kiss embrace. Harvey began to giggle. Then, I brought my face closer to his and said softly, “Where are you from?”
At which point, Harvey utterly and completely lost it.
Harvey wasn’t any safer off camera. I got that guy so many times it was embarrassing. And I got him on land, on the sea, and, once, in the air. We were flying from the East Coast back to L.A. on a small plane and had to refuel somewhere in Arkansas. The plane landed and taxied over to the fueling station. I was in the window seat and watched the procedure while Harvey read a magazine. Once the refueling was over, the plane turned around and began moving toward the runway.
“Hey Harvey,” I said, ‘I don’t think they put the gas cap back on.”
Harvey was always a little leery of flying so, naturally, he was put out by what I said.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Well, when we pulled up to the gas truck, the guy took off the cap and put it on the wing. I didn’t see him put it back on. I think it fell off.”
Harvey paled.
“Gee,” he said, “you better go tell the pilot.”
“Not me,” I answered, “I don’t want to get involved.”
“Are you nuts? You’ve got to tell him. We could lose fuel and crash.”
“You go tell him,” I said.
“I will,” said Harvey.
He got up, went to the front of the plane, and knocked on the cockpit door.
“Yes,” came the voice of the pilot.
“Excuse me,” said Harvey, “my friend noticed that when we refueled they forgot to put the gas cap back on. I thought you should know.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir, there is no gas cap on the plane. Please, sit down.”
Harvey stood there for a moment. He turned and came back to his seat. Before he sat down he looked at me and mumbled something about my being a son of a something.
While I could get him nine times out of ten, there were occasions when he’d turn things back onto me. One Friday, we were having dinner in the green room between the tapings. (Green rooms are so rarely painted green. This one had beige walls.) We both ordered roast beef au jus (that’s French for brown stuff that’s supposed to be gravy), and it was served on paper plates. In those days paper plates were really flimsy. They weren’t heavy enough to be called cardboard but were more like four of five layers of paper towels pressed together in the shape of a plate. While we ate, Harvey was busily telling me how stupid I was about politics. I didn’t know anything about an upcoming election and this incensed Harvey. I was uninterested in politics, and he was politically active. As he spoke he was trying to cut through the meat but he never looked down; he was too busy staring me down. I noticed that while ranting at me, he had cut through the meat and the bottom of the plate. He finished his comments on my stupidity and, without looking, put the fork full of beef into his mouth. Along with the meat came a nice piece of the paper plate. He chewed and continued to berate me on my stupidity. Finally, he took a breath and I said to him, “I may be stupid but I’m not so stupid that I would eat my plate.”
Harvey looked down and saw the hole in the bottom of his plate; some of the au jus was trickling through it onto the table. He realized what he’d done and paused for moment. Then he continued chewing, swallowed, and looked at me.
“See, that just shows how stupid you are,” he said. “You don’t know how delicious this plate is.”
With that he cut another piece of roast beef and paper, and continued eating. If I hadn’t started laughing he’d have eaten up the whole thing.
Harvey and I were inseparable. When I think of all the time we shared together—the phone calls, the emails, the dinners, the ball games, the horse races, and the drinks while watching ourselves on tapes and DVDs—I don’t know how I’ve managed to get along without him all these years. I guess it’s because when you have the kind of friendship we had, the essence remains. We had very few disagreements but when we did have a tiff, I had the advantage. His arguments lost their bite because I was often in costume and he couldn’t keep a straight face. It’s hard to yell at a guy in an ape suit so our quarrels usually ended in shared laughter. I can be in situations today and know exactly how he would react.
We were interviewed together on a television show, and the host asked when we became a team. We told her it just sort of happened. We did so many sketches together that people began to think of us as a comic duo and then we sort of fell into it. We did our individual thing, but there was something special in our joint appearances. Harvey said he wasn’t so sure that he’d have been inducted into the Comedy Hall of Fame on his own. Ha, that’s a laugh.
For a few years, Harvey and I played badminton with the Emmy award for Outstanding Regular on a Comedy Show. Either he won or I won. The first time I received the award I went up to the mike, pulled out a blank piece of paper, and pretended to read from it. The acceptance speech went something like, “I would like to thank everyone at the Tarzana Pitch and Putt” and from there I went into a commercial for the “new Mark Twain Hole. The rotating paddle wheel will test your timing skills. Thirsty? Stop by the nineteenth hole for a Big Gulp, small, medium or big gulp. Babysitting problems? Not to worry, the little ones will be waiting in the tot’s nineteenth hole. See you on the carpets.” I took the Emmy and returned to my seat. Thank goodness my fellow performers appreciated the joke. It’s always a gamble when you put yourself out there. I’m not complaining, but you’d have thought the Tarzana Pitch and Putt people would at least have written me a thank-you letter.
I was nominated again the following year but was unable to attend the award ceremony because I was working in Vegas. I asked Harvey to represent me and gave him a sealed note to read should I win. I didn’t expect to, but by golly I did. Harvey took the stage, ceremoniously opened the note, and read, “Harvey, thank you so much for accepting for me. By the way, you know when I said if you vote for me, I’ll vote for you? I lied.”
I won again the next year and was running out of people to thank. As I told the audience, “I would like to thank my agent but he’s at the Dodgers game. I’d thank my wife but she’s playing bridge. And all my kids went to see Superman. So I hope you folks will accept my thanks to you. It’s good to be with friends.”
In 2008, I appeared on 30 Rock, thanks to the extremely talented, attractive, and most humorous Tina Fey. I was lucky enough to be nominated for an Emmy for that guest spot. At the awards ceremony, Jack McBrayer, a member of the 30 Rock cast, was to present the award in my category. Jack read: “For outstanding guest appearance on a comedy series, the nominees are, Tim Conway, 30 Rock.”
At that point I got up, went onstage, and stood next to him. Jack was a bit thrown by my move. He had four other nominees to name. I smiled and explained that I’d come up because if I won, I’d be there and they wouldn’t have to wait for me to get up there to receive the award. I was saving them time. Jack accepted my reasoning and read the rest of the nominees. He opened the envelope.
“And the winner is, Tim Conway.”
I took the Emmy and without a word returned to my seat. If I had lost, I’d have checked the card Jack was reading from to make sure he hadn’t gotten it wrong. Truthfully, as always, I was amazed that I won.
Of all the award shows, the one I enjoyed the most was the year that both Harvey and I were nominated for our work on Carol’s show. We were seated next to each other and when the presenter said, “The winner is Harvey Korman,” Harvey leaped up and headed for the stage. I followed and stood next to him on the podium. I kept giving him disappointed looks as he thanked Carol, Vicki, Lyle, and his family. He began to walk off and then returned to the microphone to say, “Oh, and by the way, I’m thankful to be able to work with nuts like this.”
/> We walked off together. Whether he won or I won, we both won.
I could go on about Harvey, but there’s really no need. All you have to do is watch him on those videos to know how brilliant he was. He was one of the smartest guys I knew. He could do The New York Times crossword puzzle in ten minutes, in ink. But he couldn’t tie his own shoes. I took advantage of him on the screen and I took advantage of him in real life. I loved him and I miss him. But I know we still have many laughs to share. God has a sense of humor; why else would He have let me enjoy life so much? I know He’ll put us together again.
Save me a seat up there, Harvey. I want to be right next to you so I can crack you up through eternity.
The End of the Affair
One evening, Mary Anne and I, Charlene and Roger, and Carol and Joe went out for dinner. We went to a small restaurant where we could eat in peace and quiet. Not an easy place to find considering the popularity of our show and the resulting recognition factor. Carol wasn’t her usual peppy self. Her eyes were red, she’d obviously been crying. I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. We gave our orders. Then Carol took a deep breath and told us that, after eleven years, she and Joe had decided not to continue with the show. Silence fell. Nobody could speak. We’d just heard the news that we never wanted to hear. Carol was in tears and asked to be excused. She left the table and headed for the ladies’ room. The rest of us sat there trying to absorb the enormity of Carol’s words. I waited for a bit and then leaned in and said, “Okay, here’s the plan. We go to CBS, tell them Carol has gone crazy and that in order to keep this from the public she’s been institutionalized. In the meantime, we’ll do the show until she comes to her senses. Then she can join us. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Nobody said a word. It looked to me as though they were thinking about it seriously, but as you know, my plan wasn’t adopted. The show ended, and part of my heart went with it.
The last week of filming was sad. We went through the motions and gave it our all; still, it was tough going. It would have been even tougher if Harvey had still been with us. He’d left after the previous season to star in his own sitcom, The Harvey Korman Show. Like my solo ventures, it was in and out in a season. (Do you need any more proof that even the greatest of straight men needs to work off of a star rather than as a star?) We’d already said a major good-bye, but now the parting was total and catastrophic. A world without The Carol Burnett Show was inconceivable to me.
In my memory, Carol and I never had a serious exchange that lasted longer than a few sentences. We always knew what the other was thinking; there was no need to express it. But I wanted her to know how much she meant to me. Rather than tell her, I thought it would be easier to express my feelings in a familiar form. So I wrote my good-bye as a Burnett show sketch, not for us to perform, just for her to read. It was published in Variety.
The Good-bye Sketch (Carol and Tim)
The set: Two stools in front of an eleven-year-old flat. Carol is dressed in an evening gown. Tim is in a tux.
Music: “I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together”
TIM
(Pause.) Well, I guess this is it.
CAROL
I guess so.
TIM
(Pause.) Eleven years together, and you come up with, “I guess so”?
CAROL
It’s a little late for a raise, isn’t it?
TIM
It’s never too late for a raise. Can I tell you something before I say good-bye?
CAROL
It’s a little late to get serious isn’t it?
TIM
It’s never too late. I just want to say thank you. Not just me, a bunch of us. Just for a minute I want to be one of the many that have watched and laughed at you over the past eleven years. I want to thank you. I want to thank you for the times you have changed my mood from sad to happy. The times you have been silly just for me. The times you made me sing along with you. The times you have cared. The times you have helped. The times you have looked absolutely ridiculous just to make us see how absolutely ridiculous we look. The times that you have answered our needs, to smile at something that we thought was so untouchable, and for the times when you were just you.
CAROL
It’s my job.
TIM
No. A job is something you work at. You’ve never worked at being you. You are something special. You never smiled because someone cued you. You were always you. And I don’t care how many times you’ve heard it. You’re going to hear it again. You’re the nicest person anyone would ever want to know.
CAROL
Tim, I think you better say good-bye.
TIM
I don’t think so.
CAROL
We’re running a little late.
TIM
I don’t care. Do you realize how many times we’ve spent together? Do you realize how many times we’ve laughed together? Do you realize how many dumb sketches we’ve done together?
CAROL
I know.
TIM
No you don’t, ’cause if you did, you wouldn’t make me say good-bye. I don’t want to say good-bye to the best times of my life. Let me put on my chicken outfit and do one more sketch with you. Please?
CAROL
Tim, we have to go.
TIM
Just one more . . .
CAROL
No, Tim. Now say good-bye.
TIM
Maybe.
CAROL
No.
TIM
I love you.
CAROL
Please.
TIM
All right . . . Good-bye.
CAROL
Good-bye.
TIM
I think I’m going to cry.
CAROL
You never could be serious.
TIM
No, Carol, I’m serious.
(Fade to Black)
Old Friend, New Beginning
It all began in Paterson, New Jersey, where Charlene Fusco was born in 1938. My Char is Italian on both sides. Her dad’s family was big; her mother’s family, the Gigantes, was bigger. Her dad, Angelo, was a trumpet player who blew the horn for the likes of Harry James and the Dorsey Brothers. That is, he played with them whenever they performed in New Jersey. Back in those days big bands traveled all over the country and they couldn’t take along more than the minimum of players. So, wherever they appeared on the road, they’d pick up local musicians or sidemen, and that’s how Angelo Fusco got to play with Harry, Jimmy, and Tommy. Charlene remembers her dad taking her to a rehearsal in Meadowbrook, New Jersey, when she was five. She sat on Harry James’s lap and, urged on by her father, hummed James’s theme song to him. She was pitch perfect and the bandleader was very impressed. Char hung around musicians so much she grew up thinking that she was in show business.
After Charlene graduated from high school she had two educational choices: she could go to Paterson State College and become a teacher, or she could go to Ridgewood Secretarial School and become a secretary. That’s what young women were offered in those days. She felt that she didn’t have the patience to be a teacher (I’ll second that) and she didn’t want to be stuck in a classroom all day. So she went to secretarial school where the guarantee was that in one year she’d learn typing and shorthand. Furthermore, at the end of the year she’d have a job waiting for her. Sure enough, by the end of the school year she’d learned typing and Gregg shorthand and was offered a job at the Nabisco offices in New Jersey. My little Ginger Snap, however, didn’t want to work for Nabisco in New Jersey; she wanted to work for TWA, NBC, or CBS in New York City. (You’ll have to ask her why she picked those three companies; I have no idea.) On a sunny November morning in 1957, she took the train into Manhattan, got out at Penn Station, got into a cab, and told the driver to take her to CBS at 485 Madison Avenue. Okay, you have to understand a few things:
1. She’d never been to New York before.
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2. She hadn’t made any appointments.
3. The only reason she went to CBS was because she knew the address from watching Arthur Godfrey and Garry Moore. The announcers always said, “Write to us at 485 Madison Avenue” at the end of the programs. And you thought I had chutzpah.
Charlene marched into 485 Madison Avenue, went to the CBS Personnel Department, and announced that she wanted a job.
“And do you have an appointment?” asked the assistant to the assistant to the assistant personnel director, the designated receiver of girls who came in off the street looking for jobs.
“No,” replied Char, “but I came in from New Jersey.”
Maybe it was because she was from New Jersey, but whatever the reason, they let her take a typing and dictation test. She aced the exam. Unfortunately, she was told that there were no openings for an executive secretary, her level of expertise. There was, however, an available position for a junior secretary.
“You’re overqualified,” said the assistant to the assistant.
“I’ll take it,” said Charlene.
And she started work the next day.
For the next couple of years Charlene rode the intercity bus to the Port Authority on West Forty-second Street and walked to the CBS studios on West Fifty-seventh Street. Then, she bought a car and drove in every day. The man she worked for liked her very much and appreciated her skills. (That’s what she told me.) He kept telling her she was overqualified for the job. (That’s what she told me, too.) One day, he asked her, if she had a choice, what she would prefer doing at the network. Char said she would love to work in the programming department. Bingo. Whatever Charlene wants, Charlene gets. She was hired to work for the writers on The Garry Moore Show. Among the writers was Neil Simon who, during his off hours, typed his first Broadway play, Come Blow Your Horn, on the Garry Moore Show’s typewriter. When Simon left, another writer joined the crew—but Woody Allen didn’t stay long. He left, too, and Buck Henry replaced him. And when Buck left, George Bernard Shaw replaced him. Just kidding, but you get the drift. Those really were the Golden Years of Television, and a lot of the luster came from the camaraderie that existed within individual programs. Charlene describes CBS in those days as “love city.”