Rickles' Book (12 page)

T
hat’s what I kept asking my booking agent when he told me that I couldn’t work at Bill Harrah’s Lake Tahoe resort.

“Bill’s a very reserved guy,” I was told. “He likes Eddie Arnold, Red Skelton and Jack Benny. People he respects.”

“You mean he doesn’t respect me?” I asked.

“To be honest,” said the agent, “no. You’re loud.”

“I’ll tone it down.”

“No you won’t. You’re incapable of toning it down. Look, Don, forget Harrah’s. You’re just not Bill Harrah’s type of act.”

I didn’t forget Harrah’s, though. I was successful in Vegas and saw no reason why I couldn’t be successful in Lake Tahoe.

The agent kept pushing, and finally Bill Harrah relented.

“I’ll try him for a week,” he said, “and then we’ll see.”

“Take it easy opening night,” the agent advised. “Bill’s going to be there. Treat him gently.”

Winter in Lake Tahoe.

Opening night.

Rickles on stage.

Bill Harrah in his private booth in the back of the room.

“Mr. Harrah,” I said, “I’m not too crazy about your hotel, but I’ll do you a favor and work here.”

No one ever talked that way to Bill Harrah.

“In fact, this whole resort is ridiculous,” I went on. “Why would anyone come up here and pay this kind of money to freeze their burgers off? Besides, Jews don’t ski. We own the mountain.”

It took Bill a while to react. Meanwhile, management turned green. I got the feeling I had worn out my welcome in the first minute.

But then Bill laughed.

Suddenly everyone was laughing.

From that moment on, I became a Harrah favorite. I played the resort five straight years.

Bill liked to take us out on his boat and sail around Lake Tahoe. Once, when I was with Barbara, Mindy and Larry, he showed us a gorgeous old mansion, right on the lake, where they had filmed the party scene in
The Godfather II
.

“Mindy,” I said to my young daughter, “when you grow up, this is where you’ll get married.” Then I turned to Barbara and said, “That’ll make the Corleones very happy.”

For my fiftieth birthday, Bill had a little surprise for me.

He drove to our villa in a brand-new silver metallic Corvette Sting Ray.

“Happy Birthday, Don,” Bill said. “It’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Bill,” I said, before offering him a few bucks for a cab back to the hotel.

I
read the
New York Post
.

He studies the editorials.

I study the sports page.

He likes polite discourse.

I’m loud.

So how the hell have we come to like each other so much?

We make each other laugh—that’s how.

Offstage, I’m Bob Newhart’s best audience and he’s mine. It helps, of course, that our wives have maintained their close friendship. Bob and I both subscribe to the philosophy that has saved many a marriage: Happy wife, happy life.

For some thirty-five years, the Newharts and the Rickleses have taken many happy vacations together. We’ve traveled the world. I’ve watched him hide as I’ve made fun of people in foreign languages I don’t understand. He’s watched me doze off while he’s discussed the world’s problems. My problem was finding out if the Dodgers beat the Giants.

We once went to Spain and stayed in a private villa that had two sleeping quarters. One was a suite. The other wasn’t. Ginnie, who’s wonderful, said, “Bob, let’s give the Rickleses the suite.”

Bob wanted to flip for it. Ginnie said, “No, they’re our friends and they get the suite.”

The suite was fabulous. The Newharts’ room wasn’t. To get to their bathroom, they had to walk through our suite.

“You’re bothering us, Bob,” I’d tell him when he hurried through. “You’re ruining our vacation.”

Once, in the Hong Kong airport, we waited for our luggage. It was a madhouse, a sea of people, all scrambling to find their suitcases and trunks.

The usual procedure was this: Bob and Barbara would identify the luggage and deal with the customs officials while Ginnie and I found a comfortable bench and watched.

So the mess in Hong Kong hadn’t put Bob in a great mood.

“Hey, Bob,” I said, “while you’re sorting out luggage, see if any of those Chinese guys want to do our laundry.”

We often attracted American tourists.

Once in Germany, walking through some village, we were approached by a church group from Iowa.

“Look, Don,” said Bob. “Let’s be nice, but let’s not get into a long conversation. I don’t want to spend my afternoon talking about our TV shows.”

“Me either,” I said.

The first tourist who comes up starts gushing about
The Bob Newhart Show
. I expect Bob to politely blow him off. But when the guy asks a specific question about one of the episodes, Bob gets into a long conversation.

“Hey,” I say afterward, “I thought we weren’t going to talk to the tourists.”

“They would have asked about your shows,” Bob says, “but no one remembers them.”

We’re in Venice, where Bob and I have a ringside table on the Piazza San Marco. We’re not wine drinkers, but to blend in with the scenery we order a bottle that we have no plans to touch. Our big plan is to people-watch. As the crowd passes by, we invent stories: There’s Count Borinsky from Russia; there’s Princess Magala from Spain; there’s Prince Eric of Norway with Sylvia Borstein from the Bronx on his arm. They’re having a torrid affair.

All the while, people are feeding the pigeons. In fact, the pigeons are so well fed that when we leave the birds circle us and drop farewell messages on our shoulders, making us look like Italian generals.

The Newharts invite us over every Christmas eve. They have the big tree, the wreaths, the angels and the carols.

Once in a while, Bob has a serious moment and says to me, “Don, you really enjoy Christmas, don’t you?”

“Sure I do. One of our guys started it.”

“Bob, believe me, you’re funny.”

I
’ve always respected the comedians who came before me. Milton Berle’s delivery was dynamite. No one was more lovable than George Burns—and no one more popular than Bob Hope.

Hope had me on his shows many times. Unlike me, Bob didn’t like to improvise. As a matter of fact, he relied on a small army of writers. Everything with Hope had to be rehearsed a lot. He worked with big cardboard cue signs.

At the start of one routine we were rehearsing, my line was, “Hi, Bob.”

Bob stopped the rehearsal.

“Is that how you’re going to say the line when we tape?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Try it again.”

“Hi, Bob,” I said.

“We better meet with the writers,” Hope said.

We went into Bob’s office, where three writers sat on a couch.

“Okay,” said Hope, “say it for them, Don.”

“Hi, Bob,” I repeated.

“I don’t like the inflection,” Bob said. “What else can we do with the line?”

The writers proceeded to give me six alternative inflections on “Hi, Bob.” I thought it was all a joke, but no one was laughing.

My biggest Hope moment didn’t come on his show. It happened on Dean Martin’s show when I was standing in front of dozens of stars. The idea was that I’d rib each of them for three minutes. At the end of the routine, Hope, who was famous for entertaining our troops the world over, slipped into a back seat.

“Bob Hope is here,” I said. “I guess the war is over.”

Of that older generation, I adored Jack Benny. To this day, I love imitating him in front of my friends. When it came to timing, Jack was the master. He used silence the way Picasso used paint. His patented gesture—putting his hand under his chin and slowly turning his head—was the most beautiful movement in all comedy.

I was excited when he came to my show for the first time. It happened at the Sahara. By then, he was getting up in years, but he hadn’t lost any of his charm. He’d never come to my shows, because he didn’t think my humor was his cup of tea. But George Burns, Jack’s dearest friend and a supporter of mine, finally persuaded Jack to see me in person.

After the show at the Sahara, Jack came to my dressing room and said, “Don”—I loved that inflection of his when he said “Don”—“I enjoyed your show. You really surprised me.”

“Relax, Jack. I’ll get you a light.”
Looking on are my pals Ed McMahon and Joey Bishop.

“Gee, Jack,” I said, “coming from you, that’s about the nicest compliment of my life. Will you join me and Barbara for dinner?”

“I’d love to.”

We took him to the House of Lords, the hotel’s finest restaurant.

“Jack,” I said, “it’s a real pleasure. Order whatever you like.”

I ordered a vodka martini.

Barbara ordered a vodka martini with a lemon twist.

Jack asked for a glass of water.

“That’s it?” I asked him.

“That’s it.”

For dinner, I ordered the veal Milanese.

Barbara ordered the filet mignon.

With his stop-and-start deadpan delivery, Jack said, “I’ll have…two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And one slice of toast.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” Jack answered.

Dessert: chocolate soufflé for me; tiramisu for Barbara.

For Jack?

Hot tea. With lemon.

“Look, Don,” he said, “you and Barbara have been most gracious, and this place is delightful. I don’t want to disappoint you, but nothing makes me happier than two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And a slice of toast.”

At that moment—don’t ask me why—I loved Jack Benny even more.

T
hat’s who I am.

That’s who I’ll always be.

So when a kid from the neighborhood learns he’s going to the White House, he’s excited.

Doesn’t matter who the President is—the President could be a peanut farmer—but the kid’s still excited.

In fact, the President
was
a peanut farmer. Jimmy Carter was the man, and me, Barbara and our kids were off to Washington to meet him. Bob Newhart had arranged it, and it was going to be a family affair. He was bringing Ginnie and their kids. We were all thrilled.

“Be low-key,” Bob kept telling me. “This is the White House.”

“Hey, Bob, I know the difference between the White House and the White Castle, where they give you a bag of burgers for a buck.”

When we arrived, we were greeted by Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security adviser to the President.

“The President is looking forward to meeting you all,” said Mr. Brzezinski.

As we walked down toward the Oval Office, several officials stopped us.

“The President is waiting to meet you,” they said.

We bumped into Vice President Walter Mondale. “I understand you’re going to meet the President,” he said.

When we got to the Oval Office, Carter’s secretary was there to meet us.

“I’m afraid the President just stepped out,” she said. “He should be right back. Would you like to take a look in his office?”

Sure.

We stepped inside. It looked just the way it looks in the movies. Not a scrap of paper on his desk. On the back of the big swivel chair behind his desk was a grey cardigan sweater.

“That’s his sweater,” said the secretary.

Bob looked at me.

I looked at Bob.

The President’s sweater wasn’t all that thrilling.

“Will the President be back shortly?” we asked.

“He should,” said the secretary. “He’d like to say hello to all of you.”

We waited for a minute or two, but no President. Outside the Oval Office, we waited a little while longer. No President.

“Where is he, ma’am?” I asked.

“He heard you were coming,” said Bob, “and he must have gotten nervous and left.”

Back in Los Angeles, everyone asked me, “Did you meet the President?”

“No,” I said, “but I made friends with his sweater.”

“Bob and Bruce, how do I know if your albums will sell?”