A FEW MONTHS AGO, after his passing, I wrote about the great Milton Berle and mentioned how Milton had set me up for one of the neatest jobs I ever had, which involved Frank Sinatra. Several of you wrote in afterwards asking to hear that Sinatra story itself, sometime. Well, it is now officially “sometime.”
In 1987, Milton put me on a charity benefit show called “S.H.A.R.E.” I can’t remember what it stands for, but it’s a big, yearly thing in Hollywood that raises a ton of dough for something good. All the movie people who attend dress up in western clothes, that is, fancy western clothes, rhinestone cowboy stuff, and that’s fine, and they all have a good time, and that’s fine, too. As a side note, old-line, traditional benefits like this are sometimes the only places to see great stars like Virginia Mayo, or Caesar Romero, or Greer Garson, or Walter Pidgeon, or Lizbeth Scott, all sorts of folks, lots of whom are still alive and well today and sitting around wondering why no one is trying to learn from them. For the life of me, I don’t know why my business doesn’t regularly honor these beloved people. Wait a minute, of course I know why. Hollywood, like so many of our greatest industries and institutions, is often run by careening egomaniacs, who don’t believe anything of value ever existed before they got their jobs. I was at an audition once and made reference to a scene from “Casablanca,” and one of the producers in the room remarked, quite pleasantly, that he had never seen it. I think his exact words were, “Yeah, gotta catch that one of these days.” To which I replied that being a movie-maker without knowing “Casablanca” by heart was kind of like being a neurosurgeon without having gone to medical school. I don’t believe I got that part. Then again, maybe I did. Hollywood can be just that weird.
So I performed at that benefit, and Nancy Sinatra was there, and she called her dad the next day and said something nice. As I mentioned in the Berle piece, that resulted in a message on my phone machine that floored me, literally, and the day after that I was renting a tuxedo, and the day after that I got on my first plane to Las Vegas to spend a week opening for Frank Sinatra at what was then the Bally Grand Hotel.
As you might imagine, it was a pretty fantastic week, and there are two stories that came out of it I thought you would like to hear. On my arrival, I’m pretty sure I looked like Andy Griffith in “No Time For Sergeants.” But that’s okay. A reserved, Bond-like coolness has never been my strong suit. They were expecting me, and everyone was very nice, and they took me up to my room, and that was, among other things, the first time I had ever seen a huge, circular bathtub, in the center of the room, no less. I think we all have the same reaction approaching a piece of porcelain that big and round. I mean, most likely, no one has ever done anything in those tubs, but we all think, “Boy, I bet I really could do something in that tub.” And, somehow, that’s good enough.
I called my parents, and my dad wanted to know the diameter of the tub, so I paced it off. (Nine feet, I made it. That’s pretty big.) Then someone from the show took me downstairs, backstage. It was three hours before the first show, and never mind “No Time For Sergeants,” my grin surely made Andy Griffith look like George Washington.
I was ushered into my dressing room, which, to this day, would make a very nice apartment for a young family. It had two bathrooms (I made a point of using both, alternatingly, for the week), a bedroom, living room, kitchen, dining room, and dressing area. Each of these spaces was beautifully appointed, but none could hold a candle to the bar, which was stocked, stacked, and racked, and seemed ready to take on the Rat Pack in its prime, or Boris Yeltsin on a slow day. Since I had no entourage, to say the least (I didn’t even have an agent at the time), I hung up the monkey suit and sat down in a wooden chair against the wall, and there I waited ’til show time, knees together, hands folded, like an unpopular girl at a tea dance. Just me and the shiny shoes.
With about a half hour to go, I figured I might as well change. I went into the dressing area, took off my shoes and socks and shirt, dropped my pants, noticed my boxer shorts had a tear . . .
And heard a knock at the door. I stuck my head around the corner into the living room and said, “Yes, come in,” sounding far more like Mr. Haney than I had ever planned to in this life. The door opened, and a very courtly gent, a butler-type, I thought, leaned in, smiled, gestured for me to come over, and disappeared back around the door, leaving it open. I stood blinking at it for a few seconds. When nothing else happened, I shrugged and went over to close it myself. My pants were still around my ankles, but, like all guys, I made the decision not to pick them up and opted, instead, for the half-mile-an-hour Frankenstein-walk. (Ah, men.) It was six of these stutter-steps into the living room, shirtless, barefoot, pants on my feet, underwear torn, when, from around the door, in stepped Frank Sinatra, a big smile on his face, his hand held out to shake.
He was dressed for the show, and if ever a man was made to wear a tuxedo it was he. It seemed poured onto him. I started to pull my pants up, then reconsidered, straightened back up, and held my hand out, too. He clasped it warmly, covered it with his other hand and said, “Larry, I just wanted to say hello. My daughter, Nancy, tells me you’re a funny young man, and I’m glad you’re with us. It’s your first time in Vegas, right?” I said, “Yes, sir,” but I think it came out, “Hargenflergen.” “Well, don’t you worry about a thing. It’s a big room, but the people are always grand, just grand. Don’t rush, do your stuff, and, you’ll see, after a couple of shows you’ll think you’re back home in your favorite nightclub. Okay? We’ll have a drink later and talk about it.” He smiled again, winked, and I’ve still never seen eyes that blue. Then he gave me one of those pinches on the cheek followed by a double pat. “I’ll see you out there, kid.” He turned to leave, still without having said a word about my being, well, naked and crumpled. And then, as he reached the door, without turning around, over his shoulder, he said, “By the way, if that’s in your act, I hope you close with it.”
Pretty cool. The people were, indeed, grand, and I was very happy with my shows, and here’s the second story, because it happened the same way, every show, every night. I was working in front of the curtain. His son, Frank, Jr., was conducting the orchestra that week, and he had my closing cue. And when I finished my last bit, and the audience started to applaud, the curtain would rise, and the band kicked into one of those killer Nelson Riddle arrangements. And with no introduction, on strolled Frank Sinatra from stage left, and the place went nuts. I would exit stage right (I feel like Snagglepuss saying that), but before I got off, with the band vamping, Sinatra said, every show, “Larry, come on back out here. Come here, Larry.” And he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Larry Miller. Funny man. ‘Come fly with me, come fly, we’ll fly away ‘”
And that’s how he went into his first number. Every night. But it gets better. I would exit again and go back around behind the band, the muffled blasts of the brass stings coming through the back curtain. And when I got to the other side, his butler, the guy who had stuck his head into my dressing room, motioned me over to a beautiful table filled with liquor, and he gave me a drink from Frank’s table, Frank’s bottle (Jack Daniels), and then took me over to the stage-left wings where I stood and watched, from about fifteen feet, the greatest saloon-singer in American history.
Just in front of me watching the show, like a rock, stood Jilly Rizzo, the New York restaurateur, Sinatra’s long-time friend. I think he might also have been his manager, but I’m not sure. Jilly turned to me, nodded and winked and raised his glass to me. And we watched the show together. And it took me to the third night to realize something. I leaned in to Jilly and said, “I guess I’m in show business now, huh?” I think you have to be Italian, or just cool, to do what he did then. He swirled the rest of his drink and said, “Absolutely, baby.” Then he knocked it back and held the empty glass out to no one in particular. And someone ran up and filled it.
Sinatra was in magnificent voice those shows. He had to be seventy or so, but he was magical. And his closing song, with just a piano accompaniment, was always the beautiful “One For My Baby.” I think that’s the title, but it’s the one that starts, “Quarter to three . . . No one in the place . . . ‘Cept you and me. So, set ’em up, Joe. I’ve got a little story . . . I think you should know . . .” It’s a great song and ends with him sadly singing, “And another one for the road . . . That long, long . . . It’s so long . . . It’s too long . . .” And he would just walk off with the piano tinkling the end. Great stuff.
No matter what else happens to me in show business, there are certain jobs or moments I will always remember as especially thrilling and particular blessings. The first time on a movie set, staying long after your one line, watching all the pros set up another shot. Watching Garry Marshall rework a scene on the fly. Walking in the stage door of a Broadway theater during the day when you’re about to start rehearsals for a play and looking out at the empty house.
And, to say the least, my week with Frank Sinatra. We had that drink together, although it was in a party in his dressing room with dozens of his friends, and that was fine with me. I didn’t need anything more from him than I was getting onstage, and it was exciting enough to chat with some of the folks there from the hotel, some of the high rollers, and some of the women they were with, who, as you might guess, were so pretty it made your eyes cross. Carson was another one of those moments. The first time Johnny Carson called a young comic over after the six-minute set to sit down on the couch. That one was pretty good.
Of course, that’s another story, too.
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
