I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  Here is what I proposed to our children, and they did not object. I told them that when I go, I wished to have my ashes mixed with their mother’s, along with some Miracle-Gro plant food and have us interred in our back yard patch of “heirloom” tomatoes.

  You will have to take my word for this, but that night, the audience at the Paley Center laughed heartily at what some people might think a sad or even ghoulish story. I asked that they tell no one of our ashes being buried in the back yard, as it could negatively impact the selling price of our house.

  Now that I think about it, I may have been wrong to ask them to keep my secret. It may well be that knowing a loving celebrity couple was buried in their back yard might be an incentive for some rich, romantic homeowner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  My Brush with Five Comedy Icons

  (Benny, Jessel, Burns, Green, and Lewis)

  ICON #1

  Jack Benny

  I met Jack Benny for the first time in the commissary at Desilu Studios, where The Dick Van Dyke Show was being filmed. Mr. Benny was seated alone at a center table and smiled when I entered. I smiled back, and he beckoned me to come join him. Even though we had never met, I knew he watched and appreciated Your Show of Shows and The Sid Caesar Show. Sid had once proudly showed us a fan letter he had received from Mr. Benny, saying how much he enjoyed Sid’s performances.

  I loved Jack Benny, and my folks loved Jack Benny, as all of America did. One of the highlights of our family’s Sunday nights was listening to his hilarious radio show that featured his wife, Mary Livingston, his butler-chauffeur, Eddie “Rochester” Anderson, and his announcer, Don Wilson.

  As I approached his table, Jack held out his hand, and I shook it. He asked if I had eaten, and if I hadn’t, would I like to join him? I was thrilled to be lunching with my idol. I don’t remember what we ate, but I will always remember the incident he related to me—one that happened earlier that day. He seemed to be anxious to tell someone about his unexpected adventure. I felt lucky to be in the right luncheonette at the right time.

  To fully appreciate what Mr. Benny related, a little background about our star would be in order. It has been said, and so far no one has bothered to disprove it, that the single most prolonged laugh in the history of radio comedy was detonated by Jack Benny in response to a five-word straight line.

  To refresh your memory or to give you information you never had, one of the traits of radio’s fictional Jack Benny was his miserliness. He was a modern-day Scrooge who never picked up a check but always picked up any coin he saw lying in the gutter.

  This was the penny-pinching Jack Benny who, when being held up in an alley and asked by the thief, “Your money or your life!” paused for an interminably long time, causing the impatient thief to shout, “I said, your money or your life!”

  To which, Benny shouted back, “I’m thinking! I’m thinking!”

  This exchange was followed by many unclocked minutes of prolonged laughter from the studio audience.

  Now back to our lunch at Desilu. It seems that Mr. Benny had just flown in to meet with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz about their upcoming appearance on his television show. Here now, in almost all of his own words, is the story Jack Benny related to me that day.

  “You see, I flew into Burbank Airport, in one of those small planes, and just before we were to land, I told the pilot that I would like to use the toilet. The pilot said we’d be down in two minutes, and if I could ‘hold it,’ I’d be a lot more comfortable using the restroom in the lounge. He was a nice guy, so I held it while he taxied the plane right up to the terminal.

  “I dashed off the plane and made it to the men’s room. There were two stalls—pay stalls—it took a dime to open. All I had was a couple of quarters and a nickel. I really had to go, so I got down on my knees and slid under the door. It was a real tight squeeze, but I made it just in time—and I mean just in time! Only problem was that when I was ready to leave, I realized that I couldn’t slide out the way I slid in. The booth was tiny—no room for me to lie down flat. The only way out was to climb out, so I stepped on the toilet seat and threw one leg over the top of the door. I was about to swing my other leg over, when three guys walk into the restroom—one guy looks up and sees me climbing out of the booth, he recognizes me, and yells out, “Hey, Mr. Benny—it’s only a dime!”

  That “one guy,” like millions of other Americans, enjoyed seeing stingy, old Jack Benny get caught in a situation that re-affirmed his character’s reputation as being the cheapest man alive.

  And the real Jack Benny enjoyed telling me that story more than any world-class miser would have enjoyed striking oil.

  ICON #2

  Georgie Jessel

  In 1948, while performing as the leading comedian in a touring company of the Broadway musical revue, Call Me Mister, I had the opportunity to meet George Jessel, one of show business’s most beloved and talented performers. In his long career, Mr. Jessel had been a headlining comedian on the vaudeville circuit and was the original star of The Jazz Singer, which he performed for years on Broadway and on countrywide tours. He was a frequent guest on radio, performing his signature telephone conversation with his mother, which began with his saying, “Hello, Mama, this is Georgie—from the money every month?”

  By modern standards, not a very sophisticated line, but Jessel’s fans loved the sketch and him.

  The third act of George Jessel’s life saw him perform as a goodwill ambassador to countries our government felt would appreciate a little witty banter along with our goodwill.

  Jessel also became known as the go-to guy when anyone was in need of an effective eulogist. He was capable of bringing a congregation to tears by singing the praises of a dearly departed celebrity, relative, or friend— whether he knew them or not.

  I first met Mr. Jessel in his spacious office at Twentieth Century Fox after he had graduated from being an actor-comedian to being the head of production at a major film studio.

  The musical Call Me Mister had opened the previous night in downtown Los Angeles, at the now-defunct Biltmore Theater, and I had come to Beverly Hills to meet with my new agent, Maurice LaPue. Yes, LaPue was his real name. I had hoped he might find a role for me in some film. I left Mr. LaPue’s office in the MCA Building, thinking that they liked me, but not well enough to knock themselves out finding me a job. When I approached the parking attendant’s shack and handed the cashier my ticket, LaPue’s young assistant tore across the lot, shouting my name. When he reached the shack, he breathlessly told me that the office had just received a call from my wife, Estelle, saying that I should get to a radio immediately, tune in to ABC, and listen to the Hollywood Reporter’s George Fischer Show!”

  I asked the parking attendant if he would please tune his radio to ABC, and he obliged. The words that George Fischer used sixty-four years ago to review my work are lost, but believe me when I tell you that the ones I offer now are less flowery and laudatory than the original. For the record, the four bold, italicized sentences in the midst of George Fischer’s review are verbatim. It began:

  “Last night, as the guest of George Jessel, I sat in the third row of the Biltmore Theater and watched the musical revue, Call Me Mister. On stage, we saw a young man who, Mr. Jessel and I agreed, is destined to become one of Broadway’s brightest stars. He is tall, dark, and handsome, he can sing, he can dance, and he is hilariously funny. His name is Carl Reiner. I’ll spell that for you, R-E-I-N-E-R! If you are listening to this program, Mister Reiner, please pick up a phone and call George Jessel’s office at Twentieth Century Fox! At this moment, there is a big, fat contract sitting on his desk, waiting for your signature!”

  My agent’s assistant convinced the parking attendant that it was okay for me to use their phone.

  I followed Mr. Fischer’s instructions and dialed George Jessel’s number at Fox Studios, and t
o my utter amazement, I heard the famous nasal voice of one of my childhood heroes saying these words: “Hello, Carl. Look, I don’t want to make a big tsimmis—but can you come to my office tomorrow at ten?”

  “At ten? Yes I can.”

  “Good!” he said and hung up.

  For the uninitiated, tsimmis is a Jewish dish made of many mysterious ingredients.

  At ten the following morning, I entered the impressively decorated reception room of George Jessel’s executive suite at Twentieth Century Fox Studios. Mr. Jessel’s secretary pressed the intercom button and informed her boss that I had arrived. She then told me that Mr. Jessel would be right out and to please have a seat.

  I sat for a good ten minutes before I saw him and then sat for another ten before he saw me. When he came out of his office, he ignored me, walked directly to his secretary’s desk, and asked her to check on his lunch reservation at Chasen’s restaurant. He then instructed her to get a larger table, as there would be two additional guests. I had no reason to think that I may be one of the guests, but I did think it. As he walked back his to his office, he passed my chair, and without looking at me, squeezed my arm and said, “See you in a minute, kid!”

  I chose to believe that his squeezing my arm and calling me “kid” was a friendly gesture and not a dismissive one.

  A few minutes passed. Mr. Jessel entered again, crossed to the receptionist desk, dropped some papers on it, and said, “File these!” As he made his way back to his office, he held one hand above his head as he continued to give her orders. I wondered about why his hand was in the air and quickly found out. He was making certain that we saw him kiss his fingers and then touch them to the mezuzah that was nailed to the doorframe. Since his secretary must be aware of his devotion, I deduced that his kissing the religious scroll was for my benefit.

  After kissing the mezuzah, Mr. Jessel bid me enter, so I entered. He greeted me warmly and asked if I would like a quick tour of his personal photo gallery. Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Jessel ushered me to a wall of autographed photographs of every major Hollywood star of the era—then to another wall with signed photos of every United States president that lived during his lifetime and every major senator, congressman, or known military hero. He actually read aloud some of the more personal and complimentary inscriptions. After a tour of the floor-to-ceiling photographs, he invited me to sit in an easy chair facing his desk. He settled into a high-backed swivel chair and picked up an eight-by-ten photo from his desk.

  “Would you like to have this?” he asked, handing me a photo of Lana Turner wearing an extremely low-cut dress.

  It was a friendly, albeit strange offering, and I did not want to appear unappreciative, so I shrugged and took the photo.

  He then snatched it from my hand, grabbed a pen, wrote something on it, and handed it back. On Lana’s dress, where her nipples were, he had put two little crosses, and wrote, “Notice the great tits!”

  He took back the photo, slipped into a folder, handed it to me, and said, “Enjoy!”

  All the while, I had been scanning his desk, which was laden with stacks of scripts and contracts, one of which, hopefully, bore my name and awaited my signature.

  Mr. Jessel excused himself at least twice to answer his phone and bark out short answers to long questions. Finally, he was about to give me his full attention, when he received a long-distance call.

  “I have to take this,” he said, excusing himself. “There seems to be a problem in Paris.”

  I asked if I should step outside, and he waved me off. “Carl, you should know about these things if you are going to be in the business.”

  He listened intently while someone was making him privy to some problem. At one point, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and informed me, “I’m talking to fools who can’t make decisions!”

  After listening a little longer, he said, “If you can’t make a decision, I’ll make if for you! Shoot both endings!”

  He slammed the phone down and started on a long diatribe, excoriating the director and producer of a film being shot in Paris.

  “Those assholes can’t make a fucking decision on their own. They get good money to make these pictures, and they call me and ask me to do what I am paying them to do. They’ve got these two possible endings for this picture, and they can’t decide which one to go with…so I had to make the decision for them because they’re too stupid to know which is the better one. Schmucks!”

  I realized that what I just heard was the head of the studio calling his employers “schmucks” for not knowing which was the better ending for a movie—and Mr. Jessel, having taste and judgment, ordered the director to shoot both endings, then grousing, “I have to make all the decisions!”

  I was starting to wonder about the contract I was there to sign. Where was it? Was it among the papers on his desk? Was it in a drawer? Was it in one of the stack of manila folders in the caddy?

  While I was starting to get antsy, Mr. Jessel’s phone rang. He snatched it up and said, “Okay, tell me—what are you looking for?”

  Mr. Jessel listened intently and then suddenly swung his swivel chair around and looked straight at me. With a triumphant smile on his face, he boasted, “Good you called. You are one lucky director, because I got a guy sitting in my office who is staring at me as we speak. You can stop looking right now. I saw him on stage last night at the Biltmore, and he is sensational. Yes, he’s tall, dark, and handsome! This guy can knock the shit out of that part! Hold on, I’ll ask him.

  “Kiddo,” he said, lowering the phone, “how long you going to be in town?”

  “For another week,” I answered, “then two weeks in San Francisco and I’m free.”

  With a smile on his face, Mr. Jessel passed the information to his producer, listened for a moment, nodded, and still smiling, said, “Kid, it’s not going to work out—he needs someone immediately. Sorry.”

  With that, Mr. Jessel stood up, shook my hand, reminded me to take my photo of Lana, and then ushered me out of his office and out of his life.

  I later learned from one who knew Hollywood well that the only thing that Mr. Jessel had been interested in was the publicity he would receive from George Fischer telling the world how George Jessel, the powerful man who ran Twentieth Century Fox, is also a hands-on discoverer of promising young talent.

  ICON #3

  George Burns

  A year before I had the opportunity to direct George Burns in the film, Oh, God!, we had one short but significant exchange. It was at a Hollywood party, where Mel Brooks and I were asked to perform The 2000 Year Old Man. At that time, we had no thought of recording it, as it was just something we did at parties to amuse our friends. At one of these soirees, after we had performed and received a goodly amount of laughs, George Burns asked, “Have you boys put this on a record?”

  When we said we had not, he puffed on his cigar and said, “Record it or I am going to steal it.”

  It was excellent advice, and we took it.

  I admired many things about George Burns, especially his extraordinary work ethic. When filming Oh, God!, besides always being on time, George had memorized his entire role, which allowed us the freedom to adjust our shooting schedule should a problem arise. This is a great gift for any director who works on a tight schedule.

  On the last day of shooting, I visited George’s trailer to thank him for the extraordinary job he did for us and to have a farewell chat. We had an interesting conversation, and he answered some questions I had been dying to ask.

  The following exchange is one that I think all men would be interested in reading…and, on second thought, so may most women.

  “George,” I began, “can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Shoot!”

  “You have told me many great stories about your early days in show business, but we n
ever had serious conversations—about other things.”

  ”Like, what other things?”

  “Well, I’ve never heard you talk about your children, George.”

  “They’re nice kids. What else you want to talk about?”

  “Well, frankly, George, you always talk about girls, and you’re often photographed with a young beauty on each arm…”

  “And sometimes on my lap…so?”

  “Well, you are eighty now, and I am sixty, and I was just wondering about what nature has in store for me—I mean, as far as being sexually active…”

  “You mean, what you have to look forward to?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see…well let me ask you something, Carl,” he said, puffing his cigar. “Did you ever try putting an oyster into a slot machine?” He took another puff, winked, and said, “Jot that down!”

  It took more than forty years, but as George suggested, I jotted it down.

  ICON #4

  Jerry Lewis

  In 1947, I was an elder statesman of twenty-five when I appeared at Boston’s Schubert Theater, playing the leading comedy role in the touring revue, Call Me Mister! It was after a matinee, in front of the Shubert Theater where I first encountered Jerry Lewis. In a whirlwind of words, this eager lad of twenty told me how much he enjoyed my performance in the show and how thrilled he would be if I and all the members of my cast accepted an invitation to be his guests for the premiere of his new comedy act at the Latin Quarter. He also dropped the information that he and his partner, Dean Martin, were getting “fifteen hundred a week for the gig.”