Then, after his two weeks at sea, the commodore returned. It was late on a Friday afternoon and I’ll never forget it. As he entered the hut, Gomez flew across the room and began sputtering about what happened: “Commodore, Commodore! The major come here and yell at me. ‘The magazine, the magazine!’ ”
Oh my God, I said to myself, this is not what I’d planned. This is not good. The commodore had no idea what Gomez was talking about. But I did. He looked at me for an explanation and I tried to soft sell it: It was just some magazine the major wanted back that Gomez had lost at lunch, and so he stopped by to talk about it. No big thing, really.
“Did he come inside our hut?” the commodore barked.
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “But just a couple of steps.”
“Who was the officer in charge here at the time?” he barked again, now looking at Gomez.
“Mr. Pillbin,” Gomez replied. (He never did get my name right.)
Now you’ve got to understand, the commodore never liked me. Never liked Rankin either, for that matter. He used to say that there were four types of military people that he hated most: ensigns, reserves, college graduates, and supply officers. And then he’d glare at me and say: “Philbin, you’re all four!” So he eyed me with special disgust that day, because I didn’t have the guts to stand up for one of my men and protect him against this marine major who’d had no right to be on our property in the first place. As the commodore became hotter and hotter, his face went beet red. Meanwhile, I noticed Gomez smiling for the first time in two weeks.
The whole plan, stupid to begin with, had backfired into a catastrophe. If the commodore ever found out that I’d done all the plotting behind it—my idea of a harmless little joke—I could be court-martialed, I thought. Maybe even wind up in front of a firing squad! The commodore was appalled—not only upset with me, but now wanting a face-to-face meeting with the major to get to the bottom of this. He would call Rankin on Monday morning, he said, still red-hot. Then he left the hut.
I was staggered by how all this had turned out. How in the world could it have gone so wrong? Certainly I was 100 percent to blame, and now there would no doubt be a price to pay. I was scared stiff. That night I explained it all to Rankin: How the commodore came back. How Gomez threw himself across the room at him, almost crying about the major intimidating him and how Mr. Pillbin didn’t protect him. Rankin roared with laughter. He thought this was the funniest story he had ever heard in all of his military career. “It’s nothing,” he reassured me. “The commodore will forget about it over the weekend. Don’t worry about it.”
Well, of course, all I did that weekend was worry about it. No sleep at night and a heavy, heavy heart by day. It was a nightmare. I completely dreaded Monday. And just as I expected, it was the first thing the commodore mentioned that morning. Still seething, he sat down at his desk directly opposite mine and dialed a number. His face was just a few feet away. Close enough for me to see that it was flushed and braced for a fight. My face, I’m sure, was pale and getting paler by the minute. I looked at some files, pretending that I couldn’t have cared less, that this call had nothing to do with me. I then heard the commodore ask for Major Rankin—and I just held my breath.
“Well, where is he?” the commodore snapped into the phone receiver. “Up flying? I’ll call back.”
And that’s the way it went for the next three days. Turned out that Rankin himself had been answering the phone and pretending he was another officer who just kept telling the commodore that the major was out doing his job. Finally I couldn’t take the anxiety of it all anymore—I was now totally beside myself—so I pleaded with Rankin, “You have to see the commodore. He won’t stop calling! And every time he can’t get you on the line, he gets worse. He said that tomorrow he’s just going to come over to your hut to find you. . . .” Rankin saw how the panic was killing me, so he promised, “I’ll call him first thing in the morning and then come over to see him.”
And true to his word, early the next morning the commodore’s phone rang and Rankin made a date to come to our hut an hour later for a meeting. I was a complete wreck. The commodore brought out his medals for the showdown, and he looked pretty good, too. He just wanted Rankin to know he was no kid, that he’d been through a couple of wars himself. We were all very tense, but the time had come for them to have this out. Promptly, the major arrived, his uniform glistening—and again, Gomez threw himself against a wall, appearing terrified. The commodore stood up, and these two military officers began a heated argument that kept escalating—all of it because of something a junior officer thought would be fun. There was yelling and some threats were exchanged as they planted themselves practically nose to nose. I stood there frozen at the sight of the two of them going at it. I was almost prepared to break down and confess my sin. It would have been so easy for Rankin to tell the commodore that I was the reason he had invaded our hut in the first place. But the major never gave me up. He skillfully handled his position, as did the commodore, yet there was no defending the fact that Rankin had disregarded official protocol when he walked, uninvited, into the hut that day. It just ended up in what I’d call a draw, and God, was I relieved when it was over! The commodore had had his say and would claim victory. And Rankin left with his head held high nevertheless. I vowed to myself: No more stupid jokes ever. And that afternoon, Gomez smiled again, feeling vindicated, while never having known even the half of it.
So anyway, only a few weeks later I was walking down the hallway at the BOQ when I noticed that the door to the storage room was ajar. Since it was rarely left that way, I peeked inside. I didn’t see anyone, but I did notice that the particular trunk Rankin had forbidden me to ever touch, much less even look at, was pulled out and its lid was wide open. I was tempted to go inside to close it when a face slowly rose up from behind it and stared straight at me. It was a tough-looking face, let me tell you, belonging to this imposing man with a crew cut and piercing eyes. Yes, here at last, in person, was Major Keigler Flake. He had returned from his mission. Giving me the up-and-down, he asked in a menacingly quiet voice, “Who are you?” I answered, “Ensign Philbin, sir! I just saw that the door was open and didn’t know you were in here. Excuse me, sir.” Then I quickly closed the door behind me and fled.
Major Flake, in fact, was a truly intimidating guy. His presence alone would set you on edge. One day, for instance, when he was going through the breakfast buffet line, I noticed that most of the sailors on duty in the galley knew to deliberately avoid his gaze. Except for one new guy who was clueless and looked Major Flake directly in the eyes before giving him a friendly, innocent smile. Instantly, Flake pushed his face close to this kid and said, “Don’t you ever smile at me.” The sailor froze in his tracks and probably never got over the experience. But that was Keigler Flake. You might have been afraid of him or offended by him, but in a war or a fight you wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by your side.
It was just a matter of time before Flake moved his set of weights into Rankin’s workout room, positioning his mat right across from us. Both of these men were fastidious in every way, each with his mat on his own separate side of the room, each side of the room personally swept clean every day. It was almost a contest—these two marine majors doing their individual housework, competing with each other as to whose side looked better. And do you know why they did it themselves? It was because, as they would tell you, nobody else could do it better.
I learned a lot from both officers. I thought they were exceptional men—in just the right place at just the right time for them and for this country, serving the United States Marine Corps. I was proud just to be near them.
Anyway, the months flew by. My time in the navy was almost up. I had confided to Bill Rankin all about my desire to try my hand at the television business, while also confessing that I had absolutely no idea what I would or could do in that business. Television was still in its infancy. In San Diego,
there was a local newscast every night on KFMB-TV, a CBS affiliate, with Ray Wilson delivering the news and Harold Keene conducting interviews with people who were making the headlines. I thought they were great together—the whole show mesmerized me in some special way. At the time, there were just two TV stations in town, but I loved keeping track of them by reading the daily television column in the San Diego Union-Tribune, written by Don Freeman. He had a superb way of reviewing and covering TV shows and their stars, always seeming dead-on right about every topic he touched. I love good writing, and from the start, I thought Don Freeman was just exceptional. Once I spotted him on the street outside his newspaper’s building and wanted so badly to introduce myself and ask him for advice on how to go about getting into TV as a profession. But I was too much in awe, so I didn’t bother him. Now, though, with just a few weeks left to my tour of duty, I knew it was time for me to approach this great local television expert and ask all the questions that I’ve been asked by others over and over again for the last four decades: “How do I start? Where do I go? Who do I see? How in the world do you get into the television business?”
So one afternoon I left the base early, took the ferry to San Diego, and headed directly to the Union-Tribune Building. I was, of course, terribly nervous. What would this terrific writer who knew everyone in the business think of me coming to him—without even so much as an appointment—just to ask him all these crazy questions? The receptionist in the lobby told me on which floor I could find Freeman. My heart began pounding as the elevator rose. Finally it reached the level where I was headed. I stepped out into a large room filled with rows of men at desks, clacking out stories on their typewriters. Now my nerves were on fire. I spotted Freeman at his desk, which was next to the last one in that particular row. I started down the aisle. My heart was practically leaping out of my shirtfront. God, how I hated to bother him! I’d almost reached his desk when he looked up at me for just a moment, didn’t recognize me (of course), and then returned to banging away at the keys of his typewriter.
I know I should have introduced myself . . . but I couldn’t stop walking. There was just one more desk behind his, occupied by yet another writer, and then a wall. Suddenly I realized I would have to stop. There wasn’t any other place else to go! I didn’t even know who the man at the last desk was! Why was I stopping here to talk to him about television when it was the guy in front of him who had the answers I wanted? Too late now. I introduced myself to this gentleman and plowed right into it: Television. How? Who? Where? Help me, please. Turned out this fellow was the paper’s movie critic. I wish I could remember his name. But he was the one who said that his newspaper, owned by the Copley Press, was also part owner of KCOP-TV in Hollywood, and that I should see a man named Al Flanagan, who was the station manager up there. Flanagan, he said, might be able to help me. I was so grateful just for that, just for a name of a place and a person who could possibly help me. In those few minutes with this nice movie critic, I’d now at least gotten myself a starting point. I thanked him profusely and left.
But still I had doubts. Everyone I saw on television was so talented. And all I could think of was What’s my talent? I had no idea. And I had absolutely no confidence either. All my life I had dreamt about entertainment. But what could I really do in that business?
The night before I was officially discharged, I had dinner with Major Rankin. He, of course, was gung ho about my dreams. He told me I must pursue them. (Even though I had all but given up on them.) The next day we said good-bye, talked about how we would stay in touch and all the other things you say to a friend you make in the service. Then I continued my packing. I was almost done when I heard a knock on the door. I was surprised to see that it was Major Flake. He entered the room carrying his shoes in his hands. I had a feeling Rankin had stopped by Flake’s room just to tip him off that I was leaving, and caught him in the middle of shining those shoes. He walked in—not smiling, of course—and said, “I hear you’re leaving us today. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”
I blurted out, “Well, I’d love to work in television, sir, but I don’t know what I can do. I don’t really have any special talent.”
And Flake, who hated any kind of negativity, put that very stern face of his right up close to mine, almost forcing me to look directly at him. Then he growled, “Don’t you know you can have anything you want in this life! You’ve only got to want it bad enough. Now, do you want it?!”
My answer came feebly: “Well, I’m not sure. . . . I don’t know. . . . I really don’t have any—”
And that’s when Flake hit the ceiling. He slammed his shoes together and he shouted: “I said, Do you want it?! So? DO YOU WANT IT?!”
That’s when I finally said to him and also, at last, especially to myself: “Yes, sir! I want it!”
“Well, get in your car and get up to Hollywood and make it happen! Now! Right now!”
And in that moment, I thought of that name I had gotten at the newspaper office two weeks earlier. Al Flanagan. Station manager. KCOP-TV. I got in my car, full of blind hope, drove off the amphibious base for the last time, and then straight on up to Hollywood, determined to start something, anything, in what I would now have to make my new career.
Because I did want it.
Oh, and by the way, the reason that the great, unforgettable marine Major Keigler Flake was shining his own shoes that day was because no one else could do it better, of course.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
Fate will somehow throw certain (possibly unlikely) characters into your life—but usually for reasons much larger than you will know at the time. Be open to their influence.
Practical jokes can all too often backfire (especially in the military and in the workplace). So always carefully consider the consequences beforehand.
If you really want to conquer an important quest in your life, go after it. And don’t look back.
Chapter Three
STEVE ALLEN
With navy life now behind me, and big dreams looming before me, I suddenly felt an actual sense of direction—a real path to follow. This, I must tell you, was something new for me. And pretty thrilling, too. I had, after all, just been ordered on high command to go make my dreams come true, to be absolutely determined to get what I wanted. No excuses allowed anymore. I would no longer be tentative, or wishy-washy, about pursuing a career in the television business. So that very afternoon, following my official discharge, I drove my old Hudson convertible up the Pacific Highway and into Hollywood, equipped with only this bolstered air of confidence, the name of a TV station, and the name of the guy who ran it.
I parked outside of KCOP-TV, located then at 1000 Cahuenga Boulevard, and walked into a small lobby fronted by one tough cookie of a receptionist. I asked to see Al Flanagan, the station manager, who didn’t know me from Adam. But that was okay because I was now supposedly flush with this new kind of boldness. My goal, of course, was to volunteer myself for a job, any kind of job. The receptionist asked who I was. The only thing I could think to say was a flat-out lie: “Mr. Flanagan is a close personal friend of mine.” (Great start—and yet what was I getting myself into here?) But it worked. She directed me out onto the lot, which comprised two large soundstages surrounding a Mexican hacienda–style courtyard with its own wishing well. I should have tossed a few coins into it as I passed, but I barely knew what I was doing there to begin with!
I found my way to Flanagan’s office, where now his secretary also asked the purpose of my visit. And again I somehow mustered enough courage to deliver the same stupid lie: “I’m a personal friend.” Of course, the next big concern was how he’d react once he saw that I was a total stranger. I just hoped he was a nice guy. A few seconds later, he emerged from his office—this tall, imposing man who wasn’t smiling at all when he said to me, “Who the hell are you?” I just spat out my reason for being there: “Mr. Flanagan, I don’t kno
w you, but people say you’re the man to come see. My name is Regis Philbin. I’m looking for work.” He glanced at the résumé I’d handed him, which basically said next to nothing: Born in New York City. Graduated from University of Notre Dame. Sociology major. Just served two years in the U.S. Navy, based in Coronado, California. I mean, what else was there to include? He led me into his office, asked me a few more questions, and then surprised me by saying, “Look, I don’t have anything now, but if something opens up, I’ll call you.” Maybe my blindly brazen—or was it just naively idiotic?—approach had impressed him a little. Who knows? I then told him that I hadn’t been home to New York in two years, that I’d like to go see my family again, and asked if he would call me there. He said that he would. I somehow believed him and actually felt kind of triumphant. And so I went home.
Now I should point out that my folks weren’t entirely unfamiliar with the broadcast world. I had an uncle, Mike Boscia, who then worked as the CBS press agent for Arthur Godfrey (that hugely popular radio and TV persona whose name is now all but forgotten). Back in New York, I told Uncle Mike about Al Flanagan’s promise. And Uncle Mike, who knew the game inside and out, was plainly skeptical—especially about anyone on the West Coast end of the industry. “They’re all crazy out there,” he lectured me. “ ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ That’s the oldest line in the book! You’ll never hear from him again.” Just like that, he’d crushed my hopes—but then in the next breath he brought them right back to life: “Look, if you want a taste of the TV business, let me get you a job as a studio page over at NBC. I know some people. . . .”
How I Got This Way Page 3