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1 1 An Old-Timer’s Lament Like most of the performers in our business, I used to feel sorry for the old-timers, the has-beens. But now that I’ve reached the dreaded milestone where the teenagers refer to me as an “old-timer,” I don’t know why I dreaded retirement. It’s fun! I have so much time to sit around and think about where I’ve been, instead of worrying about where I’m going. Recently, while in one of my nostalgic moods, I remembered a friend telling me that memory dies unless it’s used, and this observation led me to think about my audiences. Although vaudeville offered more contact with audiences than other forms of theater, I always felt, during my many years onstage, the distance between the audience and me, separated as we were by a row of footlights. Theatergoers, with little chance to chat with me, did write regularly. Many of their letters started with, “We feel like we know you.” Well, I feel like I knew them. I don’t recall anyone ever giving audiences credit for the important part they play in show business. Think I’m buttering them up? Listen: Without their help, how could any player steal the show on an opening night? Without their approval, how could an unknown suddenly become dynamite at the box office? Without their inspiration, how could any of us have made the grade? We couldn’t! That fits them into the story quite snugly. Now, let’s see where I fit in, or vice versa. First, I never became an international star like [Maurice] Chevalier, [Clark] Gable, or [Frank] Sinatra, so maybe I’m presumptuous to expect my readers to waste time peeking through these pages. Yet, it’s just possible that my cup is overflowing with experiences that these other gentlemen never knew. Once, my act was cancelled after the first show and, of all places, Twin Falls, Idaho. A long walk from New York. On another occasion, I was 2 A n Ol d -Ti m e r’s lA m e n T stranded in a major city, known as Elkins, West Virginia; and I got married in Brantford, Ontario, Canada, long before I was old enough to vote. This will give readers an idea of some of the places I have been to and some that I should have stayed away from! The girl I married in Brantford is still my best and only. This establishes a bit of an endurance record, because she, too, was in her early teens when we played together at the Brantford Theatre. That, by the way, was when we decided that two could live cheaper if they both put their shoes under the same bed. You know, the whole thing was her idea, and it’s just possible I may have learned more about love and life from my one woman than some of the famous playboys did in a lifetime of meandering. I remember a day when all I could get to feed her was some salted peanuts from a penny machine. But I also remember a day when I bought her a diamond as big as a grape, or it seemed that big to us. Since there was no unemployment insurance to take us over our rough spots, there were intervals when we were just plain hungry actors. That’s when we had some of the strange experiences and adventures we keep barking about. One summer when we were broke, I worked, through dire necessity, for Jeff Davis, the king of the hoboes, a memory I cherish. He had a nightspot at Coney Island called the Hotel de Gink. I was a singing waiter. Thirty-five songs a night was a fair average, along with serving a couple of hundred beers to thirsty slummers and sightseers. Most of our contemporary actors aim for a standout part in a movie or a good break on TV. With us [back then], the ultimate goal was to play the Palace Theatre. I slugged away with this one burning desire for twelve years. “He’s not Palace material” was the persistent decision of the bookers . Finally came an emergency, and I was called upon to replace a star for one single performance. The anticipated one performance developed into a career. Ever since that day, I have clung to the belief that regardless of the opinions of critics, agents, or managers, if an actor...

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