In Such Good Company, page 6
The Charwoman
In 1962, one of the top-selling instrumental recordings was “The Stripper,” which was composed by David Rose. It had a definite jazz influence, with especially prominent trombone lines, and felt just like the music that was often used to accompany striptease artists. I remember listening to it on the radio, and hearing the disc jockey say that since its release, it had turned out to be “a favorite of housewives across the country.” I visualized a woman with a broom, listening to the sexy music as she did bumps and grinds across the kitchen floor, sweeping up crumbs from breakfast.
I was preparing to do a special for CBS called Carol and Company, with the wonderful Robert Preston, who was the Tony-winning star of The Music Man, a smash hit on Broadway. I was going to do an opening number, written by Ken Welch, about my childhood and how I was always “Nelson” to my beautiful cousin’s “Jeanette,” which featured me as a thrilled Jeanette surrounded by twenty gorgeous mounted policemen as a bunch of Nelsons. Robert and I would sing a duet next, and then do a sketch. And he would do a special material solo singing about all the death scenes he played in the movies he had made.
And then I would do a final solo.
The Charwoman never spoke or had a name.
I thought about “The Stripper,” and came up with the idea of putting a charwoman on the empty stage of a burlesque house after hours. She enters with a mop and a bucket and starts to mop the stage, when out of nowhere she hears a drum. The drum begins to catch her every move, much to her delight, and as she peels off one of her work gloves, we hear a slide trombone that introduces “The Stripper” song in all its glory. The charwoman morphs into her version of Gypsy Rose Lee and bumps and grinds, pretending to strip when all she actually removes is her mop cap and ratty sweater. The number ends as she skips into the wings. She then returns and, finding herself all alone again, sits on the bucket and sings a sad song, “Nobody.”
I didn’t realize at the time that the Charwoman would become somewhat of an icon. She caught on with the viewers, and later when we started my variety show, she was the cartoon figure in our opening credits. Often during the season, she would appear in a pantomime, always winding up sitting on the bucket and singing the blues. At the end of every season, I would do a Charwoman bit and then sit on the bucket and sing the entire version of “I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together.”
In looking back, there were some Charwoman pantomime bits that weren’t up to par, premise-wise. She would enter a scene, do a little dusting here and there, and then sit on the bucket and sing for no particular reason.
She never spoke. Only sang. I never gave her a name. I don’t know why. I just never did.
“Carol and Sis”
We decided we would feature a sort of “mini-sitcom,” every so often during the season, in the way Jackie Gleason introduced “The Honeymooners” on his hour-long variety show. The only slight difference was that “The Honeymooners” was brilliant, something you couldn’t accuse “Carol and Sis” of being. Some of these sketches were amusing, but this concept wasn’t a particular favorite of mine.
We used my real first name and my real kid sister’s name. Harvey became Roger Bradford. Carol and Roger Bradford along with Carol’s kid sister, Chris, played by Vicki, live in a modest home in “Anywhere, USA.” He works for a “Company” (we never really identified his job) and Carol is a housewife. The set consisted of a living room, a kitchen with a swinging door and stairs leading to offstage bedrooms, bathroom, etc. Close to the kitchen, in a corner of the living room, sat a tall potted plant. Lots of times, when we were stuck for an ending, we’d finish with one of us barreling out of the kitchen and slamming into another one of us on the other side of the door, sending that person sailing into the potted plant. It was a total cop-out, but it always got a laugh.
Vicki (as Chris) was often in the first few minutes of the sketch and then she’d leave the scene, usually to go over to her friend Marcia’s house. She was still pretty wet behind the ears, and we were careful not to throw too much at her. After a few months, CBS suggested that we let Vicki go; they didn’t feel that she was contributing anything to the show. We said no, and to their credit, the network backed off. Harvey was terrific with her and gave her a lot of tips on such things as how to “make props your friends,” and how to listen to the other actors and not just wait for your cue to speak, etc. She was like a sponge. She got it. We slowly started giving her other roles in other sketches, and when we did, she blossomed.
Eventually, around the eighth season, “Carol and Sis” faded into the ether for good.
George and Zelda
These characters were born out of a short takeoff Harvey and I did on the movie A Place in the Sun. We were in a rowboat on a lake (like the scene featuring Montgomery Clift and Shelley Winters). I play Zelda, who is nagging poor George in a kvetching, high-pitched nasal voice that defies description. The camera (from George’s point of view) keeps zooming in closer and closer on my mouth, whining and whining, until it practically fills the whole picture. George winds up jumping in the lake to get away from me.
We decided to do more with these characters because we enjoyed doing them so much. There was one sketch where poor George is on death row, and Zelda pays him a final visit. Ignoring the fact that he’s a goner come dawn, she whines on and on and on about the bumpy bus ride and the fumes that made her sick to her stomach. She asks George to ring for room service to bring her an aspirin. George, at his wit’s end, says, “There’s no room service!” How she can be so heartless! He’s going to die!
When a guard comes in to ask George what he’d like for his last meal, a miffed Zelda says, “I thought you said there was no room service!”
I loved doing Zelda at first, but then I made the mistake of trying to “improve” the character, a common error some actors make, and unfortunately I was one of them in this case. I kept adding to her unattractiveness by going way over the top with the nagging whine, so much so that I almost gave myself a headache. After several of these sketches, Zelda bit the dust.
“The Old Folks”
Harvey’s character kept trying to get lucky.
The set is a front porch featuring two rocking chairs. Harvey and I, as Bert and Molly (probably in their late eighties), always entered from a screen door, heading for the rockers. They would sit and rock and usually talk about their age and sex. Bert was an old geezer, always wanting to get it on, and Molly was forever putting him down.
He’s bragging about a new pretty young nurse in his doctor’s office in one sketch and this miffs Molly, of course, who turns away from him.
BERT: “Oh, c’mon, Molly, don’t be jealous. I find you mighty attractive!”
He puts his hand on her knee.
BERT: “Does that remind you of anything?”
MOLLY: (Thinking it over) “Atheism.”
BERT: (Confused) “Why?”
MOLLY: “You haven’t got a prayer.”
Bert is reading the travel section in the newspaper.
BERT: “Say, why don’t we go on vacation?”
MOLLY: “Oh, that’d be nice. Y’know, I’ve always wanted to see them pyramids in Egypt.”
BERT: “Naw, I saw ’em once when I was a kid.”
MOLLY: “Yeah, but they’re finished now.”
BERT: (Hot to trot) “I’ll get into my pajamas, an’ we’ll watch some television, an’ I’ll hold your hand, an’ then maybe…” (Chuckles) “who knows?”
MOLLY: “That’s my favorite program.”
BERT: “What is?”
MOLLY: (Sizing him up and down) “Mission: Impossible!”
We got some mail from senior citizens who thought Bert and Molly were too risqué, but the majority of them got a kick out of “The Old Folks” and liked the fact that these characters could kid around like that.
Sample letter: “Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there’s no furnace in the basement!”
(I think he was quoting an old joke, but the sentiment was there.)
“As the Stomach Turns”
These sketches were an homage to daytime soap operas, and they were over-the-top fun to do. They were also an audience favorite, so we wound up doing around thirty of them. The setting was always Marian’s living room in the fictional town of Canoga Falls, and I always played Marian, single and forever horny. Marian continually talks to the camera to give her interpretation of the plot. Often, the offstage organ music drowns her out, and she always shoots the offender dirty looks. In Marian’s life, there are constant problems to deal with, much to her delight. The sketches would end with a voice-over announcer posing silly questions about the future fates of the characters while the camera panned to each actor for a facial response.
The first time we did one of these sketches was February 12, 1968, and our guests were Betty Grable and Martha Raye. In it, Betty is the Town Amnesiac, who finally remembers that she gave birth to a child many years ago.
“I had a beautiful baby girl!”
Marian corrects her. “No, dear, you had a son. You just dressed him funny.”
Betty Grable and I socialize with Martha Raye and Lyle in Marian’s living room (the very first “As the Stomach Turns”).
Lyle enters with his fiancée, the Town Rich Lady, played by Martha. He turns out to be Betty’s long-lost son. We learn that Betty’s amnesia was a result of Martha’s pushing her over the “Canoga Falls falls,” only because: “You were a little prettier and a little younger.”
Betty, consoling her, responds, “That’s not true, dear…I was a lot prettier.” Betty had great comedic timing, and Martha was absolutely hysterical as the rich lady, causing Betty, at times, to try to stifle a laugh. Vicki was always Marian’s long-lost daughter, turning up each time as a different character and always with a baby, which she left with Marian (who would usually deposit the infant in the umbrella stand).
In one bit: Vicki enters, with a baby in her arms, as Marian’s long-lost daughter who ran away to join the circus. Handing the infant to Marian, she tells her the father was the “Half-Man, Half-Woman.” Marian asks the baby’s name. “Irving Elizabeth,” Vicki says. She tells her mother that she has a new boyfriend who is the sword swallower, but they won’t get married because “He’s stuck on himself.” (Rim shot from the drums.) Harvey and Lyle would be various characters, and the guest stars would be Marian’s acquaintances who always had dire problems.
The first time I saw Harvey in drag. I am desperately trying to hold it together!
The first time Harvey did Mother Marcus was in one of these sketches. I hadn’t seen him in the character’s costume until the dress rehearsal; the same went for the crew. As Marian, I got up to answer the doorbell, and there is Harvey in full drag, padded to the hilt with humongous boobs. He was in a flowered dress, a gray wig, hose, and heels, and holding a pocketbook. He was wearing lipstick and rouge. The audience screamed for about a minute. Looking at him, I tried to keep it together, but I wound up slamming the door while he was standing in the doorjamb. When I opened it again, he had a hurt look on his face and his hands were cradling his boobs.
Speaking of Martha Raye…
Tuesday, February 17, 1959, was a very important day for me. The previous Sunday afternoon, I had received an urgent call from the producers of The Garry Moore Show saying that Martha Raye, who was to have been the guest that week, couldn’t do the show because she had come down with a bad case of bronchitis, and could I come over to the rehearsal hall right away and learn her sketches and songs and fill in for her when the show went on the air—live—on Tuesday night. Could I?! (I had appeared on Garry’s morning TV show several times, and Garry had enough faith in me to give me this break.) I got to the rehearsal hall as fast as I could, and tried my best to learn everything that had been written for Martha. The following Tuesday night was like a dream. I had been well rehearsed, had learned everything, and was lovingly supported by Garry, Durward Kirby, Marion Lorne, and the entire staff. During the bows, Garry told the studio audience all about how I was filling in for the ailing Martha, and there was a standing ovation. All I could do was blubber. As I was leaving to go home, there was a bouquet of one dozen red roses waiting for me at the stage door guard’s desk. They were from Martha, who was also calling me on the backstage phone. “Hey, kiddo, you were terrific!”
A side note: In 1956, I got a job as an extra in a sketch on The Martha Raye Show. I had no lines. Another extra and I were a couple in a Tunnel of Love boat. The joke was that Martha was the only one in the boat without a partner. I remember laughing at her outrageous antics during rehearsals, never dreaming that she would be the reason for my big break in television three years later…or that she would eventually be a frequent guest on my own variety show. She was a very special lady.
The Queen
When you saw me, I was dressed to look like Queen Elizabeth, even though we referred to Harvey’s character as the King and there was no King of England. Obviously, we were not trying to be historically correct, but the audience loved seeing me as Elizabeth and howled. Tim’s character was known as the Hollow Hero, earning that moniker because he had saved his whole platoon by swallowing a live hand grenade, leaving the poor lad with no internal organs! The Queen proves it by opening his mouth and saying, “Hello,” which results in a loud echo…“Hell-ooo-ooo-ooo!”
In these sketches, the King and Queen are constantly frustrated by Tim’s character, who is not the least bit impressed with royalty and can be downright rude. Harvey and I did English accents, and Tim opted to sound like he came from the Midwest. Actually, my English accent was highly exaggerated, while Harvey’s was dead-on.
In one sketch, as a Buckingham Palace guard, armed with a rifle, Tim refuses to let the Queen and King enter unless they can give him the correct password.
“But young man, I am your Queen.”
Looking carefully at his notes, he says, “That’s not it.”
The King appeals to him: “Young man, the Queen has to get to the throne.”
No dice.
The King tries to bribe the Private with a nice shiny new shilling. He’ll have none of it. “Stick it in your ear.”
The King says, “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘Stick it in your ear.’ ”
The Queen beckons to the King. “Pssst! What did he say?” The King answers, “He said stick it in my ear.” There’s a pause while she thinks for a moment. She then says, matter-of-factly, “Don’t do it.”
We are amused, but we can’t show it!
When the Queen asks the Hollow Hero what he does want, he says, “A popsicle.”
“A what?”
“A popsicle. You know, a frozen thing on a stick…Jeez.”
The King beckons to the Queen. “What did he say?”
She repeats the odd request. “He said he wants a popsicle.”
“A what?”
“A popsicle. You know, a frozen thing on a stick…Jeez.”
The Private finally says he’ll settle for an ice cream cone. The Royal Couple are quite relieved when an ice cream truck just happens to pull up. The Queen asks the Private what flavor he’d like.
“Buffalo.”
The Queen informs him that there is no such thing as buffalo-flavored ice cream, and he says he’ll settle for a double-decker cone, which pleases the Queen until he adds, “One scoop of antelope sherbet and one scoop of goat hoof ice cream.”
The Queen loses it and screams, “They got VANILLA! They got CHOCOLATE! They even got COCONUT PAPAYA! But there’s no such thing as ANIMAL-FLAVORED ICE CREAM!” (Forcing his mouth open, yelling into it so we hear a loud echo) “YOU HOLLOWED-OUT LITTLE CREEEEEEEP!!!!”
Another sketch had him requesting “A pony.” When he is presented with one, he says he doesn’t want it.
“But why?”
“I want a blue one.”
In each sketch we did, Private Newbury thwarted the Queen at every turn with ridiculous requests, and the Queen always wound up having a hissy fit and calling him a “hollowed-out little creep!” These sketches were as funny as they were ridiculous. Because of my resemblance to Queen Elizabeth, people in Canada and Australia weighed in with opposite opinions. I’m not sure anymore which country got a kick out of these sketches and which country was “not amused.”
Stella Toddler
Cary Grant once told me that Stella Toddler was one of his favorite characters on our show. She was also one of mine. The first time we introduced her was in the fifth year, and our guests were Tony Randall and Jack Klugman, who had the hit television show The Odd Couple. In the sketch, Stella was a very, very old retired acting teacher who was just this side of the Pearly Gates. The idea for this sketch was to do a takeoff on This Is Your Life, a television show popular in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. It was originally hosted by its producer Ralph Edwards. In the show, the host surprises a guest and proceeds to take them through their life in front of an audience, including special guest appearances by colleagues, friends, and family. In our version, Harvey is the unctuous emcee, who surprises the doddering and very frail ninety-four-year-old famous acting teacher Stella Toddler, who wants to be anywhere else but where she is (and she’s not even sure where that is!).
The unctuous emcee surprises Stella.
