Rickles' Book (14 page)

M
y mother was my heart.

She believed in me from day one. On those days when the world said no, Mom said yes.

Her steady message was, “You’ll get there, Don darling, I know you will.”

She knew what I didn’t. She had certainty when I had doubts.

And talk about strong! Don’t even think about getting in her way.

I remember when Barbara and I first got married, we lived in our own apartment right next to Mom’s. Sometimes a few days would go by and I wouldn’t see my mother. Then I’d come home to find a note under my door:

“What’s the matter,” the note read, “we’re not talking any more?” Signed, “Mom.”

Etta Rickles would have loved to be a performer. Her Sophie Tucker imitation was priceless and, believe me, better than mine.

Etta Rickles, seventy-four years young.

When I was featured on Ralph Edwards’
This Is Your Life
TV show, Mom was living in Miami Beach and couldn’t make it to California. So they had a remote camera on her.

“Don, dear,” she told me in front of the national audience, “I have chopped liver waiting on the table for you, Ralph Edwards and all your friends.”

When Barbara, the kids and I stayed at the Eden Roc, not far from Mom’s condo, we knew that we couldn’t miss early-bird dinner with her, every day, promptly at five. Even as she got older, Etta ruled the roost.

She dyed her hair red. She thought it looked great. I thought it was too red, but I never said anything. I told Barbara, though, “If Mom were seventy-five years younger, she’d look like Orphan Annie.”

In her eighties, my mother’s body began to fail. We visited her often, and her spirit was always positive. If anyone could beat any disease, it was my mother.

Then one night I was performing in Nevada when the call came.

“She’s very ill,” said her doctor. “You better come.”

I arrived at the hospital in Miami Beach, where she had the nurses running in every direction. They adored her, though. Everyone did.

When I entered her room, I was shocked to see a half-dozen tubes attached to her. She looked pale and tired, but she managed a smile when she saw me.

I leaned over and said, “Mom, dear, I’m here.”

“Don, darling. Is it that slow in Vegas?” She took my hand and she gave it a little squeeze. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me something good.”

I told her that my career was doing well, that Barbara and the children were healthy and more beautiful than ever, that we were all blessed to have her in our life.

“Don’t forget me,” she said.

“I think of you every day. And I always will.”

And I always have.

On September 22, 1984, Etta Rickles went home to God.

“What? We’re not honoring Jack Benny?”

J
anuary 1985.

I was with Barbara and the kids in Hawaii when I got paged by the pool.

Sinatra was on the line. “I need you in D.C. day after tomorrow, Bullethead. Bring Barbara. This is the big show.”

“What show, Frank?”

“Reagan’s second inauguration. I’m giving you a featured spot.”

Frank was wonderful that way. He did all kinds of good things for people without the press knowing. He’d do anything for his friends.

Reagan and I had been friends since he was governor. He always got a kick out of me ribbing him on one of those Dean Martin TV roasts.

I was ready. We packed up and flew to Washington, only to learn that Sinatra had to insist that Rickles be on the show.

“Who knows what Rickles is gonna say?” asked one official.

“Anything he says will be funny,” said Frank.

“I’m not sure,” said the official.

“I am,” said Frank. “That’s that.”

Thanks to Frank, I was in.

I wound up in a small dressing room on the ground floor of the convention center where the show was being broadcast on national TV. When Frank found out, he told security, “Get Bullethead up here with me and Dean right now.”

I walked into the fancy dressing room where Dean and Frank gave me big hugs.

“No drinking before the show,” said Frank as he stepped out for a minute.

“No worries, pally,” said Dean, opening his tux jacket to reveal a supply of little airline bottles.

I downed one of them and headed for the stage.

This was not your usual audience. The President and Nancy were sitting only a few feet away.

I thought I’d be introduced by Frank, or Tom Selleck, or Jimmy Stewart. Instead I was introduced by Emmanuel Lewis, the small African-American kid who played Webster on TV.

With a deadpan face, the kid turned to me and said, “Be funny.”

“Great,” I said, “I’m brought out here by the first black man who will never play basketball in the NBA.”

Then I did Rickles:

“I just saw Vice President George Bush out in the lobby, going ‘No one recognizes me. No one knows me.’

“I must tell you, Mr. President,” I added, “it’s a big treat coming out here all the way from California for this kind of money.”

With that, I dropped the microphone on the floor.

When I picked it up, I saw Secretary of State George Shultz sitting in the first row. “Great to see you, sir, but why are you here? Do something. Go over to the Russian embassy and have a bucket of Beluga.”

I spotted Charlton Heston. “If he’s Moses,” I told the audience, “I’m a Mau Mau fighter pilot. Heston, it’s over.”

Then I turned to the President and said, “Is this too fast for you, Ronnie? Please, Mr. President, try not to nap when I’m talking. Why don’t you and Nancy go out to the lobby and practice the waltz. I’ll call you when the show’s over. But really, folks, it’s an honor to be here. Personally, I voted for Herbert Hoover, but I’m still happy to entertain a President who was the best host General Electric ever had.”

O
nce, I saw President Reagan in swim trunks on the beach near our house in Malibu. He was surrounded by a dozen guys in black suits talking into their wrists. I went right up to him. He motioned the security men to let me by.

“Good morning, Don,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asked, motioning to the clear blue sky and pounding waves.

“Gorgeous,” I answered.

“Makes me think back to when I was a lifeguard. Did you know I was a great swimmer, Don?”

“Really?”

“I had a great backstroke and a fantastic crawl.”

Can you imagine? The President of the United States was talking like I was his swimming instructor. All I needed was a whistle and someone to save.

Another time Barbara and I were eating at Chasen’s in Beverly Hills with a group of friends when Nancy and the President came in. They walked over to our table.

“Don, great to see you,” said the President.

“Great to see you, too, Mr. President.”

My friends were really impressed. “My God, Don,” said one, “the President really made a fuss over you. You must be excited.”

“No big deal,” I said as I started to eat and put my fork in my eye.

Reagan wasn’t the only President who liked me. I’m proud to say that George Bush the First was also a fan.

He invited us to the White House for a state dinner. He never even told me to watch my behavior.

Lovely affair. I sat next to Barbara Bush. The President was one table over. Mrs. Bush is a spirited woman. She insisted that I call her Barbara.

“Don,” she said, “I’ve followed your career.”

“Gee, Barbara, I’m flattered.”

“I know you were in that submarine movie with Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable. I know you did some
Twilight Zone
s and some fine television dramas. But there’s one question I’ve always wanted to ask you, Don.”

“By all means, Barbara.”

“Were things so bad that you had to do
Bikini Beach
and
Beach Blanket Bingo?”

Mrs. Bush is something else.

I
don’t care if your name is Hymie Shlosstein, you want to meet the Pope. What else are you going to do in Italy besides eat ravioli and stare at women?

It’s fun meeting movie stars, fun meeting famous athletes, a kick meeting powerful politicians, but the Pope…well, the Pope is Pope.

I wanted to meet the Pope.

My dear friend Carroll O’Connor said he’d arrange it.

“Thanks, pal,” I said as Barbara and I packed our bags and met the Newharts at the airport.

“Carroll set it up,” I told Bob. “We’re in.”

A few days later, we’re escorted through the Vatican. Naturally we’re excited. The guards open a door and I expect to see the Pope at his desk. I see the Pope, but he’s about two football fields away. I need binoculars to make sure it’s him. Between him and us are two thousand people. We’re asked to take a seat.

“Hey, Archie, who told you I was Jewish?”

They’re chanting in Latin, Spanish, Polish and French. The chanting is pretty except I have to go to the bathroom. When I get up, though, a guard says I can’t leave while the people are chanting and the Pope is praying.

“Well, I’m praying that he stops praying soon,” I tell the guard. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m turning blue.”

“How was your visit to the Vatican?” asks Carrroll when I get home to California.

“Beautiful,” I say. “I was as close to him as I am to you.”

“But I’m calling from New York,” says O’Connor.

“That’s the idea.”

I didn’t drop the idea of meeting the Pope. Next trip to Italy, Barbara and I had a guide. Let’s call him Guido. Guido takes us everywhere. He knows everything, all the history, all the people.

“Guido,” I say, “you’re terrific. Is it possible to meet the Pope?”

“Sure, but it’ll cost you.”

Figures. I hand over the money and the next thing I know we’re back in the Vatican.

We walk up to the private entrance where the famous guards with the spears are standing.

“This way,” says Guido. We walk up some stairs leading to the Pope’s private quarters. The door opens and there’s a man in a red robe and a skull cap manufactured by my people.

“He’s a monsignor,” Guido explains.

“I’m honored,” I say. “Is the Pope in residence?”

“I’m afraid not,” says the monsignor.

“May I ask where is he?”

“He’s at his summer home.”

The monsignor is a kind man. He takes us on a tour of the papal quarters. The kitchen is done in four shades of linoleum. But who’s going to question the Pope’s taste?

We go to a room that leads out to the balcony where the Pope blesses the people.

“I can do that,” I say. “If Reagan can play President, I can play Pope.”

I start heading out on the balcony when the monsignor says, “Please, Mr. Rickles, only the Holy Father walks through those doors.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to feed the pigeons.”

He takes me to the Pope’s bedroom and gives me one of his tall hats.

“Thank you so much,” I say, “I’ll cherish this forever, but I’m looking at those crosses in his jewelry box and wondering if he has an extra one for my friend Frank Sinatra.”

The monsignor opens a drawer filled with crosses and hands me one. “This one has been kissed and blessed by the Pope,” he promises.

“Frank will love it.”

Frank does love it.

“He actually handed it to you?” Frank asks when I give him the cross next time I see him.

“One of his guys handed it to me,” I say.

“So you didn’t get to meet the Pope?”

“No, but I got an eight-by-ten glossy of him, saying ‘Love ya,’ Frank. Signed ‘Pope.’ ”