The Little Boy and the Old Broad

“I’ll never forget seeing Bette Davis at the Hilton in Madrid. I went up to her and said ‘Miss Davis, I’m Ava Gardner and I’m a great fan of yours.’ And do you know, she behaved exactly as I wanted her to behave. ‘Of course you are, my dear.’ She said. ‘Of course you are.’ And she swept on. Now that’s a Star.”-Ava Gardner

Driving into Vegas on a warm spring morning, I wasn’t expecting much. For some odd reason, the person who loved the smells of the circus, the romance of the Caribbean sea spray, the man who got teary-eyed when Happy Days went off the air, suddenly decided to act like a crotchety old fart.

They aren’t going sucker me into this neon crap, I thought. The only reason I was there in the first place was to see Hoover Dam. I had been to Vegas thirty years before as a kid, but back then there wasn’t much for a child to do other than play by the pool. Although I had visions of shooting craps and having a showgirl hand me a drink with an umbrella in it, my mother was not very impressed when her seven-year old suggested it to her.

Everyone told me I would love the new Vegas, but I held out, saying, “Why the hell would I waste money on that? I don’t gamble. Too phony for me.” But I did want to see Hoover Dam, may as well stay in Vegas and see some shows while I was at it.

I drove down the strip when I arrived, big mistake. Traffic backed up for miles, Midwesterners crossing the street against the light, yelling at their husbands to grab the kids and hurry up! Oh, shit, this place was worse than I thought.

As giant castles and pyramids loomed over me I was reminded of what Edna Ferber once said, “What littleness is all this bigness hiding?”

I got to the hotel, the only gay resort in Vegas and checked in. Looking at the brochures stacked near the wall I amused myself trying to count how many images of Elvis I could find while the handsome clerk smiled and mildly flirted with me. Well, I thought, guess I can handle that side of Vegas.

Once settled, I decided to see what else there was to “bitch about around here” and headed out. Within fifteen minutes what started out as “That’s a stupid idea, putting a pirate ship next to a sidewalk!” turned into, “Oh, well, the lights are going down, maybe I’ll just watch all these hicks get into it.”

Then “That was sort of impressive.”

Then “Okay, that was quite a swing on the rope he took getting to the other mast.”

And finally, walking away with the crowds after the show finished, “My God! That was fun!!”

Guess I never would have made it in espionage, I caved at the first interrogation.
A little ways down, the Dancing Fountains revved up to the sound of Sinatra’s “Luck Be A Lady” and the smile naturally forming on my face showed the world I was simply a ten year old who needed an attitude adjustment. Another sucker was born that minute.

Having no tickets for anything that night, I went to some half price booth and got a ticket for the Rat Pack Impersonation show, not really expecting much, but I loved the Rat Pack patter and thought it would be a good way to get into Vegas with a capitol V, pal. Since the nut had been cracked, may as well have a swingin’ time, baby…

I wasn’t disappointed, the hotel showroom looked like the Vegas I remembered from my childhood and the old Oceans Eleven film. My table was in the very back of the showroom and an older couple near me said the room was about the same size as the Sands with the same look.
I had a ball and halfway through the show ordered a Jack Daniels, silently toasting Sinatra. From the very back, if you squinted your eyes just a little, or better yet, got a little drunker, the performers looked and sounded like the originals. The patter was not cleaned up, thank God and I howled and clapped along with every other cheesy tourist in that audience. Hell, I was a cheesy tourist. Who was I, coming into this town with a chip on my shoulder? I was just as corny as it was.

I swinged, I ringed and I dinged coming out of that showroom, baby, pallie. I took a pull on my cigarette as I walked into the lobby from the show room.
Standing there looking at glossies of the performers, a sixty-year-old lady from Indianapolis started up a conversation with me when her husband went to the bathroom.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
I told her Chicago and knowing that was pretty Rat Packish itself, got a little carried away when she asked what someone so young was doing at a Rat Pack tribute show.
I looked at her and said, “Booze and broads baby ... booze and broads.”
Somehow she failed to see the humor.

Yeah, I saw Hoover Dam and was impressed but I couldn’t wait to get back to the next aquarium, the next roller coaster, the next gondola pulling out into the canals of Venice.
Enamored with it all, I extended my stay for two days so I could see Debbie Reynolds. A lady who definitely still had it, as witty and ballsy in person as on Will and Grace she was exactly what I expected, in fact, wanted her to be, a little dynamo with the mouth of a sailor, the legs of a thirty-year old and the sentimentality of an Irving Berlin song.

She wasn’t performing on the strip, she was way out at one of the casinos on the north side and was only there one night. Led to a seat right next to the stage, my hand to God, I was the youngest person there. Now, I was thirty-seven at the time, I wouldn’t call that young. It’s certainly not old, but when the average age of an audience is seventy-one, then yes, I was the equivalent of the Gerber baby to them. The person nearest to my age was maybe forty-five, a woman sitting by herself at the table next to mine holding a bouquet of roses with sort of a blank look in her eyes. The place was sold out.

Talking to a couple in their early sixties, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a short flash of light and when I looked over, stage right, I saw all these sequins walking toward the control booth back stage and a silhouette. Well, either the soundman is a drag queen or that’s Debbie Reynolds. I didn’t expect her to be wearing a potato sack or a Gap jogging outfit, although many in the audience were wearing jogging outfits with matching sun visors.

When Debbie Reynolds came out, there was the usual applause and she sang some showstopper type of opening number, lots of hands and big notes at the end. She looked great, just like I’d always pictured her, wearing a red sequined gown with a long slit up the side to show off the assets.

After her first number she walked around talking about how old everyone was, herself included and how her boobs were hanging a little lower than normal these days. She was saucy, sort of like my grandmother, only better looking and with blonde hair. As she was pacing the stage she stopped, looked at me and said, “What the hell are you doing here?!”

I didn’t exactly know what to do other than just shrug and smile when I heard, “Were you just passing by this place and somebody grabbed you and said ‘There’s this old broad singing in the lounge’ ... do you even know who I am? ...”

She bent down, pointed to herself, and said very slowly, “I’m Princess ... Leia’s ... mother.”

The place erupted in laughter and from that moment on I was made a small part of her act. Every five minutes or so she’d come over and explain what she was talking about and the senior citizens would cackle until you thought an oxygen tank would explode somewhere in the room.
Fine with me, I was loving the attention and having the chance to have an MGM star look me straight in the face and give me a hard time.

She said, “Do you watch Will and Grace?”

I should have looked myself up and down and said, “Helloooooo??” (you know how brilliant we all are in hindsight) but I simply smiled and nodded.

She said, “I’m on that show.”

“How old are you?” she asked. When I told her she cracked, “Christ! I’ve got cellulite older than you!” An eighty year old lady next to me almost blew her drink out of her nose.

Her whole act was terrific. She sang a Patsy Cline song, a Judy Garland tribute, played clips from her movies and sang along with them, every once and awhile telling me, “This is from a movie you’ve never heard of ...” More cackles.

At one point she even said, “Well, now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed the little boy down front here I’m going to sing another song ... hell, I’ll sing all night. I played this place when it first opened and they didn’t even have a wall closing this room off from the casino. All that noise!? I absolutely refused to play here again! ... So ... I was back in a few weeks and did another show. Hell, I’ll sing anywhere they’ll pay me. I even did a set in the ladies room once. When I die they’ll stuff me like Trigger and put me up onstage ... “

I laughed and she stopped again, looking at me. “You know who Trigger was?”

I nodded.

“Roy Rogers… you’ve heard of Roy Rogers?”

I nodded and smiled.

“You must be one of those old movie buffs ...” (To this day, that’s probably the only time the word buff was associated with me.)

On stage she told of going to a press conference with Dolly Parton a few weeks earlier and that “this tiny little woman has the biggest titties I’ve ever seen. Yeah, she looked at me and said ...” and she put on a high pitched southern accent, “Debbie, honey ... you know why my feet are so small? Cuz things jest cain’t grow in the shade ...”

There was just something about hearing Debbie Reynolds say the word “titties.”

She had no shame, thank God, and was so real. Disappearing at one point, she came back onstage with a Streisand wig and a huge fake nose, singing “People”. Now that took guts. Hollywood royalty and she’s down to earth enough to come out and do that. Hell, she’d probably pass gas and it’d come out a new routine, my type of gal.

At the same time, she was also very gracious, introducing a couple in their eighties who had just gotten married and of course, making the comment “Don’t expect fireworks every night in the bed department. Thank God for Viagra!”

Then, the forty-ish woman next to me held up her bouquet of roses to Debbie, almost not even blinking and said in a monotone voice, “I’ve seen you in person forty-seven times.” The first thing that went through my mind was “Stalker.”

Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Forty-seven times? Don’t you have a life?” then smiled and told the woman thank you, shaking her hand.

At the end of the show she thanked everyone once more, the woman with the roses, the old newlyweds and then she said, “And I’d especially like to thank the little boy down front here for letting me have fun with him and for coming out to see an old broad.” Leaning down, she kissed me and whispered in my ear, “Thanks honey, you’re a doll.”

I was in heaven as I walked out of that hotel. Four elderly couples passed me saying, “There’s the little boy from the front row.” Middle age my ass. If Debbie Reynolds says I’m young, then dammit, I am young.

This was one of the few times when my dad was actually impressed by me having met someone. Of course, I noticed the dirty old man in him came out too, “She looks pretty damn good, doesn’t she? A dress slit up the side? How were her legs?” probably salivating into the phone too.
When I tried to bring the conversation around to his horses, he kept wanting to talk about Debbie Reynolds. How the tables had turned, when I was in college he couldn’t have cared less.

“Dad! I met Pearl Bailey! She called me Honey!”

“Oh, yeah…well, bought a new goat today….”

I was so thrilled I missed the turn off to the strip, ending up in old Vegas. Screw it, life is short, I’m gonna have some fun! Walking around, I bought one of those yard long mai-tais, put a quarter in a slot machine and won seven dollars. Listening to the bands playing on the sidewalks, I talked to complete strangers who were acting as touristy as I was and I did not want to leave this place. Hell, I even bought a two foot neon “Welcome to Vegas” sign to take home.
Another lesson learned, “lighten up already and get off your high-horse.”

Edna Ferber could act like an old fart for all I cared, now I remembered something Cleo Laine once said, “I enjoyed a lot about Las Vegas. First, the fact that it didn’t pretend to be anything more than an American money-making city that twinkled like an overdressed Christmas tree with a fairy on the top without a bra.”

And us little boys couldn’t get enough of the old broads either.