How I Got This Way (10 page)

From that moment forward, in fact, it would become our daily ritual. Like clockwork, every afternoon around three, we would walk from 1313 North Vine Street all the way up to Hollywood Boulevard, then all the way over to Cahuenga, and finally all the way back down again. It took about fifty minutes, and invariably it allowed Joey to clear his mind. And for me, it was one of the greatest pleasures of my entire
Bishop Show
experience: walking and talking with this veteran comedian, soaking up his knowledge and his terrific inside showbiz stories. I’m quite certain that those walks taught me more about the careful construction of telling a funny story—the little intricacies of how to set it up, how to pay it off, and the value of some colorful digressions along the way—than just about anything. Every day I learned something new, including how to be truly gracious to fans and viewers, no matter how irritable a mood you privately might find yourself in. I thought it was remarkable how Joey could overcome an ugly funk and suddenly become a charming prince to whoever greeted him on the street.

Meanwhile, those days marked the official beginnings of what would decades later become known as the Late-Night Wars. Back then it was just us versus the unbeatable Johnny Carson; Merv Griffin would try his luck over at CBS a couple of years later and soon enough fall by the wayside as well. But I’m sure Carson’s New York–based
Tonight Show
staff compared our nightly guest lists and saw that, while Johnny drew his share of celebrities in Manhattan, we had a near-endless choice of Hollywood superstars. A few times a year, Carson would come out to do his show at NBC’s Burbank studios, not far from our home base. Those weeks always gave him an extra boost. We were, of course, never able to catch Johnny in the ratings. He had a five-year jump on Joey, plus the NBC network was much stronger than ABC’s back then—and let’s face it,
The Tonight Show
was already a firmly established American institution, starting with Steve Allen, continuing with Jack Paar, and on through Johnny, who’d become something of a major icon by then, anyway.

Still, we’d been fighting the good fight for fifteen valiant months on the air, when Joey had sprung a notion on me that would become probably the strangest footnote of my entire career. One day, while we took our walk up Vine Street, he started fretting about Johnny coming to town again in a few weeks, which meant the certain downturn of whatever regular viewership we had. The big guest stars would abandon us for Johnny’s Burbank visits, no question. And that’s when Joey told me of a plan he had to steal the spotlight from Johnny—
and I was to play an essential part in it
. He said it was a foolproof old show business trick.

I couldn’t wait to hear what it was.

Until he told me what it was.

The plot, as he laid it out, was simple: On Johnny’s first night in town, I would announce to Joey and to the audience that I’d heard murmurings from on high and elsewhere that my presence was weighing down the show and hurting our chances. And then, in a selfless display of loyalty to him, I would bravely walk off the show, brokenhearted, in full view of the audience, and disappear into the night. He said it would make for instant headlines and lure viewers away from Carson to follow our drama for the rest of the week. I was stunned. I was sure I’d look like a spoiled brat who felt unappreciated by his bosses, someone who was behaving badly because he couldn’t stand it anymore. Sort of like that childish old pouting routine “I’m taking my marbles and going home!” I hated the idea. But Joey loved it. “You could make things interesting,” he told me with a smile that felt more like a direct order. Which it was. I dreaded everything about that approaching night—and yet I couldn’t get out of it. He stressed to me from the start that it was temporary. “Just know that after a few days, I’ll make sure you come back,” he’d say. Still, when Johnny finally came to town, I was upset at having to execute Joey’s rather devious little plan. In fact, every day beforehand, I grew more and more anxious as Bishop grew more and more enthusiastic about it: a devastated Regis walking off the show! It hadn’t been done since Jack Paar left
The Tonight Show
in a huff over an NBC network edit of one of his jokes! That got enormous attention at the time and to this day remains a historic television moment—
except Jack really meant it when he stormed off that night!
But like it or not, I would do as I was told.

And so, on that night—for the record, it was Monday, July 8, 1968—I interrupted Joey toward the end of his monologue with something I just had to tell him. I’ve never seen a tape of it, and at this point I never want to. But what I told him went approximately like this: “Joey, I’ve been hearing things in the hallways. Things like maybe I was wrong for this job, like maybe I was holding you back, like maybe I should leave the show. And maybe they’re all right. Maybe you could do better without me here. So I tell you what—I’m going to go. . . .” Joey immediately protested, imploring, “Regis, Regis, don’t leave. I want you to stay!” Then he couldn’t resist making a joke: “If you leave, they might find out it was me hurting the show and not you!” But I kept on with the charade and mournfully said, “Anyway, thanks for giving me a chance, and good luck to you.” And with that I shook his hand, turned, and headed offstage. The whole thing ate up about eight minutes, but it felt like forever.

Well, as predicted, the audience was shocked; they groaned, and some even applauded (for what, I’m not sure). But it was too late. I was gone. I had taken one for the team. And I actually did briefly feel sort of choked up in that very strange and surreal moment. The first person I saw as I walked off was the fine singer Vic Damone. He was the opening guest, waiting backstage to go on. Vic, I’m sure, was looking forward to coming out and knocking them dead with his great voice. He thought it was a joke—or hoped as much. He said to me, “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” But I was too embarrassed to stop walking. I said, “No, Vic, I’m not.” And I kept going as Vic went ashen-faced.

All week long Joey repeatedly mentioned my absence in his monologue: “Where is Regis? I wish he’d come back. I went looking for him today at the beach. I hope he’s all right.” That kind of thing—never too serious, and usually tossed off in casual little throwaway asides to the audience. The press, of course, pounced all over the story. Joey stoked the fervor by telling Kay Gardella of the New York
Daily News
that he’d heard me sobbing in my dressing room after the walk-off. Never mind that I’d left immediately and gone out for drinks with my office mate and closest friend on the show, the writer Trustin Howard, to try to make sense out of what had just happened. But Joey played it for all it was worth.
A tearstained Regis leaves!
Meanwhile, the public reaction to the walk-off turned out to be a real eye-opener. Viewer mail poured in on my behalf, outraged that the network had somehow forced me out the door. ABC immediately issued a disclaimer, pointing out that its executives had nothing to do with the situation: “We feel that Regis Philbin’s statements were unwarranted and had no basis in fact.” The tone of it wasn’t exactly remorseful, but at least the big bosses made sure to distance themselves from the drama. Anyway, by Friday it was over: Our producer called and said I should come back on Monday night’s show.

I felt like such a jerk. I don’t remember what the ratings were during that crazy week, but I’m sure Johnny rolled over us anyway. I asked the producers if Joey could possibly mention the outpouring of fan mail and maybe express that ABC was pleased to have me back as well. I even reminded them all again just before Monday’s show: Could Joey please just reintroduce me by making it clear that I was returning due to the public outcry on my behalf and that everyone was very happy about it? I’d hoped that, at least, would make me seem less like some sort of unstable, oversensitive idiot who’d just disappeared for a week to go sulk.

So of course I held my breath standing backstage, while Joey introduced me near the end of his monologue. Except he neglected to offer the audience any of the reasons for my return that I’d so desperately requested he give. His only comment on the subject came abruptly, in one quick line: “Well, all’s well that ends well, folks. Here’s Regis!” His whole demeanor about the episode couldn’t have been more dismissive—almost like “Let’s get it over with already and get him back out here.” I was surprised, disappointed, and angry all at once. In fact, I felt even more ridiculous than when I had walked off in the first place. So out I strode and said something like, “Yes, I’m back now. Everything is going to be okay.” And Joey added, “For a nice Catholic kid from Notre Dame, you’re a real troublemaker.” And so the show went on, as though none of it had ever happened.

Now, more than ever, I knew the TV critics would want the real inside story about this Regis walk-off/walk-on business. Was it my idea? What had I really wanted? Was it a raise? Were my feelings really so hurt by rumors? Did I truly do it as a display of loyalty to the host? Well, I couldn’t give Joey up. I couldn’t spill the beans and say it was all an old show business trick Joey put into motion in order to eclipse Johnny Carson’s Burbank visit. For years, I had to keep mum, be evasive, and usually just admit that yes, I really did take all those rumors to heart, that I had briefly believed the less-than-great ratings were somehow at least partially my fault. Even in my first book, which was published sixteen years ago, I couldn’t quite tell the bald truth behind the walk-off drama, and again I put most all the blame on my own self-pitying. I’ve danced around it during interviews throughout my entire career. But now, of course, Joey and Johnny and so many others from those days are all gone. Nobody remembers. Nobody cares. I don’t hear about it anymore. But it’s one of those things I’ve never forgotten, and I have come to the conclusion that the joke was really on me.

I’ve mentioned that the writer I had drinks with after my walk-off was also my best friend at the show. He went by the name Trustin Howard, but he’d started out years earlier in New Orleans as Slick Slavin, a stand-up comedian with a very good reputation. When applying for his writing job on the Bishop show, however, he changed it for fear that Joey wouldn’t like the idea of another comic performer writing his jokes. Comedy writers are a special breed, all too accustomed to taking the fall if their material doesn’t consistently score for the star. Naturally, some nights go better than others, but after the bad nights on Joey’s show, crisis was bound to follow. Joey was particularly tough on his writers, calling them on the carpet and demanding to know why they thought they’d given him something funny when it had somehow died onstage. Trustin and I shared an office all the way across the floor from Joey’s, but still we could hear through the vents in the ceiling how Joey raged at writers who’d supposedly failed him. We called it “yodeling.” I’d thank God that I wasn’t one of them, while Trustin would slowly turn white as a ghost and quietly say to me, “Reggo, this isn’t good. The man is wild. Why? Why does it have to be like this?” And then he would get his own summons to go face Joey; his shoulders would slump, and he’d get up from his desk and take what we called the “Death March” down that hall. As it happened, all of the writers were eventually fired or quit, but at the end of the show’s run, Trustin was the last original writer left. I was very proud of him. Then again, Joey had never found out about Slick Slavin. If he had, it might’ve spelled Trustin’s doom much sooner.

Finally, one night in November of 1969, the inevitable happened. Joey’s temper had gotten the best of him, and after a furious phone call with the new ABC chief, Elton Rule, it was over. He told Rule that he was done. This time, ironically enough, it was Joey’s turn to walk off. He didn’t have to do it that way, but he did love his dramatic endings. So at the outset of the last show, he announced his departure this way: “I am going to leave you, and if there’s anything I can think of or say, I’ll ask either Johnny or Merv to let me on their show to say it. I can’t think of anything now. I do want to apologize to you people who came here perhaps to be entertained and had no knowledge you were going to hear a sermon or a long speech.” But it wasn’t that long a speech, and he quickly finished by adding, “I am now going home to have dinner with my wife and a few friends. I just want to say one thing before I leave. About a week ago, I asked ABC, ‘Could I have a little time off?’ I think they’re ridiculous.” That got a laugh, followed by long applause, as he turned to shake my hand and left me in charge of hosting the rest of the show. And as he walked off, who do you think was standing backstage waiting to come on shortly afterward? You’ve got it: Vic Damone. Poor Vic. Twice he was on the show, and both times, someone had dramatically walked off before he came out to perform. But somehow we all got through it. I closed the show with the words: “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. What else is there to say? I’ll never be surprised by anything else as long as I live. Good night to you. And good night, Joey.”

I could have just said, “All’s well that ends well,” but that was hardly the case at the time. In fact, Joey Bishop had taken me in during a low ebb in my life and given me a new lease in the business. Not to mention the education that came along with it. There were so many invaluable lessons, not the least being how important the role of straight man—or set-up man—is to comedy . . . and also to just plain good storytelling. I had learned right away that he relied on me to come out and feed him, to keep that opening segment of the show moving briskly, to spark his great spontaneous wit. And it really was pure spontaneity out there most nights. After a while, I knew exactly what he wanted to hear, what he needed, and he grew to expect nothing less from me. Although he was never one to dole out compliments, I’ll never forget something he told me on one of our walks not long before the show came to its end. He said, “I heard from Dean Martin yesterday. Dean said what we do together every night is the best seven minutes on TV.” I’d never told Joey that I was a big fan of Dean’s for fear of the jealousy it would stir. But I was thrilled to hear that. Especially because Dean, of all people, would have understood our dynamic in ways few others could, after his own ten years of playing set-up guy to Jerry Lewis.