I knew that Bishop, in the many months before his show debuted in the spring of 1967, was looking to hire a sidekick announcer, someone to play the role of Ed McMahon to his Johnny Carson. But I never once thought about it as a career opportunity for me. So I kept focused on my Channel 11 show, where one night I had scored a coup by having as my guest the hottest, toughest, most controversial radio guy ever (in those days, anyway): Joe Pyne. He was an ex-marine who got around on one leg, with only the support of a cane. So tough was he that he was rumored to gargle with razor blades. The only reason I’d gotten him as a guest was that he was very interested in meeting a faith healer who’d been on my show a few weeks earlier. The faith healer, who worked his miracle cures somewhere deep in the Philippine jungles, had stirred quite a following of ailing Americans; apparently, they’d flock in droves to this remote location where the healer would preside before a roaring fire and cure all their ills. Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but Joe Pyne happened to be in the throes of battling cancer. He had seen the interview and reached out to us, asking how he could find this strange miracle man.
My producer made a deal with Joe: We’d personally set him up with the healer if he’d come be a guest on our show. Now Joe Pyne never did an interview on any show. Most people were afraid of him. I mean, truly afraid. But I was intrigued with the possibility. So we sent Pyne off on his venture to the Philippines, with the promise of his spending an hour on my show to talk about it when he returned. And true to his word, he did just that and came on the show brimming with a fire all his own. He recounted how he had flown all the way to Manila, was met by the guides we’d arranged for him, journeyed deep into the jungle to the secret spot where the cure-all bonfire raged, and saw all these hopeful tourists gathered round it, singing and praying through the night with the healer. Joe was at once totally turned off, thought it was all nonsense, and left the scene without ever trying to connect with the man.
I said, “Joe, you went all the way deep into that jungle, saw the guy, and never approached him?”
“That’s right,” Joe said. “He’s a phony, a fake, should be arrested. . . .” And so on. But since we’d opened our conversation with this topic—which he’d instantly shot to pieces—there was now another fifty minutes of airtime we had to fill. I figured as long as I had him, I’d dig deep into his life, his experiences in the Marine Corps, and his explosive career in radio. He was terrific—we had one of those great interviews where you know you’ve gotten more than you’d ever hoped for—and I left the station feeling pretty good that night.
Next day, my agent called and said, “Joey Bishop saw your show last night. Apparently he liked it a lot. He’d like to see you as soon as possible—like this afternoon.” I was pleasantly shocked, but also had never quite stopped reeling from that whole Westinghouse experience, and I was still feeling quite angry at myself for having made the wrong career decision by taking that job. I wasn’t looking for further disappointment. So I said, “No, forget it. Tell them thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to go through that again.”
Reluctantly, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
And I hung up. Then, of course, came the afterthought: Wait a minute. There’s only one other late-night show on TV . . . Johnny Carson. So why not Joey Bishop? I had seen Joey pinch-hit for Johnny several times on The Tonight Show and he was always pretty good. ABC was ready to get into the late-night business and saw Joey as their best bet. Now he was searching for the right sidekick, ideally somebody whose energy would balance Joey’s low-key but rather biting persona. The fact that he had seen and liked what I did with Pyne the night before was flattering in itself. Plus, I thought, he’s a bona fide member of the legendary Rat Pack: the official court jester to Sinatra, Dean, and Sammy! It was Joey who had created so much of the Pack’s onstage patter and long-standing routines during their heyday. I heard my mind thumping: What’s wrong with you? Are you actually turning him down before you even meet him? And as for sidekicking, I realized that so many wonderful opportunities had happened for Hugh Downs and Ed McMahon, even while they worked as Tonight Show second bananas. Also, what about all that national exposure on network TV! All these things raced through my mind as I lunged for my phone again to try to catch my agent, hoping against hope that he hadn’t already turned down the job. His line was busy. Oh my God, he could be making the call right now. I waited a few seconds and tried again. Still busy. I began beating myself up: What, am I crazy passing this opportunity by? What else is there for me that’s bigger than this? Again, feeling the regret building, I thought, Well, I’ve done it again—yet another wrong decision! I dialed once more. This time I got through. I instantly yelled into the receiver, “Tell Joey’s people I’ll be there this afternoon!” And then I held my breath and prayed for him to say that he hadn’t called them yet. He assured me that he hadn’t, and I was on my way.
I got there right on time. Bishop was seated at a desk in his office inside the Beverly Hills headquarters of the William Morris Agency. He was dressed casually, wearing an orange sweater and his inimitable hangdog expression. But he was very complimentary when I walked in. “I saw your show last night. You’ve got a lot of talent.”
When he said that, I couldn’t help but recall how the question of my talent had haunted and hurt me over the years—and how humiliated I was to always have some halfhearted response: “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure.”
And then I thought, here was none other than Joey Bishop, a very savvy guy who’d been around this business for a long time—and he’d just told me that I had talent. I got excited. I wanted to hear exactly what he thought it was. So I got up from my chair and said, “Really? What is my talent, Joey?” I sank back down in my chair as he stood up and looked at me for a long time. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that question, but realized that he had to answer it. This was almost ironic: Here I was, applying for a job on his show, and suddenly I’d put him on the defensive. He stood there before his first-floor window at the old William Morris office on that November afternoon. I remember seeing a tree outside that window, its branches blowing in the California breeze. The longer he took to formulate his answer, the more I just stared at that tree, hoping it might ease his pressure.
Finally, he turned to me and announced, “I’ll tell you what your talent is.” I couldn’t wait to hear it. “You,” he said, definitively. “You . . . are a great listener.” Ohhhhhhhh . . . a great listener—that was my talent! I don’t know what I was expecting. But that was it? I guess I was hoping for more than just learning that I had the ability to hear and absorb whatever someone else was saying to me. But I accepted it. And later I would come to understand what he meant—about how important it is to stay present in the moment and be aware of the nuances of every conversation, especially while on TV. I suppose I mumbled some kind of thank-you. And we continued. He remained very cordial and kind and finally told me straight out, “I like you.”
Then he asked me to go get a cup of coffee at the drugstore around the corner at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and come back in an hour. I did as he suggested, turning over in my head exactly what all of this might mean for me—and still wondering if it was really the right kind of fit. When I returned to his office, I found a different Joey than the one I’d left an hour earlier. Now he was surrounded by his manager, Ed Hookstratten, his agent, Norman Brokaw, and his brother and assistant, Mel Bishop—all of whom were silent and not especially friendly. Immediately, I grasped what had happened. These guys were trying to warn Joey against hiring me. There must have been some yelling in the interim; Joey’s face was beet red. Clearly they’d been telling him that I was wrong for the show. That I was a talk-show host, not an announcer. That I would probably try to steal the spotlight away from him by injecting myself into conversations he’d be conducting with his guests. That I would probably throw him off track, that it could be a disaster with Regis—and that’s exac
tly what Joey told me, while working himself up into a near frenzy.
“How do I know this is not going to happen?” he screamed at me. “How do I know you’ll be able to sit there on that couch, night after night, without trying to butt in, and just keep your mouth shut?”
I rose to my feet, suddenly full of quiet confidence, and said, “I’ll tell you how you’ll know . . . because I am a great listener.” I thought this echo of his earlier compliment would get a laugh. But there was nothing. He stared at me with no indication that he even remembered saying it. I thought, Well, that’s that. I then simply wished him good luck and walked out the door. A few days later I received a call telling me I’d gotten the job.
That’s how it started with Joey, and before I knew it, there I was night after night meeting all the stars I’d seen on-screen and read about in the papers. From John Wayne and Kirk Douglas to comedians such as Danny Thomas and Jack Carter and all the guys in between—and even some of Joey’s Rat Pack pals like Dean and Sammy. But not Frank—never Frank. That was a topic of great speculation backstage. Why not Frank? Joey never brought it up, but whatever the reason might’ve been, it was obviously a sore subject. Sinatra, after all, had done The Tonight Show a few times when Joey would pinch-hit for Carson—but not The Joey Bishop Show.
Anyway, for me, it actually was a wonderful job. I didn’t have to worry about prepping for the interviews. Once in a while I could sneak in an ad-lib, which sometimes got a big laugh—and also a withering look from Joey. So—guess what?—I didn’t do that too often. But it was the late sixties and Hollywood was still classic Hollywood. Most of those great stars were older than me—the ones I’d been watching all my life. I mean, suddenly there was Jimmy Durante himself, right in front of me, banging away at the piano, throwing his song sheets across the stage while pleading with Bill Bailey to come home. But it was more than a starry playground for me; it was a chance to meet and befriend some of these legends who would later be guests on my own shows. There, for instance, was Joan Crawford, who’d had a few drinks before coming out onstage, talking about the old days with Clark Gable—she called him King the whole time. And I’ll never forget one incident with Buddy Hackett, who was among Joey’s best friends. Joey had urged Buddy to tell one of his long trademark shaggy-dog story jokes, and reluctantly, Hackett went into it. It required an extended buildup before he would get to his big payoff punch line. And finally, when Buddy had hit that moment just before coming in with the killer line, I saw Joey reach from under the desk and squeeze Buddy’s leg. Hackett stopped talking and looked at Joey, who then delivered the payoff line himself and got a tremendous laugh, then quickly threw to a commercial break. Hackett was furious. They almost came to blows, but it was a lesson to me about just how competitive comedians can be, regardless of their love for each other.
Then there was the night Barbra Streisand agreed to come on the show. Well, not really on the show. Joey, as it turned out, would have to go up to Hollywood Boulevard and the Egyptian Theatre to interview her on the red carpet before the premiere of her very first film, Funny Girl. Streisand had made a Broadway sensation of the musical before doing the movie version, and already she was considered the newest, hottest star in Hollywood. Even back then, however, she had been gaining a reputation for being somewhat difficult to deal with. Joey resented the whole idea of having to go over there to do the interview before our own show started taping. For some reason, I was invited to come along—but he was plainly annoyed throughout. Of course, no one knew how big a star Streisand would become. Nevertheless, we fought our way through the crowds on Hollywood Boulevard and met her on the red carpet. The cameras were all set up. There were confused discussions about who would stand where for the interview. The fuss made no one happy. Finally we lined up with Joey in the middle, me flanking him on one side, and Barbra positioned on his other side. Just before the cameras rolled, Barbra exclaimed, “Wait, you weren’t listening to me! This is not my good side. I want to be on the left.” And Joey said, “But the left side is my best side.” There was a silent standoff. They each had their own battery of producers and handlers on the scene, and now everybody froze. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t resist. Somebody had to break this tension! So I shouted out, “But what about me? I want the left side, too.” The crowd around us laughed, but there were no laughs from our two stars. Not even a smile. I’m sorry, but I still think it was a funny line.
I should point out that even though maneuvering a couple of blocks over to that theater for the Streisand interview didn’t please Joey, he and I were no strangers to strolling the streets of Hollywood together. Joey, as no doubt you’ve figured out by now, was a complex guy, forever interesting to be around, but he also had a pretty hot temper—which, quite frankly, was nearly ready to blow at any given moment. Keeping him loose became an ongoing priority. On the afternoon before our very first show, in fact, our producer, Paul Orr, came to me and said, “Joey’s restless. Why don’t you take him outside and go for a walk?” So I popped into Joey’s office and very offhandedly said, “Joey, why don’t we go for a walk today?” He just glared at me. “What?” he barked. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind! I can’t be worrying about taking a walk! Forget it!” So I went back to my desk, and five minutes later, Joey wandered up to me wearing a Windbreaker and said, “Let’s walk.”
From that moment forward, in fact, it would become our daily ritual. Like clockwork, every afternoon around three, we would walk from 1313 North Vine Street all the way up to Hollywood Boulevard, then all the way over to Cahuenga, and finally all the way back down again. It took about fifty minutes, and invariably it allowed Joey to clear his mind. And for me, it was one of the greatest pleasures of my entire Bishop Show experience: walking and talking with this veteran comedian, soaking up his knowledge and his terrific inside showbiz stories. I’m quite certain that those walks taught me more about the careful construction of telling a funny story—the little intricacies of how to set it up, how to pay it off, and the value of some colorful digressions along the way—than just about anything. Every day I learned something new, including how to be truly gracious to fans and viewers, no matter how irritable a mood you privately might find yourself in. I thought it was remarkable how Joey could overcome an ugly funk and suddenly become a charming prince to whoever greeted him on the street.
Meanwhile, those days marked the official beginnings of what would decades later become known as the Late-Night Wars. Back then it was just us versus the unbeatable Johnny Carson; Merv Griffin would try his luck over at CBS a couple of years later and soon enough fall by the wayside as well. But I’m sure Carson’s New York–based Tonight Show staff compared our nightly guest lists and saw that, while Johnny drew his share of celebrities in Manhattan, we had a near-endless choice of Hollywood superstars. A few times a year, Carson would come out to do his show at NBC’s Burbank studios, not far from our home base. Those weeks always gave him an extra boost. We were, of course, never able to catch Johnny in the ratings. He had a five-year jump on Joey, plus the NBC network was much stronger than ABC’s back then—and let’s face it, The Tonight Show was already a firmly established American institution, starting with Steve Allen, continuing with Jack Paar, and on through Johnny, who’d become something of a major icon by then, anyway.
Still, we’d been fighting the good fight for fifteen valiant months on the air, when Joey had sprung a notion on me that would become probably the strangest footnote of my entire career. One day, while we took our walk up Vine Street, he started fretting about Johnny coming to town again in a few weeks, which meant the certain downturn of whatever regular viewership we had. The big guest stars would abandon us for Johnny’s Burbank visits, no question. And that’s when Joey told me of a plan he had to steal the spotlight from Johnny—and I was to play an essential part in it. He said it was a foolproof old show business trick.
I couldn’t wait to hear what it was.
Until he told me what it was.
The plot, as he laid it out, was simple: On Johnny’s first night in town, I would announce to Joey and to the audience that I’d heard murmurings from on high and elsewhere that my presence was weighing down the show and hurting our chances. And then, in a selfless display of loyalty to him, I would bravely walk off the show, brokenhearted, in full view of the audience, and disappear into the night. He said it would make for instant headlines and lure viewers away from Carson to follow our drama for the rest of the week. I was stunned. I was sure I’d look like a spoiled brat who felt unappreciated by his bosses, someone who was behaving badly because he couldn’t stand it anymore. Sort of like that childish old pouting routine “I’m taking my marbles and going home!” I hated the idea. But Joey loved it. “You could make things interesting,” he told me with a smile that felt more like a direct order. Which it was. I dreaded everything about that approaching night—and yet I couldn’t get out of it. He stressed to me from the start that it was temporary. “Just know that after a few days, I’ll make sure you come back,” he’d say. Still, when Johnny finally came to town, I was upset at having to execute Joey’s rather devious little plan. In fact, every day beforehand, I grew more and more anxious as Bishop grew more and more enthusiastic about it: a devastated Regis walking off the show! It hadn’t been done since Jack Paar left The Tonight Show in a huff over an NBC network edit of one of his jokes! That got enormous attention at the time and to this day remains a historic television moment—except Jack really meant it when he stormed off that night! But like it or not, I would do as I was told.
How I Got This Way Page 9
