Singing to a Bulldog

by Anson Williams

  Praise for “Singing to A Bulldog”

  “Anson has a genius for telling stories. Singing to A Bulldog is a heartwarming autobiography based on the inspirational life lessons Anson learned in the course of his unlikely friendship with Willie [Turner]. Throughout Anson’s spectacular career as an actor, director, musician, and entrepreneur, Willie’s wisdom has served him well, giving him the confidence to move forward and take on new challenges.

  —Sheila Weidenfeld, former press secretary to Betty Ford and Special Assistant to President Gerald Ford

  “I just read this delightful debut book and thoroughly enjoyed every page. Singing To A Bulldog is an inspiring, heartwarming look into Anson ­Williams’s career as he candidly reveals the youthful challenges and in­securities that might have kept him from an impressive future were it not for Willie Turner, the man who would dispel those doubts and teach him to ‘stop looking at the mountain, and go climb it!’ The genuine appreciation for the mentor who motivated Anson to embrace his future is refreshing, and that gratitude is the connecting thread that weaves through Anson’s story.”

  —Ann Jillian

  “I loved the book. . . . [E]xtraordinary: It is not only a ‘how to succeed’ look at accomplishing professional goals but also a philosophical teaching of how to achieve a successful and contributory life.”

  —Barbara Boyle, Associate Dean, Entrepreneurship and Special Initiatives, UCLA

  This book is dedicated to everyone who needs Willie Turner’s life lessons to stop looking at their mountain and to start climbing it.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Lesson 1: You Sing Okay, Can’t Dance for Sh*t

  Lesson 2: Bingo Clubs and Retirement Home Escapees

  Lesson 3: What’s a Potsie?

  Lesson 4: Happy Days

  Lesson 5: Two Pairs of Pants

  Lesson 6: Singing to a Bulldog

  Lesson 7: Day With a Beatle

  Lesson 8: Three-Camera Magic

  Lesson 9: Playing Ball

  Lesson 10: All Shook Up

  Lesson 11: Kidnapped by the President’s Daughter

  Lesson 12: Uncle Hank’s Heimlich Maneuver

  Lesson 13: Bette Davis, a Lost Legend

  Lesson 14: Please Come With Me, Sir

  Lesson 15: One Funky-Looking Small Plaque

  Lesson 16: My Big Room Break from the Best

  Lesson 17: No Greater Gift

  Lesson 18: The Lone Star Kid

  Lesson 19: The Worst Script Ever

  Lesson 20: I’d Be Bothered With Me Too

  Lesson 21: Hi, I’m Brad Pitt

  Lesson 22: I Don’t Have Time to Hold Back

  Lesson 23: Big Al’s

  Lesson 24: Show All of Them How Wrong They Are

  Lesson 25: Melrose Place and StarMaker

  Lesson 26: QVC? It’s Impossible to Get On There

  Lesson 27: Heart of Light

  Lesson 28: Strength of Character

  Lesson 29: A Wealth of Positive Energy

  Lesson 30: A Conversation with Willie

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from How to Write a Memoir in 30 Days

  INTRODUCTION

  “You gonna do somethin’ great in life. Just a feelin’ I got.”

  These are the words that changed my life. They came from my boss, Willie Turner, head janitor for Leonard’s Department Store, located in Burbank, California. It was the end of my first day of work as his assistant janitor. I’d just finished cleaning up the women’s restroom, and was putting the supplies away in what Willie called, “Dey Talk Room,” a small janitorial space with a couple of rusted–out oil drum cans to sit on. Willie pulled out his flask of Jack Daniel’s and took a few swallows. “Sit down, boy,” he said.

  Nervously I sat on a drum, the smell of whiskey filling the closet-sized room, and waited for the words “You fired, boy.” I was used to failing. My dad made sure of it. Every day of my fifteen years on this planet I was told, “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have my own art gallery, wouldn’t have to feed your stupid face.” Dad made damn sure that his failure was my failure, and I made damn sure that he wasn’t let down: I was irresponsible, insecure, klutzy—a real poster boy for dis­appointment. Willie took one last hit of whiskey before sitting down next to me on the other drum. We both just sat there for a moment.

  “Damn good job. Like you, boy.”

  Confused, I turned to him. “Huh?”

  Willie burst out laughing at my insightful response, his smile brightening up the room. Finally, I just had to join in, laughing more with him in a minute than in my entire fifteen years. Willie had a way of making me feel good.

  “You funny!” he shouted out through his hilarity.

  Catching my breath, I asked, “Why?”

  Settling down, Willie enjoyed another good swig. “You just funny, boy.”

  “Didn’t mean to be,” I replied.

  Putting away his flask, Willie got up and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a grease-stained jacket. “Dat’s why you funny.” Lighting up, he sat back down. “You did good today, gonna work out fine.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks.”

  Willie kept looking at me, as if he really knew me, my future, everything. Never taking his kind eyes off me, he leaned over and put his worn hand on my shoulder.

  “You special, boy. You gonna do somethin’ great in life. Got a feelin’.”

  And that was the beginning. I was a wreck of a kid sitting on an old rusty oil drum; yet I became an international television star, dated the daughter of the President of the United States, spent a day with John Lennon, sang for Elvis, wrote, directed, and produced for television, and launched a successful product company. All because an aging African American janitor saw some magic in me, and took the time to share his wisdom. I listened, and it was the best thing I ever did, because Willie’s advice cut through all the noise in my life and gave me the confidence to move forward, and helped me find . . . me. My name is on this book yet I promise you, without Willie I’d have no stories to tell. Willie was uneducated, in his fifties, and had a serious drinking problem—but if I had judged him because of his unglamorous job or his failings, I would have missed getting advice from the one person most able to help me turn my life around. Of all the things Willie Turner taught me, not judging was the most important. In my experience, our real heroes are not making billions of dollars, trending on the Internet, or posing on magazine covers. They’re “ordinary” people, sent here as extraordinary messengers to help us find the answers we are seeking and the path to our truest selves—if we don’t judge by appearances, and instead listen to their words of enlightenment.

  You Sing Okay, Can’t Dance for Sh*t

  “ All good, boy. Don’t gets in dey way of yerself. Go wit yer feelins.”

  Both of my parents grew up during the Depression and felt the pangs of not having food on the table. Security meant the world to them, which meant that I was going to be a teacher, engineer, civil service worker—anything that offered abundant job opportunities. In our house, the word “entertainer” was a surefire, E-ticket ride out the door. When I told them I wanted to be a performer, they opened the front door of our home wide. “Come back when you get some sense,” were their last spoken words as my butt hit the street.

  * * *

  I was twenty years old, a part-time student, a full-time shoe salesman, and a crooner of songs at four talent nights a week in Los Angeles. My showbiz career had earned me minus $200 (it took gas to get to the unpaid gigs).

  One night at Jack Calley�
�s, a restaurant and bar that had a Tuesday talent night, a waiter and aspiring actor, Jimmy Donald, told me about an open call. It was a summer stock audition that was going to be held at the Masonic Temple in Hollywood. He said it started at 10 a.m., but that I should get there early to secure a good place in line. If you haven’t heard of it, “summer stock” is a term used for a season of stage musicals; typically, they feature a different star in each show and use a stock company of performers who can perform in them all. My total “professional” show biz experience up to that moment was singing songs to a crowd of white-collar alcoholics and aged hookers looking for business. I had never done a theater audition, but Jimmy assured me that it was nothing, saying to “just bring some sheet music.”

  The next morning, I searched the one-bedroom flop house I lived in with three other smelly, loser friends—I was hunting for sticky, loose change that I desperately needed for gas. I got down to the Masonic Temple by 8 a.m. It looked like a Pharaoh’s palace, and there were already hundreds of assorted Hollyweird humans standing in two separate lines around the building. Why are there two lines? I wondered.

  It turned out that one line was for Equity members and the other for non-Equity. Actor’s Equity Association (AEA or often simply Equity) is a union for live theater. This particular audition was open to both union and nonunion actors.

  The Equity line went first. My line stood in the sun and sweated profusely. We didn’t move for hours. Finally, after I had sweat staining every inch of my clothing, the non-Equity line started moving. Our line went much faster—from where I was standing, it seemed that no sooner had a person entered the building than they were walking right out. As I got closer to the entrance, I could hear voices belting out show tunes. I’d hear around eight bars and then the voice would suddenly stop. A moment later, another voice, and then another, and so on, as a steady stream of rejected faces slouched out the door and back into their regular lives.

  At last, it was my turn to enter the massive lobby. The building was beyond intimidating, as if its purpose was to make all who entered feel small and insignificant. The voices belting songs were louder now, though each was quickly silenced. As I got closer to the audition room and saw the rejected, dejected hopefuls walking in the opposite direction, I desperately wanted to bolt back into my parents’ arms. I would promise to become anything that they wanted me to be. What stopped me from doing this was Willie. I felt his calming hand on my shoulder and heard his words, “All good boy. Don’t gets in dey way of yerself. Go wit yer feelins.”

  Willie had died from alcoholism a year earlier, but he’d never really left me.

  One more dispirited body rushed out the door and then it was my turn to enter the audition room. The door opened and I willed myself forward. I found myself standing in another massive room where I saw a long, beat-up table and three sour faces. In the corner was a crappy piano, and on the bench was a craggy-looking player with a lit Marlboro cigarette hanging from his lips. He said, “Give me your music.”

  Nerve-wracked, I handed him the sheet music to the song, “Mame.”

  I looked over at the lifeless threesome as the opening bars of “Mame” started filling the room, echoing off the walls. I start to sing—You coax the blues right out of the horn, Mame—and immediately forgot the words. Without missing a beat, I instinctively began making up my own: You charm my tux right off in the morn’, Mame. The three zombie faces grinned. I kept on singing whatever sprang to mind and fit the beat, and their chuckles turned into unadulterated guffaws. I didn’t think it was a good sign, but my memory wasn’t catching up to the tune, and I didn’t want to stop. I carried on as the laughter grew, until even the prune-faced piano man was howling.

  I sang the whole song to the end. The group behind the long table settled down, wiped tears from their eyes, and the man in the middle chair asked my name.

  “Anson Williams,” I answered.

  “Do you dance, Anson?”

  I started to say, “No,” but stopped myself. I remembered Willie saying, “You different, boy. Gotta show dat.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Okay, once we finish up the singing auditions, we’ll bring you back in with rest of the callbacks for the dance part.”

  “Callbacks?” I questioned.

  Laughing, he said, “Performers that we want to see again.”

  Stunned, I stammered, “You want to see me?”

  “Wait outside,” he said, and motioned for the next victim to walk in.

  I think I waited for a full hour before the singing auditions finally finished. Out of all of the hopefuls waiting in both lines early that morning, the group in the Pharaoh’s throne room was whittled down to thirty callbacks. It turned out that auditions were being done in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles to cast a resident company in Wichita, Kansas. Cast members would be chosen (and contracts signed) right on the spot.

  The door of the audition room opened and the youngest looking member of the audition panel walked out. “Everybody listen up. My name is Fredrick, and I’ll be teaching you the routine. Please follow me.”

  We all followed him into another large room. This one sported mirrors across the entire front wall. I had a hard enough time just walking and talking, so I purposely found a spot in back that was hidden from the mirrored surveillance. It didn’t take long before I had that “bolt-to-mommy” feeling again. It was horrifyingly clear to me that everyone in that room was a trained dancer: They were jumping, leaping, twisting, and twirling, all in perfect unison. I was not. No one ever accused me of being a good dancer; and learning a Bob Fosse Sweet Charity routine in less than 15 minutes? What were the odds? “Gotta’ show you different” rang through my head. “I’ll do that, Willie,” I whispered to myself.

  The session soon ended; we were split into two groups, and Fredrick took my group back into the audition room. My instincts took over and this time I made damn sure that I was in the front row as the Sweet Charity music started to swell. The dancers in the room moved in perfect synchronization. But not me: When they were all jumping, I made sure I was turning. When they were twirling, I was jumping. If they were moving, I was standing still, listening to the guffaws from the table. The music ended with an almost-perfect group “ta dah!” and me sliding into home. There were gut laughs from the auditors.

  Finally, the man in the middle spoke up again. He asked three people to wait outside. “The rest of you are dismissed.”

  Dejected, I walked toward the door as he went to huddle with the others at the table.

  “Anson!” he shouted after me. “Wait outside too.”

  I get to wait! The phoenix had risen!

  Then the second group went in and two more people were asked to stay. They had their five people. Why was I still waiting? Then I knew: Uh oh! I bet that they want to tell me not to think about auditioning ever again. For anything. Yeah, that’s it. I wasn’t serious enough. I’m through.

  I waited nervously as the five lucky ones finalized their summer employment. Ecstatic, they ran out of the building, leaving me alone, a shoe salesman in a Pharaoh’s domain. The door abruptly opened and the piano player, cigarette still smoking between his nicotine-stained lips, walked out. I could swear he gave me a wink as he passed by. Then I heard, “Anson?”

  I turned and there was Fredrick. “Come on in.”

  I walked back into the room. The middle man pointed to an empty seat. “Sit down.”

  I did as I was told.

  “My name’s Frank Kenley. I’m the show producer.”

  I sat in silence, waiting for certain rejection.

  “You sing okay; you can’t dance for shit,” Frank continued. “But you’ve got something. You’re different.”

  My skin literally tingled, and I could feel Willie’s smile lighting up the room.

  “We have an apprentice program. You would be in every show, help build the
sets, basically work your ass off fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. For that we’ll pay you fifty dollars a week plus your room and board. If you do a great job, we’ll sign you to an Equity contract your last show, and you’ll be able to join the union as a professional.”

  I was stunned. “You’re going to pay me?” That’s the only thing I could think to say.

  As I left that day, I felt large in the Pharaoh’s tiny palace. I had my first paying gig. Why? Because I didn’t get in the way of myself.

  Bingo Clubs and Retirement Home Escapees

  “You don’t looks at a mountain, you climbs.

  Dat’s who wins, boy.”

  My summer stock experience was akin to unsanctioned torture: up at 5 a.m., build sets, paint flats, build sets, rehearse, paint flats, perform, build sets, paint flats, and get to bed by 1 a.m. However, it did gift me with an Equity card, which is the Holy Grail. I was now a professional, and that meant I was privileged to stand on the “Equity side” of audition lines. The lines were still never-ending, but one of them landed me a replacement job in an original musical comedy titled Victory Canteen. Milt Larsen and Bobby Lauher wrote the script and the score was by the Sherman Brothers, famous for the music in the film version of Mary Poppins. Wow! I thought. I am now one of the stars of a major musical right here in the heart of Hollywood! Every major player in the world of entertainment will see me and offer me representation. I will be signed by a powerful agent and get fantastic jobs. I have made it!

  There was only one problem: No players came. We played to packed houses consisting of bingo clubs and retirement home escapees. After several weeks of this, I was more than disappointed. The cast had warned me, but I didn’t believe them. Looking out at our audiences I was ready to retire; no one in those seats was going to come backstage after the show and hand me a golden key to Hollywood success. Then one morning a long-lost Willie moment found its way into my brain. “You don’t looks at a mountain, you climbs. Dat’s who wins, boy.”