by Carl Reiner
During working hours, we found that 61 percent of the time, Mary had this wonderful, broad smile on her face. As she settled into a club chair in my office, her smile that we know from the main title of her own show could “light the world up,” was now a sickly one that could barely light up a corner of my office.
“So, Mary, what did you want to see me about?” I asked.
“I wanted to tell you something that I thought you should know,” she replied, looking first at me, then at her hands. “Only a few people know about my decision, and I wanted you to know before the press get hold of it…”
On our show, I had written many lines of dialogue for Mary’s character and now in my head I was continuing to write her dialogue: “Carl, my agent wanted to speak to you about this, but I thought that since we have this relationship, it would be better coming from me. I … I don’t know how to say this—it may not be fair—but I have been offered the lead in a big MGM musical opposite Gene Kelly, and I would like to…”
I was sure that some upsetting news of this nature was coming, but I wasn’t sure of how I’d handle it.
“This had been coming on even before I started the show,” Mary said, looking directly at me, “and I didn’t tell anybody about it, because I thought we might be able to work it out … but … I couldn’t.… Carl, I am leaving Richard … Richard and I…”
In the split second before she continued, I panicked and thought she was talking about Dick Van Dyke, referring to him as Richard because she was angry with him for some reason. My five-second reverie was interrupted by Mary’s voice saying, “… have decided to divorce.”
There were tears in Mary’s eyes. I mirrored her emotions, but the tears in my eyes were tears of joy at discovering she was talking about her husband, Richard, and not my Richard. My voice had a proper tone of sadness in it when I said, “Oh, Mary, I am so sorry.” Fair actor that I am, I was able to hide the selfish-bastard side of myself while showing concern for her immediate needs and assuring her of our continued friendship and support. Mary, dear heart, was worried that the publicity might hurt the show.
I never discussed with Mary my dual reaction to her telling me that upsetting piece of news until now.
July 14, 2002
Dear, dear Mary,
For allowing myself to feel unmitigated joy that day forty-one years ago when you were feeling unimaginable pain, I humbly offer you my extremely belated but most sincere apology.
Love,
Carl
P.S. Mary, I was thinking I’d end this with “Well, that’s show biz!” What do you think?
12
My Son, the Hall of Famer
I was seated at my desk doing writer-producer things for an upcoming episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show when I received a phone call from someone in New York informing me that I had been chosen to receive the first Hall of Fame Award from my alma mater, Evander Childs High School. The pleasant voice on the phone told me that the other candidates for the award were a state Supreme Court justice, a former Miss America, and a beloved actor-comedian, whose real name was Aaron Chwatt. I don’t remember the name of the judge but the Miss America was Bess Meyerson, and Aaron Chwatt was Red Buttons. I was flattered, of course, but I wondered, Why did they choose me? Immediately, I heard my mother’s voice answer, “Because you’re the best one!”
My mother always felt that I was underappreciated. After watching Your Show of Shows, Mom never missed an opportunity to offer me advice and compliments. Our conversations were frequent and repetitious.
“Carl, they didn’t give you enough to do this week.”
“Ma, I had a lot to do this week. Did you like the show?”
“It was a good show, but it would be a better show if they put you in more skits.”
“They’re called sketches, Ma, and I was in three of them this week.”
“With small parts, they should give you bigger parts! Tell them that everybody I talk to raves about how good you are … and smart. The other day,” she said, proudly, “a lady I met in Crotona Park asked me, where you learned to speak all those languages, Italian and French and German?”
“Ma, did you tell her that I can’t speak those languages and that I was doing double-talk?”
“Why does she have to know?”
“Because lots of people speak French and Italian and German, Ma. Very few people can do double-talk.”
“Let her think what she wants. Who does it hurt?”
It’s clear that Mom preferred that people think of her son as smart and educated rather than funny.
My mother was illiterate and was able, somehow, to keep that secret from most people, including my brother and me. It wasn’t until Charlie and I were teenagers that we compared notes and agreed, “Hey, Mom can’t read!” Whenever there was something either of us wanted Mom to read, she would say, “Read it to me, I don’t have my glasses,” or “I’m busy ironing, you read, I’ll listen,” or “Leave it on the couch, I’ll read it later.”
For some reason, perhaps because we sensed that Mom felt ashamed, Charlie and I never discussed her illiteracy with either her or my father.
Mom was one of nine siblings, four brothers and five sisters, and because she was the prettiest of the girls and had an upturned nose, was dubbed the Princess. The Princess was born in Bucharest, Romania, where, as a young child, she had the first of two dramatic and, I am certain, personality-shaping experiences. She remembered clearly her mother putting her inside a cold oven when she was three years old and telling her that she must not talk or make a sound. Many a Jewish household lived in fear of Cossack-like marauders riding into town to make trouble. Rampant were the stories of hoodlums grabbing infants from their cribs and smashing their heads against a tree trunk or a wall. It was not uncommon for terrified parents to hide their precious infants in places like potato bins, attics, closets, and stoves.
The Princess emigrated with her family to America in 1901 and completed her formal education at the age of seven. At eight, after receiving a diploma from her first grade class, which Mom had framed and I now own, she secured a job as a finisher in a factory that manufactured American flags. A finisher was an unskilled worker who finished what the skilled worker, the seamstress, was not required to do, snip off all the loose threads that hung from the new Grand Old Flags. Because of the child labor laws, enforcers from the Geary Society would sweep through sweatshops looking for exploited children. The exploiting factory owners were always tipped off when a visit was imminent, and they prepared for the inspection by hiding their child laborers. Bessie Mathias, the Princess, was trained to climb into a giant canvas bin, lie prone on the bottom, and remain quiet and motionless under the hundreds of finished, unfolded flags that would be dumped on top of her. Having to struggle for air while struggling to earn a few cents a day, I imagine, does not engender any sense of security in an eight-year-old.
My mother lived her life fearing the worst. She was certain that disaster was lurking for my brother and me everywhere, at every street crossing, in every schoolyard, in every strange neighborhood, and even in our own neighborhood after dark.
A sad, touching clue to my mom’s illiteracy presented itself after she received a copy of my novel Enter Laughing, a fictionalized version of my young life. I was concerned how my parents might react to the way I depicted some of the fictional family members.
“The book was wonderful!” Mom phoned to say. “Congratulations!”
“Oh, thanks, Mom, you’ve read it?”
“Of course we read it,” she said defensively, “why wouldn’t we read it?”
“Well, I just gave it to you a couple of days ago…”
“And we finished it today—Papa read it out loud—half yesterday and half today. It’s very good—a very nice story.”
“You really liked it?”
“Who wouldn’t like it?” Mom challenged, “It’s a very nice story—true to life—but the book…”
“What about the book, Ma?”
“Well, I think you made a mistake and sent us Estelle’s book. She probably has ours.”
“Estelle’s book? Ma, I don’t understand.”
“In the book we have, it says ‘To Estelle.’ You must have mixed them up.”
Never having read a book, Mom did not know that “To Estelle,” which my father had read aloud, was the printed dedication and not, as she imagined, one I wrote by hand.
I have not yet thought about to whom I will dedicate this book, but I know Bessie Reiner’s name will be first.
* * *
The day I was needed to attend the Evander Childs Hall of Fame ceremony in the Bronx conflicted with my responsibilities to the Dick Van Dyke Show in Los Angeles. Reluctantly, I had to decline the honor, and was touched when the disappointed Hall of Fame chairperson assured me that I would be installed as their first honoree, whether or not I appeared in person.
And because fate stepped in, in the guise of CBS’s publicity department, I was able to appear in person. Ordinarily, we shot six episodes in a row and took a week off, but to accommodate the publicity department, they arranged for us to take a few extra days and fly to New York to do interviews and television appearances. I immediately called the Hall of Fame people and informed them that I would be attending the ceremony.
While still in Los Angeles, I jotted down the day and the time I was due to be at my high school—Wednesday at 11:00 A.M. In the two days bracketing the Hall of Fame event I had quite a few appointments and interviews, all neatly typed in an itinerary CBS had prepared. We arrived in New York rather late and checked into my favorite Manhattan hotel, the Algonquin, home of the legendary Round Table. I saw the legendary table but none of the legends.
I awoke early the next morning and called the car service to say that since it looked like it might rain, we should leave no later than 9:30.
The dispatcher started to question my decision, and I politely insisted that I had to get to Evander Childs High School on Gun Hill Road in the Bronx no later than 10:45 and to send the car now!
While I showered, shaved, gobbled a quick breakfast, dressed myself in a white shirt, blue suit, and a regimental tie, I thought about the students who would be attending the ceremony, and what I might say to them.
I asked myself, Do I have any inspirational words of wit and wisdom that these teenagers might find amusing and would also have some substance—serious thoughts that might be of some help in planning their future?
The answer came back to me loudly and clearly.
No! You can’t do that! You’ll do what you always do, bullshit! Just hope it’s the kind that has some fertilizing nutrients in it.
On the ride from Manhattan to my old Bronx high school, I thought about how much the limo ride was costing and how different my life had been when I was young. From 1936 until I graduated in June of 1938, for one nickel I rode to school each morning on the Third Avenue El (elevated train) from Tremont Avenue to Gun Hill Road. In my junior and senior years, during the spring and autumn months, I saved a nickel a day by walking home from school, which took under an hour. A nickel doesn’t sound like much, but by the end of the month, you’ve got a pretty tidy sum. In the midst of a major depression, a dollar can get you into a couple of movies, buy a bag of White Castle hamburgers, some candy bars, sodas, and if you had a girl who liked you, a dutch-treat date.
We arrived at the front entrance of the school, and I expected that it would look a lot smaller than I remembered it, but it didn’t. It looked exactly as impressive and forbidding. There were about twenty steps in the wide stairway that led to the four sets of entrance doors. I had not called ahead to say exactly what time I would arrive, so did not expect a welcoming committee, but I did expect to see a few students milling about. I was about twenty minutes early, and I assumed that everyone was either on their way to the assembly hall or filing into it.
Since I was told that the ceremony would not be a long one, I suggested that the limo driver stay right where he was. I bounded up the stairs, and was strangely moved by this simple act of going into a building I had not been in for twenty-five years. The assembly hall was where it always was: directly across from the front entrance. The assembly hall doors had little windows in them, and before dashing in, I looked in to see how many students had assembled, and all I could see were portraits of Washington and Lincoln looking back at me. Not one student had assembled!
“Where the heck is everybody?” I mumbled to no one as I looked at my watch and wondered why the assembly hall was empty and dark.
It was twenty minutes to eleven! Unless, unless I hadn’t reset my watch correctly. Before landing, I had reset my watch for New York time, three hours forward—or—did I set it forward only two hours, making the time now not ten minutes to eleven, but ten minutes to ten?! That it! It’s ten of ten!—No! It’s not! The limo driver didn’t fly across the country and reset his watch. I told him to be at the hotel at 9:30 A.M. and that’s when he came and it took an hour to get here!
I checked my watch again, and saw that it was twenty minutes to eleven … and I also saw that it was Tuesday.
Tuesday! the voice inside my head, shouted, Today is Tuesday, not Wednesday, you fool!
That is why the dispatcher was hesitant about sending the limo this morning. He had the reservation for Wednesday. I was so concerned about being late, and I ended up being one day and twenty minutes too early! I felt like an idiot.
All I could think of was how I might leave the scene of my stupidity without being seen. I wanted desperately to undo the whole experience. I’m sure you won’t believe how I attempted to accomplish this, but what I did was, and I’m not making this up, try to visualize myself on film and reversing the film. I laughed to myself as I backed away from the auditorium and continued to walk backward across the hallway, out the front doors, down the entire flight of stairs, and toward the limo. The confused but bemused chauffeur had watched the proceedings and accommodated my madness by holding the door open while I backed in.
After he concurred that it was Tuesday, I shouted “Let’s go!” and we drove off.
“If, by chance, someone saw me walking backward, I would, naturally, be embarrassed, but,” I explained to the chauffeur, so he wouldn’t think me a complete nut, “instead of running off, I would stop and tell him, why I was doing what I was doing and, perhaps get a chuckle or two out of him. I got one from you, didn’t I?”
“You did.” He smiled.
“I think that inviting people to laugh with you while you’re laughing at yourself is a good thing to do. You’re still the fool, but you’re the fool in charge.”
The following morning, wearing the same clothes and being driven by the same chauffeur, I was armed with a premise for my little speech. This time, I was royally greeted on the front steps by a gracious welcoming committee, who ushered me into the auditorium. After a couple of announcements, I was given an embarrassingly complimentary introduction by the school principal, who invited me to come to the podium to accept the award. He informed the students that, “Mr. Reiner, I’m sure, has some remarks he would like to make.”
My ‘remarks’ started by my telling the students how thrilled I was to be chosen for Evander Childs’s first Hall of Fame Award.
“You know,” I said, smiling broadly, “I was so excited about coming back to my old school that I could not wait for today—and I didn’t! I came yesterday! I thought yesterday was today but, as you all know, today is today. I wasn’t off by much.”
While telling of my premature visit to their school, I did an impression of myself alighting from the limousine and jauntily bounding up the front steps, and confidently striding to the assembly hall, and, on seeing it empty and discovering that it was Tuesday, I confidently backed away from the hall. They laughed as I strutted backward around the stage to illustrate how I must have looked going out of the building backward, and continuing in this mode, down the steps, “and into the limo for a quick getaway before any of you g
uys saw me.”
By admitting that I was a goofy kind of kid who still did goofy things, I offered myself as living proof that one can make it in life,
even if you did not get high enough grades to be accepted by CCNY, a tuition-free city college;
even if you never went out for a team or joined the Chess Club or became involved in any of the extracurricular school activities;
even if you did not apply to audition for the Drama Club, because you were sure you would be rejected;
even if you squeaked through your junior high school algebra class without ever finding out what X stood for;
even if you end a sentence with a preposition, as I did in the last even-if;
even if you once competed against thirteen others in an amateur contest and came in thirteenth;
even if you had a crush on a girl, (Selma Futerman) for the whole time you were in school and never once spoke to her, because you thought you might not be her type.
I am not sure the principal and the teachers appreciated my lighthearted acceptance of a premise that not everything that we perceive as failure is that, but the kids were sure enjoying an uninspirational talk by a Hall of Famer, who, in essence, was telling them that by just being themselves, they could make it.
I never did any kind of survey or follow-up on those students, so I will never know how much harm I did them … or good?
13
Three Macho Cowards
The Place: San Francisco airport
The Time: Sunday, 11:00 P.M., summer of 1965
Eva Marie Saint, Brian Keith, Norman Jewison, and I had just arrived from Los Angeles, having spent the weekend with our families. We were on our way back to northern California where, for the past few weeks, we had been on location filming The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming! On preparing to board the small plane for the connecting flight to Fort Bragg, a trip we had made without incident several times during the twelve-week shooting schedule, we were informed that there was going to be a “change of equipment.” It was unsettling to hear about problems with the “equipment”—and who decided to call a big thing like an airplane “equipment”?
