dressed in a similar uniform of dark suits, white shirts, black ties, and black shoes, and I couldn’t distinguish among them. In the conference room filled with suits, the Morris Men began their calculations.
“So you think you’d like to be on the stage, huh?” one said.
“What about movies?” another said.
“I say, we put him in nightclubs.”
“He’ll need an act.”
“Somebody’ll need to talk to the writing department.”
“We can break in at a midnight audition at the Copa.”
“I’ll make a call.”
Having decided my fate, the group quickly disbanded while I was still catching up. I had never considered becoming a nightclub performer. I had hardly been to any nightclubs in my eighteen years. But who was I to say no? The fact that WMA heavyweights were interested in me for anything was big . This was the agency that repped Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Danny Kaye, and Laurence Olivier! I was lucky that they had even let me walk into the office.
I practically sailed back to my hotel room with the feeling, “My God! I was on my way.” As for nightclubs, the Copacabana was it. There was nothing bigger. Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin had debuted their comedy act at the famed hot spot on East 60th Street, which was owned partly by the notorious mob boss Frank Costello. When the time came for me to have my audition, failure was not an option, but it seemed the only one I had. I was about to go on the midnight show, unbilled, in the top nightclub in the world, and I had no idea what I was doing.
In my dressing room, I put on my tuxedo with shaky hands. After I fixed my bow tie, I reluctantly made my way to the club’s kitchen, through which all the entertainers passed on their way to the small stage. Amid the steam rising up from the dishwasher’s sink and the orders barked by line cooks, the Copa Girls entered in matching fruited turbans. Having just performed their number, they flashed by me, all flesh, fishnet stockings, perfume, and feathers.
“You’re cute,” one of them said to me.
“How old are you, anyway?” another laughed.
“Aw, leave the kid alone,” a third said.
In a trail of giggles, they left me petrified. If the Copa Girls thought I was just some kid, what were the patrons, who had paid a lot of money to be there, going to think? I had got away with a lot in my short life, but I didn’t know how I was going to manage this one.
I walked out into the dark near the dance floor, which doubled as a stage, where the Copa Girls had left an empty spotlight for me to die in. (There’s nothing like being a short Jewish kid following a bouncy number by girls in sequined bustiers and mink panties.) I felt faintly claustrophobic in the tight space. There was a large, fake palm tree above, an orchestra behind, and squeezed all around the stage were tables of people drinking, smoking, eating, and laughing.
The atmosphere was so different from the austerely beautiful Play House and the seriousness of the theater. Though Borscht Capades was a revue with its share of shtick and humor, the theaters themselves in which we performed lent the show a sense of legitimacy. The Copa was a free-for-all. Even as the band struck up the opening chords for my act, the audience paid me about as much attention as they did the waiters rushing around the tables (actually, they paid those guys a lot more attention, since they were the ones serving the drinks). While I was performing, they laughed and talked, tucked into their Pu Pu platters (although the club was Latin-themed, it served Polynesian food), and smoked. My God, how they smoked! My eyes and throat burned with the stuff as I tried to ignore the talking and clinking of glasses and cutlery while singing my opener, “I’m Gonna Live Till I Die,” which had been a big hit for Frank Sinatra. Throughout the patter, I had no idea whether I was bombing or killing it; the audience seemed so distracted.
“They loved you,” George Wood,
“So you think you’d like to be on the stage, huh?” one said.
“What about movies?” another said.
“I say, we put him in nightclubs.”
“He’ll need an act.”
“Somebody’ll need to talk to the writing department.”
“We can break in at a midnight audition at the Copa.”
“I’ll make a call.”
Having decided my fate, the group quickly disbanded while I was still catching up. I had never considered becoming a nightclub performer. I had hardly been to any nightclubs in my eighteen years. But who was I to say no? The fact that WMA heavyweights were interested in me for anything was big . This was the agency that repped Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Danny Kaye, and Laurence Olivier! I was lucky that they had even let me walk into the office.
I practically sailed back to my hotel room with the feeling, “My God! I was on my way.” As for nightclubs, the Copacabana was it. There was nothing bigger. Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin had debuted their comedy act at the famed hot spot on East 60th Street, which was owned partly by the notorious mob boss Frank Costello. When the time came for me to have my audition, failure was not an option, but it seemed the only one I had. I was about to go on the midnight show, unbilled, in the top nightclub in the world, and I had no idea what I was doing.
In my dressing room, I put on my tuxedo with shaky hands. After I fixed my bow tie, I reluctantly made my way to the club’s kitchen, through which all the entertainers passed on their way to the small stage. Amid the steam rising up from the dishwasher’s sink and the orders barked by line cooks, the Copa Girls entered in matching fruited turbans. Having just performed their number, they flashed by me, all flesh, fishnet stockings, perfume, and feathers.
“You’re cute,” one of them said to me.
“How old are you, anyway?” another laughed.
“Aw, leave the kid alone,” a third said.
In a trail of giggles, they left me petrified. If the Copa Girls thought I was just some kid, what were the patrons, who had paid a lot of money to be there, going to think? I had got away with a lot in my short life, but I didn’t know how I was going to manage this one.
I walked out into the dark near the dance floor, which doubled as a stage, where the Copa Girls had left an empty spotlight for me to die in. (There’s nothing like being a short Jewish kid following a bouncy number by girls in sequined bustiers and mink panties.) I felt faintly claustrophobic in the tight space. There was a large, fake palm tree above, an orchestra behind, and squeezed all around the stage were tables of people drinking, smoking, eating, and laughing.
The atmosphere was so different from the austerely beautiful Play House and the seriousness of the theater. Though Borscht Capades was a revue with its share of shtick and humor, the theaters themselves in which we performed lent the show a sense of legitimacy. The Copa was a free-for-all. Even as the band struck up the opening chords for my act, the audience paid me about as much attention as they did the waiters rushing around the tables (actually, they paid those guys a lot more attention, since they were the ones serving the drinks). While I was performing, they laughed and talked, tucked into their Pu Pu platters (although the club was Latin-themed, it served Polynesian food), and smoked. My God, how they smoked! My eyes and throat burned with the stuff as I tried to ignore the talking and clinking of glasses and cutlery while singing my opener, “I’m Gonna Live Till I Die,” which had been a big hit for Frank Sinatra. Throughout the patter, I had no idea whether I was bombing or killing it; the audience seemed so distracted.
“They loved you,” George Wood,
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