over. I knew that if anyone had offered me so much as a word of sympathy, I would have lost it right on the air.
Of all the thousands of television hours I’ve logged in my career since then, that first installment of Going Places —one week before he died—was the only time that my father ever saw me hosting my own show. For that reason, I’ve always believed that silly little program in Florida was something I was meant to do.
That year was very hard for me. Not only because of the loss of my father, but after I returned to New York, it also seemed as if I might be losing my career as well. Day after day I sat in my apartment on West 57th Street (which I’d sublet from Marlon Brando), waiting for the phone to ring. Occasionally I picked it up to see if there was still a dial tone. Given my dire financial straits, this was often a fifty-fifty proposition.
I’ve always been an enthusiastic, energetic person. Waiting around doesn’t work for me. For the first time in my life, I began to doubt myself. What if I’d made a huge mistake by giving up singing? Although I’d only received $50 for it (Freddy got the rest), I had a number one hit song with “Cocoanuts.” Now I owed my mother money.
In the middle of the longest summer of my life, I turned thirty-two. Some swivel-hipped kid named Presley was the nation’s new singing sensation; even if I’d wanted to, I could scarcely call myself a boy singer anymore.
Up to that point in my life, I’d always bet on myself. What I mean by that is I followed my instincts and made my own choices. It’s a very difficult thing to gamble on oneself. It can be scary. But in the end, it’s the only bet worth making. Because when it pays off, the rewards are all your own.
And until that summer, even when the bet was a long shot, my self-confidence was usually justified. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
If life were a movie, this would be the scene where the phone finally rang. But in reality, it never did.
Finally, I got so tired of waiting around in New York that I took a vacation from being unemployed. Using what little savings I had (If the phone wasn’t going to ring, why give it any money?) I found a cheap flight to the Caribbean.
While I was down there, my agent, Marty Kummer, who’d never given up on me, sent me a telegram that read:
GOODSON-TODMAN AUDITIONING HOSTS FOR NEW SHOW STOP THEY LIKE YOU STOP NEED YOU HERE FRIDAY STOP MARTY
Mark Goodson and Bill Todman were the most successful game show producers in television. They’d developed a string of popular programs during the 1950s, including To Tell the Truth, I’ve Got a Secret, What’s My Line , and Beat the Clock . Possibly the only good thing about having a lot of time on my hands was that I got to watch television in the morning. I’d seen all of them. A lot. This was something I could do. And I’d be following in Jack Paar’s footsteps yet again. In the early fifties, he’d hosted I’ve Got News for You and Bank on the Stars .
I made my way back to New York and showed up at the Goodson-Todman offices at the scheduled time, seven o’clock on a Friday night. Marty Kummer was supposed to meet me. When I got off the elevator on their floor, no one was there. No receptionist, no staff, nobody. I could hear the sound of laughter coming from somewhere deep inside the offices, but the connecting door was locked, so I was stuck outside in the reception area. Finally a secretary came out and asked me to wait. After about a half an hour of cooling my heels (as I’ve told you, I’m not good at waiting), I got up, said “to hell with it,” and punched the elevator button. Literally. When the elevator door opened, Marty Kummer stepped out, just as I was getting in.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. They’ve been in there laughing and shouting for almost an hour now, Marty. They don’t want me. It sounds like they’ve got someone anyway. And I don’t even know what the show is. What’s the point of
Of all the thousands of television hours I’ve logged in my career since then, that first installment of Going Places —one week before he died—was the only time that my father ever saw me hosting my own show. For that reason, I’ve always believed that silly little program in Florida was something I was meant to do.
That year was very hard for me. Not only because of the loss of my father, but after I returned to New York, it also seemed as if I might be losing my career as well. Day after day I sat in my apartment on West 57th Street (which I’d sublet from Marlon Brando), waiting for the phone to ring. Occasionally I picked it up to see if there was still a dial tone. Given my dire financial straits, this was often a fifty-fifty proposition.
I’ve always been an enthusiastic, energetic person. Waiting around doesn’t work for me. For the first time in my life, I began to doubt myself. What if I’d made a huge mistake by giving up singing? Although I’d only received $50 for it (Freddy got the rest), I had a number one hit song with “Cocoanuts.” Now I owed my mother money.
In the middle of the longest summer of my life, I turned thirty-two. Some swivel-hipped kid named Presley was the nation’s new singing sensation; even if I’d wanted to, I could scarcely call myself a boy singer anymore.
Up to that point in my life, I’d always bet on myself. What I mean by that is I followed my instincts and made my own choices. It’s a very difficult thing to gamble on oneself. It can be scary. But in the end, it’s the only bet worth making. Because when it pays off, the rewards are all your own.
And until that summer, even when the bet was a long shot, my self-confidence was usually justified. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
If life were a movie, this would be the scene where the phone finally rang. But in reality, it never did.
Finally, I got so tired of waiting around in New York that I took a vacation from being unemployed. Using what little savings I had (If the phone wasn’t going to ring, why give it any money?) I found a cheap flight to the Caribbean.
While I was down there, my agent, Marty Kummer, who’d never given up on me, sent me a telegram that read:
GOODSON-TODMAN AUDITIONING HOSTS FOR NEW SHOW STOP THEY LIKE YOU STOP NEED YOU HERE FRIDAY STOP MARTY
Mark Goodson and Bill Todman were the most successful game show producers in television. They’d developed a string of popular programs during the 1950s, including To Tell the Truth, I’ve Got a Secret, What’s My Line , and Beat the Clock . Possibly the only good thing about having a lot of time on my hands was that I got to watch television in the morning. I’d seen all of them. A lot. This was something I could do. And I’d be following in Jack Paar’s footsteps yet again. In the early fifties, he’d hosted I’ve Got News for You and Bank on the Stars .
I made my way back to New York and showed up at the Goodson-Todman offices at the scheduled time, seven o’clock on a Friday night. Marty Kummer was supposed to meet me. When I got off the elevator on their floor, no one was there. No receptionist, no staff, nobody. I could hear the sound of laughter coming from somewhere deep inside the offices, but the connecting door was locked, so I was stuck outside in the reception area. Finally a secretary came out and asked me to wait. After about a half an hour of cooling my heels (as I’ve told you, I’m not good at waiting), I got up, said “to hell with it,” and punched the elevator button. Literally. When the elevator door opened, Marty Kummer stepped out, just as I was getting in.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. They’ve been in there laughing and shouting for almost an hour now, Marty. They don’t want me. It sounds like they’ve got someone anyway. And I don’t even know what the show is. What’s the point of
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