The lights are too bright from this height. I picture the glare reflecting off of my glasses, blinding Gene in the prime of his life every time I look up at the ceiling. They’re burning my corneas out day after day. I guess it’s worth it in the long run though. A hundred thousand a year to sit and make jokes about Brett’s plastic pearls outweighs the damage, in my opinion. “Charles, are you almost done writing? We’re all waiting for you.” “Yo Gene, yo.” I cried. As much as I brood about getting my own show, being on Match Game is probably the best time I’ve ever had on TV. Almost 20 years in the business and filling in blanks gets me the biggest kicks. I’ve been on every game show in town, but I keep coming back here. I mean, I take time off to do my theatre business and Ira doesn’t care. Nobody doing sitcoms has that much freedom. It’s not so bad being a “medium-dazzle” star like myself, but you’d never have believed I’d amount to anything if you knew where I’d started. I was born the only child of a Swedish-Lutheran mother and an Irish-Catholic father, who designed outdoor displays for Paramount Pictures back in the Golden Age of film. Being around movie scenery was like second nature to me. My old man was never one to express very much emotion, always finding the answer to all of his problems at the bottom of a bottle. At one time he was talented, very talented, but it all started to go downhill once he was forced to refuse an offer to go out west to Hollywood and work for Walt Disney. It would have been a new start for him, and for me, but my mother refused to move from her roots in the Bronx. She was no picnic either. It seemed like every time I opened I mouth, she’d shout “save it for the stage.” She would throw insults from our apartment window at basically everyone who came down the street. It was like she had ethnic slurs for all races, with the exception of her own. It eventually got so bad, she would have to carry a baseball bat with her whenever she went out of the house. On the flip side, she was good enough take me down to the movies at the Loews Paradise theatre every so often. Every time I would see the big stars on the screen living a life that seemed so alien to me, I would think, "This is a place for you". I suppose living in the Bronx made me tougher in the long run. I’m pretty callous when it comes to insults now, but that certainly wasn’t the case when I was young. During my childhood I was sickly and nearsighted, which obviously didn’t help my being more than a little effeminate. From the age of 7 on, my life at PS52 was filled with constant harassment. I just didn’t like sports like all of the other boys. I hated it when my father would make me go outside and attempt to play stickball. When I came up to bat, there always seemed to be some smart-ass hanging out of the apartment nearby. At just the right moment, they’d holler “Mary’s up!” Honestly, I never wanted to join the army or become a world class boxer. I couldn’t really comprehend why I was so different. Of course, it wouldn’t be until years later that I would fully understand what exactly all of these feelings meant. Anyhow, I distinctly remember this one time when I was in grade 6. I had been standing in the schoolyard after classes were finished. I knew it had been raining because the asphalt was a dark grey and the trees were still dripping with water. This kid had been on my back all day, calling me name after name. I knew he was standing right behind me, most likely debating whether or not to punch me in the back of the head then stomp on my glasses. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Spinning around, I took a hard swing at his face. I was greeted by an uppercut to the nose. While I tried to regain my barring, I looked down towards the ground and noticed the red droplets falling from my face mixing with the muddy water in a puddle at my feet. The boy dashed off down the sidewalk, thinking he’d seriously hurt me. I ran home. I crashed through the doorway, soaking wet, blood gushing from my nose onto the hardwood floor. My mother looked at me with a small amount of disbelief in her eyes. All dad could muster was a slurred “What the hell happened to you, boy? Can’t even hold your own in a God damn fight?” I clamoured upstairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I sobbed until my head hurt as I splashed cold water on my face. I realized that I’d have to look after myself, because obviously no one else would. That was the same year Paramount began using photographed posters. When my father lost his job, his drinking began to get the better of him. He would later be hauled off in a straight jacket, exiting my life forever. I haven’t missed him yet. By the time I was 18, I was studying with Uta Hagen and his following of students at the Herbert Berghof Studio. It was his first class ever, so naturally none of us had any idea if we’d make it into the real world or end up working in a deli back home. My classmates were people like Jack Lemmon, Anne Mearna, Charles Grodin, Fritz Weaver, Gene Hackman, and Jason Robards. We were all horrible. No talent. If I had to watch Hal Holbrook and Steve McQueen do the brothers scene from Death of a Salesman once more, I’d go out of my mind. We weren’t there to act though. We were there to learn. One fellow actor that I did get along with however was a man by the name of Burt Renolyds. He had his own plans to be a Hollywood hero like everyone else, only I had an inkling that he might actually make it. Broad shouldered, good looking enough, nice, plus he could act. What wasn’t to like? I still don’t think he’s even hit his stride yet. No matter how big he gets, I don’t think I’ll be able to think of one of my best friends as a “star”. Friendships like that don’t just change overnight. I wound up getting a job as a night mail boy at the Waldorf-Astoria while I was looking for acting work. I tried to land a role on one of the hour teleplays NBC used to do, but a producer told me that they don’t allow queers on television as soon as I started to read from the script. My hopes were crushed. I mean, acting was the one profession I thought would accept me. Now I was going to be rejected after all this? I mean, I was living in an apartment that basically consisted of a kitchen and a couch, I was hungry, I carried luggage for the rich and ignorant all day, and most of all, I was lonely. I had my share of acquaintances, but no one I could really cling to. No one concrete. I think that was about the time I started to smoke as well. It’s become a rather costly habit, actually. Back then, every time I got turned down I would think how ridiculous it all was. You can’t do what you want because the world hasn’t evolved quick enough to deal with anyone who stands out from the rest. Clearly, I momentarily put television on hold. For a change of pace, I decided to try my hand at theatre. As it turns out, I fell head over heels in love with it. It pulled me in and never let go. Musicals, comedies, dramas, I took any role I could get. One of my first experiences on stage was in the 1960 cast of Bye Bye Birdie. There were low expectations for the show because Gower Champion was a first-time director, the stars were unknown leads, and the book, lyrics, and music were written by men new to Broadway. It turned out to be quite the sleeper hit. Eventually Chita Rivera was replaced by Gretchen Wyler and Dick Van Dyke was replaced by the man I was to understudy for- none other than Gene Rayburn. We became friends immediately, sharing a good sense of humour and a love for our craft. When Birdie’s run ended, I knew that I would see Gene again at some point in time. I wasn’t sure how and I wasn’t sure when, but I knew our paths would cross again. I appeared in larger scale plays after that, like Hello, Dolly!, where I played the ambitious office clerk Cornelius Hackl. That was one experience I did not enjoy at all. Carol Channing wanted to be on the stage by herself most of the time and in the first year they fired 37 people. Sometimes you get a cast that works together so well you’d swear they had been acting together forever and other times you can’t wait until rehearsal’s over. As painful as it was to turn up to work every morning, Hello, Dolly! was the play that got me a penthouse on 5th Ave. In my opinion, you take what you can get. Theatre’s theatre. The unpredictability of it all keeps you coming back. To my surprise, in 1962 I won a Tony Award for my role as Bud Frump in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. It was the biggest achievement of my life. Up to then I’d never received any recognition for my work, and winning a Tony was beyond anything that I’d ever expected. Nowadays people only see the game show panelist, never the actor or the director, but that night I was on top of the world. Nothing else mattered. In my mind I had attained the status that I wanted on the stage, so I was now left to make my mark on the small screen. The 60's had ushered in a different era in TV, as it did for the rest of the world. Casting standards became more lax, and I landed a part in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, playing Claymore Gregg. With my luck I started becoming a fixture on The Tonight Show. I was on so often because I replaced people who got caught in storms. I was never in TV Guide, like an official guest. I lived four minutes away, so was convenient for them to call me up. With the attitude people were adopting in the age of free love and loose morals, it was also getting easier to find a date. For me, it was always more of a challenge to stay in the closet than it was to get out. Around that time I started taking a more “creative” approach towards what I wore. I own shirts in colours that don’t occur in nature. It seemed like everything was larger than life, so it was fairly easy for me to adjust. When the 70's rolled in, I continued my steady stream of random roles here and there. One night I sat down and counted, realizing that I was going to be appearing on game shows 27 times that week. Things were beginning to get a bit redundant for me when I received a call in ‘73. It was another offer to be a panellist on a new game show. At first glance it sounded like the same old shtick. The difference was that my old friend Gene would be hosting. I figured it was worth a try. I remember seeing the set for the first time. Ugly as all hell. Orange shag carpeting wall to wall, accented by the bi-level blue box smack dab in the middle. I had no idea what to expect from my fellow celebrities, or of Gene’s hosting abilities. The game play was absurd to begin with, coupled with the poorest selection of contestants I’d ever seen. I quietly sat down in the third spot, my legs barely fitting under the desk. As the minutes counted down to show time, I noticed an odd woman in huge rose-coloured glasses scrambling down the set and up the stairs to the chair beside me. She smiled at me, placed her Styrofoam cup down, and introduced herself as Brett Somers. “You were all marvellous! Just marvellous! Join us here next time on Match Game PM! Goodbye!” The audience clapped madly as the on-air light flickered off and the theme music blared. They began filing out of the studio in a great, slow moving mob. Brett gave me a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Charles, honey, are you coming? The show’s over, you know? It’s Saturday. Let’s get out of here. Gene’s probably half way there already.” I laughed to myself as I found her glaring down at me like an observant mother hen. I reassure her I’d be ready in a minute, and headed for the dressing rooms. I only grabbed my coat and my wallet. I was wearing my brown velvet suit jacket coupled with a collared shirt adorned with roses underneath, which was classy enough for after work drinking. I tore off the matching tie and my captain’s hat, threw them on the vanity, grabbed an appropriately coloured scarf to tie around my neck, and ran for the parking lot. Brett was waiting beside my car. “You don’t think I’m going to open the door for you, do you?” I yelled as I ran up to driver’s side. She turned her nose up at me jokingly and got in. It was a short drive to the restaurant where some of the panellist would go to relax after the weekend tapings. It was nothing fancy but when we all walked in together, it turned enough heads. The show had become surprisingly big the past two years, so they extended it to a PM version to please the 9-5 working fans. Right now we’re in the race to beat out Hollywood Squares for the top rated daytime spot. It’s insane. I mean, Match Game isn’t a job; it’s a social engagement. In the theatre, they don’t give you anything to eat – and on set there’s a big buffet. The food in television is unbelievable. If I want bourbon, I ask and the prop man, and he brings me bourbon. It’s nice to get recognised in public, even if everyone only knows you by your first name. Brett and I opened the door, immediately being engulfed in the sheer noise of the customers inside. The restaurant was nearly full, people weaving in and out between the rounded tables. Clinking glasses could still be heard over the music playing amongst the clamour. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gene usher us over. I struggled to make my way around a man in a poorly co-ordinated sport jacket outfit, eventually reaching the darkened corner booth. I ordered a scotch and soda. “Did you have trouble finding the place?” a familiar Southern voice chimed from beneath the green stain glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. “Not at all, Fannie. We could see your hair from the parking lot.” Brett sneered. “I’m surprised you were able to make it out of the studio lot smoking like you do, hon. Aren’t you gettin’ tired from the walk from the door? Your old heart can’t take things like that anymore…” Richard chuckled, spilling some of his vodka onto the table. He threw his hand up in the air, signalling the maitre’d. “Waiter! I need another drink. This one’s faulty.” Richard’s one of my favourite people to have at a gathering. We can match wits on and off the set pretty well when it comes to throwing jokes at each other. He’s just one of those actors who’s “on” all of the time. Everyone’s got their issues, but Richard manages to keep them inside when we’re on the air. He’s obviously become the number one charismatic star of Match Game, which puts pressure on him to be a little bit happier and a little cleverer than Brett and myself. I have some understanding of what he’s dealing with, so the hierarchy doesn’t bother me as much as it should. We’ve never been that close, so I don’t know too much about his personal life except that his boys Mark and Gary mean the world to him. “Is it faulty like the other five you’ve probably downed by now, Dickey?” I murmured from behind my glass. “I only started drinking when I saw you walk in, Chuck.” “You mean you weren’t full of liquor when you got to work this morning?” “Like I said, I only start drinking when I see you.” The skinny, hardly-over-15 year old waiter brought Richard his drink, giving the five of us a friendly nod. He stumbled away back to the bar. “Look at that. They should get some qualified help. I have beagles bigger than that boy…” Gene laughed. Gene’s an amazing man. He’s been so good to me over the years. Gene’s the one who holds the show together half of the time. The conductor to our orchestra of insanity. He manages to take a group of excitable contestants, tipsy celebrities, and questions teeming with innuendo, carefully combine them in the right order, then within the span of half an hour churn out a perfectly censor acceptable program. Always the hospitable host, there hasn’t been a span of six months gone by where Gene and Helen have failed to invite us to dinner at their house. “Charles, when are you going away to direct that play of yours?” Fannie prodded, her patented accent stressing the urgency of the question. “Two weeks from now.” Brett answered. “Got your secretary taking memos?” Richard scoffed. “Actually that’s not a bad idea,” I contemplated aloud, “but I don’t know enough people to fill a good sized Rolodex. She’d have nothing to do all day.” I snickered and pulled my pipe out of my pocket. I proceeded to fill it with tobacco and mindlessly blow smoke rings. “Believe it or not, Charles, but I do pay attention to what you say. Your play starts on the 7th, but you’re going a week and a half in advance to make sure everything’s in order. It’s been a month since it’s last run in Boston.” The woman constantly amazes me. I was rather impressed by Brett’s knowledge of my trivial extracurricular activities away from Match Game. I share a lot with her, but I never imagined she actually recalls the details of my life. Out of my many acquaintances, Brett’s probably the person who knows me the best. We just bonded so fast and made this wild connection. She’d do anything for me. I’d do anything for her. From the way we behave like rambunctious teenagers on the show, teasing each other like that, you’d get the impression that the two of us really had a feud going on. It’s all an act. It’s our gimmick to get the audience to pay some well needed attention to the top row. Brett’s honestly the sweetest, kindest, most frank, and goddamn funniest woman I’ve ever met. Adam and David give me the opportunity to be somebody’s Uncle Chuck. I think I see a bit of myself in those kids. They’ve been through enough in their lifetimes, you know? All of the blame is on Jack’s hands. It’s his fault for being a lousy father all of those years. It reminds me of my old man. “Well well. Someone’s been paying attention…” I responded with a thread of disbelief in my voice. “You underestimate me.” Brett smirked, “But then again, you have so few pleasures left in life, deary, that I figured I might as well help you remember the important dates.” “Thank you kindly, nurse. I think I’ll have my medication now.” The night rolled on, the air becoming blue with the swirls of tobacco smoke floating upwards towards the stucco ceiling. We drank and laughed and talked about unimportant things that we would only share with each other during the intimacy of our Friday night gatherings. I had completely forgotten about the time. Somewhere in between the hour when the bartender starts to clean the evening’s stockpile of martini glasses and the time Fannie begins to flirt with the young, green-eyed bus boy, Brett and I had decided to take up our coats. Saying our goodbyes, I held the door open for her as we left the warm haze of the resturant and stepped out into the night. It was a gorgeous night. You could see every star in the sky. “Did you have fun tonight?” I questioned as I put my key in the ignition. “Sure.” “Only sure?” “It’s been a long week. I think it’s finally catching up to me. I’m just looking forward to going home and getting some sleep.” I hesitated to say anymore. I’ve actually come to look forward to the stillness of our periodical drive home. It’s never an awkward silence. I always feel comfortable in a silence when I’m around Brett. “So, you really listen when I talk at you?” I asked quietly. “Of course I do.” “I say a lot during a day. You bother to keep track of it all?” “Believe it or not, I am interested in your personal life.” “There’s not much there to be interested in. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.” I exclaimed while making a right turn. “All you need is a few good friends in this life, Charles.” “You’re a smart lady, you know.” I turned my head to look at her profile as I slowly pulled in front of Brett’s perfectly manicured lawn. All of the lights were off inside the house except for one flickering bulb in the window of the boy’s room. “I’m not just a pretty face.” Brett smiled back. She’s a terribly beautiful woman. God, she’s beautiful. If I were to marry any woman in the entire world it would be Brett Somers. She deserves so much more. It hurts me so much to think of the tears streaming down her face when she told me about Jack. I wanted to kill him. I still want to kill him, but I know that wouldn’t solve anything. Although it sounds selfish, I think the whole ordeal brought us closer together. It made our relationship stronger while her marriage fell apart. She’s unbelievably strong. All I know is that he never deserved her. “The ride ends here, sweetheart.” I motioned outside to the curb. “Thanks a lot. I’m happy you bothered to stop the car before throwing me out.” She laughed. “I’ll see you during the week. Go inside and get some rest.” “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” She winked at me quickly and stepped out of the car. Ever so gracefully she started up the sidewalk towards the front door. I coasted home in the emptiest of mindsets. I didn’t really have anything left to think about. I parked the car on the street, avoided any sort of small talk with the semi-attractive night doorman, rode the elevator as fast as it would go up to the 12th floor, somehow managed to get my key successfully in the door while still having enough brute force in me to make it all the way to my bedroom and collapse. It was the end of the week and my legs were sore, my eyes were burning like you would not believe, I had a guest appearance to do on Monday… But then I stopped and gazed around the room. For a split second it was as if I realized where I was, in this ritzy apartment in an area of town where Hollywood’s elite resided, lying on an absurdly comfortable bed that was paid for by my labour of love. I was actually a success. I had done it. I was at a point in my life where I was really, sincerely happy. And then I remembered. I needed to get my hair done tomorrow. back -- http://www.geocities.com/brett_fficopen </body> </html> <!-- /\ end html -->
