When the Broadway composer didn’t respond, I said, “He just asked if you’d have lunch with him.” Again there was no response,
but later I heard that over the years whenever my name came up in this composer’s presence he makes his feelings about me
clear, and they’re not good. Obviously, I had offended him, but I still think I was right to speak up.
About five years ago, a friend of mine who was a major league baseball pitcher called me from his car on the way to a ball
game. He said the name of a future Hall of Fame pitcher who was sitting with him. Probably because I was focusing on our conversation,
I rudely neglected to say something flattering to the other pitcher. A few years later I met the Hall of Famer at a gathering,
and I apologized. He told me to forget it, but it was clear he hadn’t.
Some recent events come to mind. Once I was hosting a local musical show and introduced an amateur singing group, which by
the way was excellent, by saying in a misguided effort to be amusing, “Because you don’t have to audition for this group should
in no way reflect on its quality.” The audience laughed, but the group was extremely offended. I feel very bad about that.
I’m no longer asked to host that event.
I was once hosting an event at the Maritime Aquarium in my area. I began by apologizing in advance if I offended anyone, because
that was not my intention.
I chose not to do any fish jokes, because I couldn’t think of any and had no great desire to try. I then introduced the new
head of the aquarium as “probably the most offensive of us all.” I don’t think that offended the lady, because she knew we
had just met. There really was no opportunity for either of us to unknowingly offend.
They were giving awards to banks and families in the area who had given money and done good deeds. One woman donor gave a
very serious speech that ran three times longer than anyone else’s. As she walked away, I returned to the podium and said,
“
Very
funny.” That was it! The audience laughed, but it was inappropriate. I’m not exactly banned from appearing at the aquarium,
but let’s just say I’m not their first choice to host—or second or third.
Another time I spoke at a book party for Ellen Burstyn at the Carnegie Foundation. I wasn’t aware I’d said anything offensive
until my publisher called the foundation to arrange for a book party for the last book I worked on. They were told in effect
that the foundation was booked every night for years to come. This
really
bothers me when I think I might have unknowingly offended Ellen, for whom I have nothing but fondness. I know I said I had
to leave to see the New York Giants play football on television. On second thought, that really
is
offensive. The lesson? Think at least three times about doing or saying something that can be taken different ways. Kind
comedy is the toughest. Ask Don Rickles.
More recently, a friend asked me if I would moderate a discussion about the European Union at the New York Public Library.
I said I really didn’t know anything about the European Union. My friend said this was all scripted, and different actors
would play the roles of intellectuals from different European countries using the intellectuals’ own words on the European
Union.
I got the script and found it fairly obtuse. I asked if I could meet the people at the library to gain a better understanding
of the event. When I did, I asked them what percentage of their audience they felt would understand all of this. One man said
about 8 percent. There was laughter and jokes all around, and I agreed to do it.
On the night of the event one of the people from the library approached me and the other members of the company to say there
would be a European supermodel (whatever that means) arriving at some point in the evening, and when she arrived we were to
stop our presentation so she could say a few words.
When I realized he wasn’t joking, I said incredulously, “You actually want us to stop our performance so a European supermodel
can say a few words?” The man stared at me a moment, went away to consult with one of his colleagues, then came back and said
that on second thought we shouldn’t stop our performance if the supermodel were to arrive in the middle of the presentation.
Happily, she arrived before the performance and gave a little speech.
I felt the show went extremely well. The actors representing the various European intellectuals were masters at their dialects,
and the audience really seemed to enjoy the evening.
Afterward I phoned the fella at the library to see how he felt about it. Generally, people call me after an event, but he
didn’t, so I called. When the call wasn’t returned, I phoned again. From his assistant’s attitude it was clear there would
be no return call, and there never was. Just one of the many situations where I unintentionally offended, even though I have
no idea how.
I’ll try to be more careful.
I
n recent years I don’t much like to go out in the evenings, even locally, but sometimes I feel that I have to show up at friends’
dinner parties or they’ll think I’m mad at them or something. I can have a good time when I go out, but for me, as for a lot
of people, the looser the better. I honestly think this attitude of “leave me alone” started unconsciously with my resentment
at “single file, no talking” in grammar school.
I particularly don’t like sit-down dinners or place cards or all those rules, which, of course, offends the people who do
like them. Some hostesses at sit-downs want you to sit there for a pretty long stretch after all the courses. It seems to
me men have a tougher time doing that than women. As I walk around, I sometimes peek into the dining room and see the men
who are too afraid to get up sitting there in what to me looks like pain.
The only kinds of dinner party rules I like are come when you want, or don’t. That’s okay, too. Walk around when you want,
leave when you want. That’s my “do unto others.” Y’know the classic novel
Great Expectations
? I have
no
expectations. It’s more relaxing. I’m not saying I’m right about this, but I bet there are millions of people who feel as
I do. The
really
tough sit-down place-card deal is when at some point the hostess or host asks everyone to respond to a question. A recent
one was “How did you meet your spouse?” No big deal, right? It was for me. I can’t really tell you why. I just know that as
the people around the table dutifully told their spouse meeting stories I was silent, then tense, then I started making jokes.
Stuff like “I don’t for a minute believe that’s how you met him.”
Graciously, I hope, I managed to leave the table before my turn came. I have a pretty good spouse meeting story, too, which
I’m going to tell you. I just didn’t feel like sharing it with a group of people, some of whom I barely knew. I can write
about it, but that feels different.
Generally, I choose to share that only with close friends who probably already know how I met my spouse.
I think what I just said is fairly defensible, but my behavior at one dinner party wasn’t.
Even though I have a tendency, like most of us, to be on
my
side, in this one even
I
can see I was out of line. The host asked everyone their thoughts on the election. It wasn’t take your turn as we go around
the table and it wasn’t obligatory, although a few times the host looked at me and said, “Chuck?”
I asked the host if I could use his treadmill, then got up and left the room. I actually thought about using the treadmill
but chose to just sit in the living room, where the hostess soon joined me. She didn’t want to discuss the election, either.
I know this, though. As bad as I am with all of the above, if anyone ever starts a game of charades, the sound of tires screeching
into the night means Charles has left the building.
T
he book of mine that is most often referred to was my first.
It Would Be So Nice If You Weren’t Here: My Journey Through Show Business
was about what to do if they keep telling you to get lost. Well, if not “Get lost,” certainly almost
never
“Come here.”
In hindsight I should have said I had a consistent number of what would be called minor successes along the way. In other
words, to eventually succeed, more than one person has to notice you can be good, and it can’t be family members. In 1953,
the head of the department of drama at the University of Miami, Lee Strasberg six years later, and, in between, a lot of people
of so-called lesser stature took note of me.
If about 5 percent or less of us entering show business make a living, think hard about whether you can be in that 5 percent.
If you think so, then try. But don’t grow old trying! People who know more about this than I do estimate that 1 or 2 percent
out of millions achieve significant success.
That’s a message I wish I’d made clearer in my first book, because I’m afraid I might have encouraged people to stick with
it who possibly would have been better served not doing that after a period of time. Again, you don’t want to grow old trying.
If it hadn’t been for Mike Nichols, would Dustin Hoffman have had the career he’s had? If it hadn’t been for Mel Brooks, would
Gene Wilder have had the career he’s had? If it hadn’t been for Elaine May, would I have had the career I’ve had? As I’ve
already said, you can be really good at what you do and not make a living in show business.
Have more than one field if you can. Being in show business really allows that because so few people work but so many are
really good. It can be a heartbreaking profession.
Another regret I have, I wish I had realized earlier that if a friend wants to borrow money, if you can afford to, give it
rather than loan it. Unless the friend absolutely insists it has to be a loan, which only one friend of mine did, make it
a gift.
It is not that unusual for friendships to end because the person who has borrowed the money and can’t repay it disappears
from your life out of embarrassment. This happened to me with a woman friend who wanted to borrow some money to videotape
her father in his later years. I lent it to her and never heard from her again.
I was at a dinner party at a restaurant where the host and everyone went someplace afterward to hear one of the guests speak
about the state of the world. I’m not really interested in going out to hear
anyone
speak on the state of the world,
especially
after being out for a couple of hours at dinner, and I
know
I offended the speaker by not joining the group to hear him. Most likely he wouldn’t have believed the truth, so I should
have said on arriving that I had to leave after dinner. Maybe I could have said I was going to perform a tonsillectomy or
have one performed on me—
something
.
Many years ago I had two women friends. We were as close as anyone could be. Eleni Kiamos, the friend who did so much for
me in the early part of my career, died of colon cancer in her fifties. I first saw Eleni excel as an actress on a live one-hour
television show, while I was still at the Pittsburgh Playhouse. Eleni believed in putting her faith in the Lord. She contracted
colon cancer. When she told me her symptoms, I persuaded her to see a doctor, but it was too late.
I met Luanna Anders a decade later. Luanna once came to visit me when I was making a movie in Mexico. We were in the swimming
pool one night, and she said she was taking a writing class and had a new boyfriend. Since Luanna and I were never romantic,
I asked what she was doing in Mexico with me. She said simply, “You asked me to come, Chuck.” Luanna put our long-term friendship
ahead of her writing class and new boyfriend.
She developed breast cancer, and just as Eleni had, she chose not to see a doctor but to put her faith in her religion. By
the time she saw a doctor it was too late.
There’s no solace for me in that story except to say that the man who was Luanna’s new boyfriend in 1978 remains one of my
closest friends to this day. My wife and I are guardians to his and his wife’s children.
I miss Eleni and Luanna so much that even though they’ve been gone for decades I remember their phone numbers without needing
to look them up. As I’ve said, I deeply regret I wasn’t sufficiently aware of Herb Gardner’s smoking. It’s less odd that I
knew nothing of my female friends’ health issues, but I
so
wish I had.
O
ne of my favorite people is Peter Falk, who as well as being unique is wise. Unfortunately, at this writing, he’s suffering
from Alzheimer’s.
When I turned fifty, I started to get in touch with my mortality in a really uncomfortable way. I asked Peter his feelings
on the subject, and I’ll never forget his answer: “I figure if so many people have done it [died], I can do it.” It actually
helped—a lot.
I once asked him to star in a movie I wrote. He loved the writing but said, “Nothing happens in this movie.” It was made,
but Peter was right. It really wasn’t what we expect from a movie.
One day I took him to spend some time at Walter Matthau’s house. They had met but didn’t really know each other. As we left,
I asked Peter what he thought of Walter. He said, “I never know what to say to Walter. I just don’t know what would interest
him.”
Peter’s greatest charm is his ability to be interested in just about anything, a trait in which I’m sorely lacking. At a New
Year’s Eve dinner I sat a close friend next to him. Afterward, I asked her what she thought of him. She said, “He’s more interested
in what I have to say than I am.”
As big a treat as he was on
Columbo
, he was an even bigger treat in person.
O
f course, it’s an inevitability of life that as we get older we lose loved ones. In my experience it’s most unusual that we
would also gain new loved ones, but that’s what happened to me ten years ago when I met Henry Schleiff, who now runs the Hallmark
Channel.