This Time Together Page 10

  The show was called Carol + 2. It was written by the wonderful comedy writer Nat Hiken, and it featured a great musical number for Lucy and me called “Chutzpah” (which brought the TV studio audience to their feet), written by Ken and Mitzie Welch. The other guest was the phenomenal Zero Mostel. He sang “If I Were a Rich Man,” from his great hit show, Fiddler on the Roof. Even in a tuxedo he was totally convincing as his character, Tevye.

  So we did it. No dancers, no singers, just the three of us. Simple, clean, and funny. No hassles, no problems. Except for one thing: it was sponsored by American Motors.

  Okay, let me try to explain this.

  Nat had written a wonderfully funny sketch for Zero and me called “Tenth Anniversary,” in which we were such lowlifes that we made The Honeymooners look like the Kennedys. Zero and I play a couple that has been married for ten years; today is their anniversary, and they can’t stand the sight of each other. They are both slobs, living in a dump, and arguing all the time. In the middle of one of their blowups the phone rings and they learn that the judge who had performed their marriage ceremony ten years ago wasn’t a real judge, soooo … they aren’t legally married! The twist, of course, is that all of a sudden they become sexually attracted to each other—forbidden fruit and all that.

  From there on, the sketch gets wilder and wilder, with Zero’s character chasing my character all over the room, trying to seduce her. She, naturally, loves every moment of it, flirting like crazy and acting as coquettishly as possible. My character’s name in the sketch was Florence.

  I only wish I could put on this page what Zero Mostel did with that name. When his character started to get the hots for Florence, he turned that ordinary name into a three-act play. The sounds he made were astonishing. His voice took the elevator down into his very bowels. “FLO-RENCE! FL-OO-REEN-CE! F-L-O-R-E-N-C-E!” He sounded like a rhinoceros in heat. The dress rehearsal audience went crazy.

  After the dress rehearsal ended, all of us were basking in the audience response. I was in my dressing room getting ready for the air show, with its new audience including the sponsors and their wives, when our associate producer, Bob Wright, knocked on the door and came in with a representative from American Motors. I don’t remember his name. Let’s call him Warren.

  WARREN: Miss Burnett, the show is wonderful. American Motors is very proud to be sponsoring it.

  ME: Thank you so much!

  WARREN: Ah … however, we have to request a slight change in the script before the next show.

  ME: Yes?

  WARREN: In that skit you do with Mr. Mostel …

  ME: Yes? (I’m thinking they might feel we were going a little overboard in the horny department, when we learn we’re not married, and would like us to tone it down.)

  WARREN: I’m afraid you can’t use the name Florence.

  ME: Excuse me?

  WARREN: You see, the head of American Motors, our boss … well, that’s his wife’s name.

  ME: Yes?

  WARREN: Well, in the context of your little skit, it could be taken as offensive. Please use another name.

  ME: But Mr. Mostel has been using that name in our rehearsals for two whole weeks. He has made the audience scream with laughter simply by the way he says it. I can’t ask him to, what, call me Gloria? At this late hour? It could throw him completely! I can’t do that to him!

  WARREN: I’m sorry, but that’s our decision. Above all we don’t want to upset our boss and his wife when they see the show tonight.

  That said, he opened the door and left.

  I think I threw a powder puff across the room. Bob and I just stood there staring at each other. The stupidity of it all was mind-boggling. I said something lame like, “You think Florence, Italy, would sue?”

  Then I got an idea….

  “Bob, let’s find Warren’s boss. I want to talk to him.”

  Bob looked a little nervous. “Are you sure about this?”

  “This is between us. Don’t tell anybody else. Let’s just find him before the show!”

  We located Warren’s boss and had him call the dressing room. I thanked him for returning my call so quickly and launched into my pitch. “I know you and your wife are coming to the show tonight, and I have to let you in on a little secret! Zero Mostel and I are doing a very funny scene, and I thought it would be fun to surprise your wife by using her name for my character!”

  Zero Mostel coming on to Florence in Carol + 2.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  He all but did a tap dance over the phone. I made him promise not to tell his wife. Gleefully he promised, thanked me, and hung up after saying, “Florence will be delighted! What a wonderful surprise!”

  After the show, he and his wife came backstage, and she was beaming as she told us she couldn’t wait to tell all her friends about our using her name in the sketch. I looked around and spotted Warren. He was grinning from ear to ear, nodding like crazy, and looking pleased as punch. I looked over at him and grinned right back.

  A word about Nat Hiken, who wrote that show. He was the comedy genius behind The Phil Silvers Show. When Nat came on board for Carol + 2, he wrote everything for the entire show with the exception of the musical number “Chutzpah,” by the Welches. He conceived and wrote every one of the sketches we did, and they were some of the funniest pieces of material I have ever had the joy of performing. I think Carol + 2 had the smallest staff of any major TV special ever created, before or since. It was unheard of then, and would certainly be unheard of these days. And it turned out swell. Sad to say, Nat died shortly after we did the show. He was a lovely and very funny man.

  And as for Lucy, well … that special was amazing fun, and it wouldn’t have happened without her.

  This happened in January 1967.

  That fall, our show premiered on CBS.

  Dinner with Lucy at the Farmers’ Market

  After the special, Lucy and I were in touch often, and I was thrilled when she asked me to be a guest on Here’s Lucy and The Lucy Show, which came after I Love Lucy. Lucille Ball had a reputation for being tough. There were times on the set when she’d say things to someone on the crew or to the writers that could’ve been considered blunt, to say the least, but she was always right. She never censored her opinions or couched them euphemistically. She called it the way she saw it. If she didn’t like something, she let you know. And if she did like something, she was as complimentary as could be. That’s why the crew and staff loved her. She was honest—and none of the criticism was ever personal.

  In those days, though, it was unheard of for a woman to run a show, let alone to run it “like a man.” All of the greats—Caesar, Berle, Gleason, et cetera—could say whatever they very well pleased, and their reputations remained intact. They were tough, and that was to be expected, but a woman being tough? There was a name for that, and it wasn’t complimentary.

  One of my favorite pictures with Lucy.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Once I had my own variety show, Lucy and I would do tradeoffs. I’d go on one of her shows, and she would guest-star on one of mine. We became close friends. She always sent me flowers on my birthday, and I would always save the card.

  One week when she was on our show, we went across the street to a Chinese restaurant in the Farmers’ Market, before the evening orchestra rehearsal. The two of us slid into a booth, and as we were perusing the menu, she looked at me and said, “Kid, you’re so lucky to have Joe producing your show, running interference, being the bad cop.”

  I agreed with her. It wasn’t in my nature to be the boss. I was a first-class chicken. When I didn’t care for a comedy sketch, I couldn’t come right out and say it wasn’t working. No, I would say to the writers, “Gosh, guys, it’s not your fault, I’m just not doing this right. Can you help me? Maybe come up with a different line or two? I’m really sorry.” Joe would simply say, “This isn’t working. It’s not funny. Fix it.” I could never do that. Those words would stick in my throa
t. So, yes, Lucy was correct in her assessment of how our show was being run.

  “Y’know,” she continued, “when I was married to the Cuban, I never had to worry about a thing. Desi was so damn smart about everything—scripts, cameras, lighting, costuming, you name it. I would simply waltz in on Monday mornings and the cast and I would read a perfect script, all ready for rehearsal. All I had to do was be Lucy. Desi took care of the rest. We made a great team. Plus it didn’t hurt that we were crazy about each other … just like you and Joe. Unfortunately, we split up. But it was great while it lasted.”

  We ordered and then were quiet for a while. She lit up a cigarette. Then she chuckled.

  “Y’know, after Desi and I parted, it was all on my shoulders. I Love Lucy was over. Now I was Lucy in a different format for CBS. I had a great sidekick in Gale Gordon. I had a great time slot. So far so good. All I needed was a great show.”

  She got quiet again. The egg rolls arrived.

  By this time, I wasn’t that hungry; I was waiting for the next installment of Lucy’s story. She put out her cigarette and took a bite of an egg roll. We chewed for a bit, and then she continued.

  “I remember the Monday morning when I went to the studio for our first rehearsal, and TA-DA! Guess what? The script stank. I mean, it STANK! I was thrown but good. I needed to catch my breath, so I suggested that we all take a break and come back after lunch. I sat in my office, trying to figure out what to do, how to handle the situation. Could the Lucy I had always been be able to actually run a show? Would anybody listen to her? I knew I had to turn into Desi, be fearless, or there’d be no show.”

  She paused, then went on. “I got back to the writers’ room after lunch and sat in the big black leather chair at the head of the conference table. Everyone was quiet. You coulda heard a pin drop. I opened up and told them what I thought about the script in no uncertain terms, no pussyfooting around. They got the picture and went back to work in a hurry.”

  She lit another cigarette and smiled. “And that, kid, is when they added the S to the end of my last name.”

  I laughed right through the kumquats.

  I miss her. She died early on the morning of my birthday in 1989, and I got my flowers and the card from her that afternoon.

  Jody and Ray Charles

  Joe and I had three daughters, Carrie, Jody, and Erin. They were all pretty close in age, and pretty much a happy handful.

  Sometime in 1971 we were all at home, watching The Ed Sullivan Show on television. Joe, our three little girls, and I were all piled together on the bed in our room. Ray Charles was introduced on the show and began singing. Jody, who was about four years old at the time, crawled down off the bed, walked over to the TV set, put her little hands on the screen, and kissed Ray Charles’s face. She just stood there and whispered “I love you” to his image.

  Not long after that incident, I walked in on a conversation she was having with a plumber who was working on our kitchen sink, and I heard her say, “Ray Charles is my husband, you know.”

  The plumber smiled. “No kiddin’?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How long you two been married?”

  “Twenty years. He can’t see anything, you know, so I have to lead him everywhere.”

  A couple of years later, Ray was a guest on our show. I told him that Jody, now about six, was probably his biggest fan (along with being his youngest wife). He laughed and asked if she ever came to the taping. I assured him, “Oh, she’ll be here. She wouldn’t miss seeing you for the world.”

  After the show, a few of us were in my dressing room along with the kids. There was a knock on the door, and Ray walked in with his manager. Jody’s eyes turned into Ping-Pong balls.

  Ray stretched out his arms. “Is my little Jody here?”

  I took her hand and led her over to him. “Ray, this is Jody.”

  She was looking up at him adoringly, and he reached down, picked her up, held her in his arms, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Tears rolled down her face as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Ray had a tear or two as well.

  In fact, I don’t think there was a dry eye in the room.

  LEFT TO RIGHT: Carrie, Joe, Jody, me, and baby Erin, 1968.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Erin and Diplomacy

  When you have three young daughters close in age, between four and seven in our case, it’s always an adventure taking them out to a restaurant. We liked living dangerously, so we tried it fairly often. Usually one of the girls would be good and the other two difficult at best: “I don’t want any vegetables!” “She took my butter!” “This is my napkin!” “Mom, Jody’s kicking me under the table!” Sometimes we’d get lucky and two would behave in a somewhat civilized manner, leaving Joe and me to deal with whichever one was destined to be the evening’s handful.

  Our restaurant of choice was a neighborhood Italian family restaurant that catered to kids and early diners. Feeling brave one evening, we piled the girls in the car and headed for calamari-and-cannoli land. We were led to our booth, where seating arrangements were as follows: Carrie, me, Erin, Joe, Jody. Joe and I always put Erin between us because she was the baby. I’m not sure of the logic in that, but that’s what we always did. Menus came and went. Carrie and Jody were actually ordering meals we approved of, and didn’t seem to be itching for a bread fight. So far so good. That left Erin. The waiter took her menu and asked Miss Four-year-old what she’d like for dinner.

  “Nothing, thanks. I’ll just have dessert.” I looked down at her and said what we all expect ourselves as parents to say under these circumstances: “Excuse me, missy, but no dinner, no dessert.” She folded her arms across her chest, stuck out her chin, and said, “Fine.”

  Carrie and Jody were in hog heaven, scarfing down their salads, their veggies, and whatever else was green, thrilled that Erin was in deep doo-doo.

  Time ticked by.

  Erin, arms crossed defiantly, kept sneaking looks at me. If I looked back at her, she’d quickly turn her head away, not wanting to make eye contact. Dinner dragged on. She’d look at me, I’d look at her, and she’d look away. I knew Erin wanted to make up, but she wasn’t willing to make the first move. I just figured I’d let her dangle there and then we’d head for home.

  Dinner was almost over and we were about to ask for the check when Erin looked up at her father and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, Erin.”

  “And I also love your wife.”

  I laughed so hard I let her have dessert.

  My Chum Julie Andrews

  The year was 1961. I was still doubling on The Garry Moore Show and Once upon a Mattress. Julie Andrews was already a full-fledged Broadway star thanks to her performance in My Fair Lady. Now she was playing Queen Guinevere opposite Richard Burton in Camelot.

  We first met when Julie came to see me in Mattress. The night she attended, she was accompanied by her manager, Lew Wilson, and Bob Banner, the producer of The Garry Moore Show. Both men had touted us (separately) to each other, saying, “You two girls will hit it off like crazy! You simply have to meet.”

  Later, long after that evening, after we had hit it off like crazy, we both laughed at the fact that when someone pushes you like that, the natural impulse is to run the other way—an impulse we both felt at that first meeting backstage after the curtain. That first night we had arranged to go to a Chinese restaurant after the show. I shoved my Yorkshire terrier, Bruce, into my tote bag and off we went to Ruby Foo’s.

  Lew and Bob sat across from us. Bruce, in her tote bag, was on the floor between us, every once in a while sticking her nose up and out to sniff at the chop suey. It took Julie and me a good five minutes of sizing each other up before the dam burst. Then we started talking, telling stories, laughing like crazy, and not letting the men get a word in edgewise. As I remember, we wound up closing the place.

  That was the beginning.

  Bob booked Julie as a guest on The Garry Moore Sho
w. Ken Welch, who had been my coach and special material writer for about four years, was a fill-in that week for our musical writer, Ed Scott, who was ailing. I had suggested Ken to Garry, who welcomed him on board. Ken came up with a fabulous finale for Julie and me based on the Broadway show tune “Big D” from The Most Happy Fella. We performed it in cowboy outfits with ten-gallon hats, oversized fuzzy chaps, and boots.

  The number began and off we went! It felt like the two of us had been separated at birth and were rediscovering each other on the playground, having a ball. I’m not sure, but I think it was one of the first times ever that the audience for a weekly television show gave a finale a standing ovation. The place went nuts. Julie and I were thrilled to bits about the reception, and dear Garry was beaming. It felt like an opening night on Broadway.

  That night the idea was born that Julie and I should do a television special together, and that Ken Welch would be one of the creators. Bob Banner took the brainstorm to CBS, with the title Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall.

  CBS didn’t exactly do cartwheels.

  Quote: “Nobody knows Julie Andrews west of New Jersey.” (She hadn’t yet done a movie at this point in time.) “And we see Carol on Garry’s show every week. In other words, what’s so special about this special?”

  Rehearsing for the Carnegie Hall special with Julie.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Over the next few weeks, Bob Banner, Joe, Lew Wilson, and other representatives of ours did their best to convince CBS that they should buy the show. No dice.

  It was a rainy afternoon in New York during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. I was attending an affiliates’ luncheon at CBS, sitting at Garry Moore’s table, along with Mike Dann and Oscar Katz (two of the network’s major players). I was in the mood to kid them about turning up their noses at Julie and me. “Y’know, maybe my chum and I should go over to NBC. At least they have color!” (CBS hadn’t made the leap yet.) They chuckled and changed the subject. I politely kept nudging them, and they politely smiled, ignoring me while polishing off their Bloody Marys.