Rickles' Book Read online

  Also by David Ritz

  BIOGRAPHY

  Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye

  Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Brother Ray (with Ray Charles)

  Inside My Life (with Smokey Robinson)

  The Rhythm and the Blues (with Jerry Wexler)

  Rage to Survive (with Etta James)

  Blues All Around Me (with B.B. King)

  Guide to Life (with Sinbad)

  From These Roots (with Aretha Franklin)

  The Brothers (with the Neville Brothers)

  Reach (with Laila Ali)

  Guillaume (with Robert Guillaume)

  Howling at the Moon (with Walter Yetnikoff)

  Elvis by the Presleys (editor)

  Messengers: Portraits of African American Ministers

  What I Know For Sure (with Travis Smiley)

  NOVELS

  Search for Happiness

  The Man Who Brought the Dodgers Back to Brooklyn

  Dreams

  Blue Notes Under a Green Felt Hat

  Barbells and Saxophones

  Family Blood

  Passion Flowers

  Sanctified Blues (with Mable John)

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2007 by Wynnefield Productions, Inc.

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Joseph Rutt

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rickles, Don.

  Rickles’ book / Don Rickles with David Ritz.

  p. cm.

  1. Rickles, Don. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. 3. Comedians—United States—Biography. I. Ritz, David. II. Title.

  PN2287.R53A3 2007

  792.702’8092—dc22 2006038948

  ISBN: 1-4165-3983-2

  ISBN: 9781416539834

  All photgraphs from the collection of the author.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  FOR MY BARBARA

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks from Rickles to:

  My wonderful children, Mindy and Larry, my grandsons Ethan and Harrison, and my son-in-law, Ed.

  Eliot Weisman, loyal friend and world���s best manager. He had to be. He managed Sinatra. Eliot, thanks for being there when I needed you. That’s something I’ll never forget.

  Bill Braunstein, my business manager forever. He inherited the job from his dad, Jerry. Bill keeps our bills straight, and we’re grateful.

  Tony O, exceptional road manager. Man of quiet authority and great skill. He loves telling everyone that I’m a show-business legend. And I respect him because he never lies.

  Joe Mele, my musical conductor, who taught me tempo and was crazy enough to convince me I could sing.

  Paul Shefrin, my publicist. He inherited the job from his dad, Gene. Thanks for keeping my name alive all these years.

  David Rosenthal, thanks for approaching me and Eliot with this book idea. And thanks for setting up a great relationship between David Ritz and me.

  David Ritz, a true partner.

  Mel Berger, thanks.

  Thanks from Ritz to:

  Emperor Don Rickles, David Rosenthal and David Vigliano.

  Roberta, Alison, Jessica, Henry, James, Jim, Pops, Charlotte Pearl, Alden, Elizabeth, Esther, my beautiful nieces and nephews. Alan Eisenstock, Harry Weinger, Richard Freed, Richard Cohen.

  Two guys meet on the street.

  “You read Rickles’ Book?” asks the first guy.

  “What’s the title?” asks the second.

  “Rickles’ Book.”

  “You told me. But what does he call it?”

  “He calls it Rickles’ Book.”

  “Why?”

  “He couldn’t think of a title—that’s why.”

  We start out in the fifties in Vegas.

  It was a different Vegas back then. Men wore suits and ties. Women wore gowns. I was desperate for any kind of female—a dog, a horse, anything.

  I hadn’t hit it big, but I was getting by. I was single and in heat, and scoring with the girls wasn’t my greatest talent. On this particular night, I managed to convince some young lady to join me for dinner. She was no Gina Lollobrigida, but she was alive. If I couldn’t score this time, I was ready to put Spider in the rest home. (You can guess who Spider is.)

  This young lady was wearing a pink dress covered with dead flowers, but she had a set of lamps on her that could light up highway traffic.

  I took her out for dinner, then drinks afterward.

  “Can we go to the Sands?” she asked.

  “Where else?” I said.

  The Sands was swanky, the hottest spot in town. Frank Sinatra was headlining at the Sands. In those days, the place had strolling violinists and hors d’oeuvres in the lounge. We sat in a corner and I ordered champagne. (You can bet it wasn’t Dom Perignon.) You could hear the clinking of glasses. You could see this was class. My date could see that Sinatra and his entourage had just arrived and were seated in a roped-off section.

  “My God,” she said. “There’s Frank Sinatra! Do you know him?”

  “Do I know him? We’re like brothers.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Wait here, hon,” I said, trying to sound suave. “I’ll be right back.”

  I got up and approached Frank’s party. He was with Dinah Shore and some other celebrities. His security boys took one look at me and turned to the boss. “It’s Rickles,” they said.

  Frank was hitting his favorite, Jack Daniels, pretty good.

  “Bullethead!” said Frank. That was his term of endearment for me. “Bullethead,” he repeated, “how you doing?”

  “Can I talk to you for a second, Frank?”

  “Sure.”

  I leaned over and whispered, “Frank, I need your help. I’m with this gal and I could impress her big-time if you’d come over and just say, ‘Hello, Don.’ That’s it, Frank. Two words, ‘Hello, Don,’ and everything will be beautiful.”

  “For you, Bullethead, I’ll do it.”

  “Gee, thanks, Frank, you’re a pal.”

  I walked back to the table and, filled with confidence, raised my glass of champagne to toast the lady. “You are something special,” I told her. “You have real class.” I thought she bought it.

  Meanwhile, I was praying, God, let this thing happen.

  It didn’t happen right away. A minute passed. Then five. Then ten. My heart was beating fast. My right leg was vibrating. Finally, Frank got up and made his move. Slowly he walked over to our table.

  My date was beaming. I was beaming. Frank was beaming.

  “Don,” he said. “How the hell are you?”

  I took a deep breath, counted off a beat, turned to him and, in my loudest voice, said, “NOT NOW, FRANK—CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WITH SOMEBODY!”

  The violins stopped.

  The clinking glasses stopped.

  Everyone stopped talking.

  Everyone stared at us.

  Time stopped.

  And then, God bless him, Frank fell down laughing.

  Two minutes later, two security guards and a couple of Frank’s pals came over, picked me up, and carried me over their heads and out of the Sands.

  I never saw the gal again.

  Frank thought that was a riot, and I went home and made love to my pillow.

  The kid from Jackson Heights.

 
All Heart

  Jackson Heights, Queens, was no special place, but my dad, Max, was a special guy. Here’s the kind of guy he was: If he was your friend and came over to your house and your wife was in a housecoat, he could hug her and you wouldn’t think twice. There was nothing distasteful about Max S. Rickles. (I never knew what the “S.” stood for, and neither did he.) Everyone loved my dad. The man was all heart.

  Best of all, he laughed at my humor.

  He was an insurance salesman who provided for my mother and me, the only child. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. We just were. We lived in a plain apartment like a million other apartments you see in New York City’s five boroughs.

  Dad had a lighthearted attitude about life. He took it the way it came. He was the guy who taught me all I know about car repairs: Pay someone to do it for you.

  We’d be sitting in our tired old Ford, the engine dead as a doornail. Dad would see someone he knew from our building.

  “Charlie,” he’d say, “here’s a couple of bucks. Make the car start.”

  He also taught me all I know about home repairs.

  Here’s how that worked:

  Mom wants to hang a picture.

  Max offers the janitor, the mailman—anyone who’s around—a couple of bucks to bang a nail in the wall. No one ever takes the money—they like Max too much—except the janitor, who’s mad because he has to live in the basement.

  Max Rickles was a giving sort of man, but sometimes giving isn’t as simple as it seems. I’ll give examples:

  We belonged to a little Orthodox synagogue in Jackson Heights, where Dad was an important member. Once he was even president of the congregation. He loved the congregation and fussed over its finances. It was not a wealthy group and the building required maintenance. On the High Holy Days, Dad would escort me and my cousin Allen, who later became a fine doctor, to prime seats near the altar. It turned out to be a land-lease deal. Ten minutes before the start of services, Dad would move us ten rows back. Five minutes later, he’d say, “Okay, guys! Find seats in the back.”

  It turned out my father was selling tickets to services like a scalper at a ballgame. He was shuffling around the worshipers and moving some of the higher-donation members to better seats. The proceeds went directly to God.

  In this same small synagogue, my lighthearted father was the only one who could deal with the weighty matter of death. When everyone was hysterically crying, Dad would quietly take care of everything. He’d line up the limousines and make the cemetery arrangements. The bereaved families loved him. Dad was able to deal with death. It never frightened him or threw him off track.

  Speaking of the track, that was Dad’s one vice. But it wasn’t the kind of vice that did him in. He bet cautiously—two dollars here, two dollars there. He loved the horses. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than winning ten bucks at Belmont.

  He also loved many of the customers he sold insurance to. In fact, when they couldn’t cover their insurance payments, he’d often do it for them. He wrote their names in his debit book and carried them on his back. When Dad died of a heart attack in 1953, those same customers came to his funeral and put a box next to his grave where they paid off those debits. That’s how much they respected my dad.

  By sheer coincidence, his grave site in Elmont, New York, faces the finish line at Belmont. How’s that for God’s help?

  General Patton

  When I was a little kid, being around my mother made me self-conscious. I loved her dearly, but the woman was definitely more commanding in her attitude than most. Etta Rickles had to be the most confident woman in Jackson Heights.

  I remember one afternoon when she took me to Radio City Music Hall. As soon as we got on the subway, she announced in her most powerful manner, “We’re getting off at Fiftieth Street!” I immediately felt everyone staring at us.

  “Mom,” I said, “talk softer.”

  “What softer?” she said in an even stronger voice. “Stop being so self-conscious.”

  We arrived at Radio City on this particular Sunday to find a line that went around the block. I had started to walk to the end of the line when Mom stopped me.

  “Where we going?” I asked.

  “Follow me,” she answered, taking my hand and marching us to the box office.

  “Who is that woman?” I heard someone whisper.

  “Is she important?” someone else said.

  “I’m Mrs. Rickles,” she told the lady in the box office. “And I must see the manager.”

  “What do you want with the manager?”

  “It is urgent business,” said Mom, “strictly between me and the manager.”

  Five minutes later the manager appeared.

  “Yes, madam, how can I help you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Rickles,” she announced, “and one day my son, Don, here will be a fine entertainer.” When she said that, I hid further behind her.

  “We’re loyal patrons of this theater,” she continued. “And we’ve been waiting a very long time and we deserve to be seated now.”

  Mom wasn’t mean about it. Her tone was never abrasive. It was simply strong. She was General Patton giving orders. Your reaction was to obey her. And that’s just what the manager did. He personally found us two seats, tenth row center. We watched the Rockettes and then a Ginger Rogers–Fred Astaire movie.

  On the way back to Jackson Heights, Mom told me her opinion of the movie, but it seemed to me like she was telling everyone in our subway car.

  “It was so glamorous!” she announced. “It was wonderful!”

  I wanted to do a magic act and disappear.

  Back home, she called her sister, Frieda, to tell her about our adventure. Mom and Aunt Frieda loved each other, but they never stopped arguing. After their conversations, Mom would cry and say, “Why do I argue with my sister when I love her so much?” And the next night the arguing went to level two.

  Don the Scholar

  High school studies were always a problem. I couldn’t concentrate on the books. The words “You failed” haunted me like a bad dream. One particular test put me in sugar shock: math.

  I hated math. During this exam, I was absolutely lost. So I turned myself into a periscope and aimed my lens one aisle over. I focused on the smartest girl in the class. I was so focused I didn’t noticed the monitor monitoring me. He gave me a look that would have given anyone a nervous breakdown. In a stern voice, he said, “You, what are you doing?”

  “What am I doing? I’m cheating,” I said.

  Dead silence followed. Some of the kids were proud of me; others felt I needed therapy.

  Failure was still my best friend.

  Nonetheless, young Don Rickles found a way to keep the applause going. He hung in there, became president of the Dramatic Society, but turned out to be a lousy Julius Caesar.

  Don the Lover

  The truth is that I had a hard time getting the girls. That’s because most of the girls were afraid of me and my big mouth. God forbid, if they’d let me get to second base, they worried I’d announce it to Congress.

  When I was in my twenties, every weekend me and my pals—Sy and my cousin Jerry—would go to a dance at the Forest Hills Social Hall. This was the forties and the big bands were in their hey-day and kids were jitterbugging to Benny Goodman.

  When we arrived at the social hall, crowded with maybe two hundred kids, “Sing! Sing! Sing!” was playing over the loudspeakers. A few couples were jitterbugging, but mostly the girls were just standing around. Some were built pretty good. We wanted to strike up a conversation, but this was the awkward age; no one knew what the hell to say. So we took a drink of VO and ginger ale (known today as diabetes). We wandered around the room, trying not to stare at the girls. But Spider was eager. Spider was dying for action.

  “Come on, Don,” urged one of my pals. “Do something funny. Try to get things going.”

  I figured, okay, let’s go out in a blaze of glory.

  So I stood up on a cha
ir and, right in front of the whole social hall, in a booming voice I shouted, “WE’RE LEAVING!”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing.

  We left the gym. Two girls were so astounded by the announcement that they followed us outside.

  That was one for cousin Jerry, one for Sy, and nothing for me and Spider.

  The comedy game was not paying off.

  But Rickles marched on.

  Rickles Wins the War

  World War II.

  I was eighteen and available. My father said, ��Enlist in the Navy.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s cleaner than the Army. In the Army, you’ll be rolling around in mud.”

  Mud didn’t sound good, so I went with Dad’s advice. In those days, they gave you a pass to graduate. They called it a war diploma. Good thing, because without a war diploma I’d still be in high school.

  Everyone was patriotic. I was patriotic, but I had a plan. I was an entertainer. Didn’t matter that the only people I was entertaining were my friends. I’m telling you, I was an entertainer.

  With Dad leading the way, I took the subway down to Grand Central Station, where there was a Navy recruiting center at the time.

  The doctor took my blood pressure. By the look on his face, I knew something was wrong.

  Seaman first class and his dad, Max, March 1943.

  “Son,” he asked, “you feeling okay?”

  “Feeling fine, sir.”

  He took my blood pressure again. The needle went crazy. I looked at the doctor’s expression and figured death was around the corner.

  “Lie down, young man,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The needle started dancing all over my arm—and there was no music.

  “You’re staying overnight, son,” he said.

  No one stayed overnight at the recruiting center—except me.