How I Got This Way (3 page)

The whole plan, stupid to begin with, had backfired into a catastrophe. If the commodore ever found out that I’d done all the plotting behind it—my idea of a harmless little joke—I could be court-martialed, I thought. Maybe even wind up in front of a firing squad! The commodore was appalled—not only upset with me, but now wanting a face-to-face meeting with the major to get to the bottom of this. He would call Rankin on Monday morning, he said, still red-hot. Then he left the hut.

I was staggered by how all this had turned out. How in the world could it have gone so wrong? Certainly I was 100 percent to blame, and now there would no doubt be a price to pay. I was scared stiff. That night I explained it all to Rankin: How the commodore came back. How Gomez threw himself across the room at him, almost crying about the major intimidating him and how Mr. Pillbin didn’t protect him. Rankin roared with laughter. He thought this was the funniest story he had ever heard in all of his military career. “It’s nothing,” he reassured me. “The commodore will forget about it over the weekend. Don’t worry about it.”

Well, of course, all I did that weekend was worry about it. No sleep at night and a heavy, heavy heart by day. It was a nightmare. I completely dreaded Monday. And just as I expected, it was the first thing the commodore mentioned that morning. Still seething, he sat down at his desk directly opposite mine and dialed a number. His face was just a few feet away. Close enough for me to see that it was flushed and braced for a fight. My face, I’m sure, was pale and getting paler by the minute. I looked at some files, pretending that I couldn’t have cared less, that this call had nothing to do with me. I then heard the commodore ask for Major Rankin—and I just held my breath.

“Well, where is he?” the commodore snapped into the phone receiver. “Up flying? I’ll call back.”

And that’s the way it went for the next three days. Turned out that Rankin himself had been answering the phone and pretending he was another officer who just kept telling the commodore that the major was out doing his job. Finally I couldn’t take the anxiety of it all anymore—I was now totally beside myself—so I pleaded with Rankin, “
You have to see the commodore
. He won’t stop calling! And every time he can’t get you on the line, he gets worse. He said that tomorrow he’s just going to come over to your hut to find you. . . .” Rankin saw how the panic was killing me, so he promised, “I’ll call him first thing in the morning and then come over to see him.”

And true to his word, early the next morning the commodore’s phone rang and Rankin made a date to come to our hut an hour later for a meeting. I was a complete wreck. The commodore brought out his medals for the showdown, and he looked pretty good, too. He just wanted Rankin to know he was no kid, that he’d been through a couple of wars himself. We were all very tense, but the time had come for them to have this out. Promptly, the major arrived, his uniform glistening—and again, Gomez threw himself against a wall, appearing terrified. The commodore stood up, and these two military officers began a heated argument that kept escalating—all of it because of something a junior officer thought would be fun. There was yelling and some threats were exchanged as they planted themselves practically nose to nose. I stood there frozen at the sight of the two of them going at it. I was almost prepared to break down and confess my sin. It would have been so easy for Rankin to tell the commodore that I was the reason he had invaded our hut in the first place. But the major never gave me up. He skillfully handled his position, as did the commodore, yet there was no defending the fact that Rankin had disregarded official protocol when he walked, uninvited, into the hut that day. It just ended up in what I’d call a draw, and
God, was I relieved when it was over!
The commodore had had his say and would claim victory. And Rankin left with his head held high nevertheless. I vowed to myself: No more stupid jokes ever. And that afternoon, Gomez smiled again, feeling vindicated, while never having known even the half of it.

So anyway, only a few weeks later I was walking down the hallway at the BOQ when I noticed that the door to the storage room was ajar. Since it was rarely left that way, I peeked inside. I didn’t see anyone, but I did notice that the particular trunk Rankin had forbidden me to ever touch, much less even look at, was pulled out and its lid was wide open. I was tempted to go inside to close it when a face slowly rose up from behind it and stared straight at me. It was a tough-looking face, let me tell you, belonging to this imposing man with a crew cut and piercing eyes. Yes, here at last, in person, was Major Keigler Flake. He had returned from his mission. Giving me the up-and-down, he asked in a menacingly quiet voice, “Who are you?” I answered, “Ensign Philbin, sir! I just saw that the door was open and didn’t know you were in here. Excuse me, sir.” Then I quickly closed the door behind me and fled.

Major Flake, in fact, was a truly intimidating guy. His presence alone would set you on edge. One day, for instance, when he was going through the breakfast buffet line, I noticed that most of the sailors on duty in the galley knew to deliberately avoid his gaze. Except for one new guy who was clueless and looked Major Flake directly in the eyes before giving him a friendly, innocent smile. Instantly, Flake pushed his face close to this kid and said, “Don’t you ever smile at me.” The sailor froze in his tracks and probably never got over the experience. But that was Keigler Flake. You might have been afraid of him or offended by him, but in a war or a fight you wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by your side.

It was just a matter of time before Flake moved his set of weights into Rankin’s workout room, positioning his mat right across from us. Both of these men were fastidious in every way, each with his mat on his own separate side of the room, each side of the room personally swept clean every day. It was almost a contest—these two marine majors doing their individual housework, competing with each other as to whose side looked better. And do you know why they did it themselves? It was because, as they would tell you, nobody else could do it better.

I learned a lot from both officers. I thought they were exceptional men—in just the right place at just the right time for them and for this country, serving the United States Marine Corps. I was proud just to be near them.

Anyway, the months flew by. My time in the navy was almost up. I had confided to Bill Rankin all about my desire to try my hand at the television business, while also confessing that I had absolutely no idea what I would or could do in that business. Television was still in its infancy. In San Diego, there was a local newscast every night on KFMB-TV, a CBS affiliate, with Ray Wilson delivering the news and Harold Keene conducting interviews with people who were making the headlines. I thought they were great together—the whole show mesmerized me in some special way. At the time, there were just two TV stations in town, but I loved keeping track of them by reading the daily television column in the
San Diego Union-Tribune,
written by Don Freeman. He had a superb way of reviewing and covering TV shows and their stars, always seeming dead-on right about every topic he touched. I love good writing, and from the start, I thought Don Freeman was just exceptional. Once I spotted him on the street outside his newspaper’s building and wanted so badly to introduce myself and ask him for advice on how to go about getting into TV as a profession. But I was too much in awe, so I didn’t bother him. Now, though, with just a few weeks left to my tour of duty, I knew it was time for me to approach this great local television expert and ask all the questions that I’ve been asked by others over and over again for the last four decades: “How do I start? Where do I go? Who do I see? How in the world do you get into the television business?”

So one afternoon I left the base early, took the ferry to San Diego, and headed directly to the Union-Tribune Building. I was, of course, terribly nervous. What would this terrific writer who knew everyone in the business think of me coming to him—without even so much as an appointment—just to ask him all these crazy questions? The receptionist in the lobby told me on which floor I could find Freeman. My heart began pounding as the elevator rose. Finally it reached the level where I was headed. I stepped out into a large room filled with rows of men at desks, clacking out stories on their typewriters. Now my nerves were on fire. I spotted Freeman at his desk, which was next to the last one in that particular row. I started down the aisle. My heart was practically leaping out of my shirtfront. God, how I hated to bother him! I’d almost reached his desk when he looked up at me for just a moment, didn’t recognize me (of course), and then returned to banging away at the keys of his typewriter.

I know I should have introduced myself . . . but I couldn’t stop walking. There was just one more desk behind his, occupied by yet another writer, and then a wall. Suddenly I realized
I would have to stop
.
There wasn’t any other place else to go! I didn’t even know who the man at the last desk was!
Why was I stopping here to talk to him about television when it was
the guy in front of him
who had the answers I wanted? Too late now. I introduced myself to this gentleman and plowed right into it:
Television. How? Who? Where? Help me, please.
Turned out this fellow was the paper’s movie critic. I wish I could remember his name. But he was the one who said that his newspaper, owned by the Copley Press, was also part owner of KCOP-TV in Hollywood, and that I should see a man named Al Flanagan, who was the station manager up there. Flanagan, he said, might be able to help me. I was so grateful just for that, just for a name of a place and a person who could possibly help me. In those few minutes with this nice movie critic, I’d now at least gotten myself a starting point. I thanked him profusely and left.

But still I had doubts. Everyone I saw on television was so talented. And all I could think of was
What’s my talent?
I had no idea. And I had absolutely no confidence either. All my life I had dreamt about entertainment. But what could I really do in that business?

The night before I was officially discharged, I had dinner with Major Rankin. He, of course, was gung ho about my dreams. He told me I
must
pursue them. (Even though I had all but given up on them.) The next day we said good-bye, talked about how we would stay in touch and all the other things you say to a friend you make in the service. Then I continued my packing. I was almost done when I heard a knock on the door. I was surprised to see that it was Major Flake. He entered the room carrying his shoes in his hands. I had a feeling Rankin had stopped by Flake’s room just to tip him off that I was leaving, and caught him in the middle of shining those shoes. He walked in—not smiling, of course—and said, “I hear you’re leaving us today. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

I blurted out, “Well, I’d love to work in television, sir, but I don’t know what I can do. I don’t really have any special talent.”

And Flake, who hated any kind of negativity, put that very stern face of his right up close to mine, almost forcing me to look directly at him. Then he growled,
“Don’t you know you can have anything you want in this life! You’ve only got to want it bad enough. Now, do you want it?!”

My answer came feebly: “Well, I’m not sure. . . . I don’t know. . . . I really don’t have any—”

And that’s when Flake hit the ceiling. He slammed his shoes together and he shouted:
“I said, Do you want it?! So? DO YOU WANT IT?!”

That’s when I finally said to him and also, at last, especially to myself: “Yes, sir! I want it!”

“Well, get in your car and get up to Hollywood and make it happen! Now! Right now!”

And in that moment, I thought of that name I had gotten at the newspaper office two weeks earlier. Al Flanagan. Station manager. KCOP-TV. I got in my car, full of blind hope, drove off the amphibious base for the last time, and then straight on up to Hollywood, determined to start something, anything, in what I would now have to make my new career.

Because I
did
want it.

Oh, and by the way, the reason that the great, unforgettable marine Major Keigler Flake was shining his own shoes that day was because no one else could do it better, of course.

Chapter Three

STEVE ALLEN

W
ith navy life now behind me, and big dreams looming before me, I suddenly felt an actual sense of direction—a real path to follow. This, I must tell you, was something new for me. And pretty thrilling, too. I had, after all, just been ordered on
high command
to go make my dreams come true, to be absolutely
determined
to get what I wanted. No excuses allowed anymore. I would no longer be tentative, or wishy-washy, about pursuing a career in the television business. So that very afternoon, following my official discharge, I drove my old Hudson convertible up the Pacific Highway and into Hollywood, equipped with only this bolstered air of confidence, the name of a TV station, and the name of the guy who ran it.

I parked outside of KCOP-TV, located then at 1000 Cahuenga Boulevard, and walked into a small lobby fronted by one tough cookie of a receptionist. I asked to see Al Flanagan, the station manager, who didn’t know me from Adam. But that was okay because I was now supposedly flush with this new kind of boldness. My goal, of course, was to volunteer myself for a job, any kind of job. The receptionist asked who I was. The only thing I could think to say was a flat-out lie: “Mr. Flanagan is a close personal friend of mine.” (
Great start—and yet what was I getting myself into here?
) But it worked. She directed me out onto the lot, which comprised two large soundstages surrounding a Mexican hacienda–style courtyard with its own wishing well. I should have tossed a few coins into it as I passed, but I barely knew what I was doing there to begin with!

I found my way to Flanagan’s office, where now his secretary also asked the purpose of my visit. And again I somehow mustered enough courage to deliver the same stupid lie: “I’m a
personal friend
.” Of course, the next big concern was how he’d react once he saw that I was a total stranger. I just hoped he was a nice guy. A few seconds later, he emerged from his office—this tall, imposing man who wasn’t smiling at all when he said to me,
“Who the hell are you?”
I just spat out my reason for being there: “Mr. Flanagan, I don’t know you, but people say you’re the man to come see. My name is Regis Philbin. I’m looking for work.” He glanced at the résumé I’d handed him, which basically said next to nothing: Born in New York City. Graduated from University of Notre Dame. Sociology major. Just served two years in the U.S. Navy, based in Coronado, California. I mean, what else was there to include? He led me into his office, asked me a few more questions, and then surprised me by saying, “Look, I don’t have anything now, but if something opens up, I’ll call you.” Maybe my blindly brazen—or was it just naively idiotic?—approach had impressed him a little. Who knows? I then told him that I hadn’t been home to New York in two years, that I’d like to go see my family again, and asked if he would call me there. He said that he would. I somehow believed him and actually felt kind of triumphant. And so I went home.

Now I should point out that my folks weren’t
entirely
unfamiliar with the broadcast world. I had an uncle, Mike Boscia, who then worked as the CBS press agent for Arthur Godfrey (that hugely popular radio and TV persona whose name is now all but forgotten). Back in New York, I told Uncle Mike about Al Flanagan’s promise. And Uncle Mike, who knew the game inside and out, was plainly skeptical—especially about anyone on the West Coast end of the industry. “They’re all crazy out there,” he lectured me. “
‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you
.
’
That’s the oldest line in the book! You’ll never hear from him again.” Just like that, he’d crushed my hopes—but then in the next breath he brought them right back to life: “Look, if you want a taste of the TV business, let me get you a job as a studio page over at NBC. I know some people. . . .”

And that’s how it really started. Hollywood, after all, wasn’t the only place to get that break I wanted so badly. On the appointed morning in June of 1955, I would report to NBC and officially enter the world of big-time television. Of course, I was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that I sat for a moment outside of 30 Rock, trying to collect myself on one of those benches that still overlook the lower concourse reflecting pool—the one that, during wintertime, becomes the famous ice-skating rink you see so often on NBC broadcasts. I noticed that all the flags stationed around Rockefeller Plaza were flapping in the breeze, much as they do today. In fact, most everything about that iconic building, forever the home of NBC, has remained the same. Even now, whenever I walk through its massive lobby with those old murals on the walls, it reminds me of that June morning so long ago when I was scared stiff and yet terribly excited to begin this new chapter in my life.

Anyway, that first day, I checked in and got my official page uniform—which had a very familiar military feel to it—and then I was assigned to head over to the Hudson Theatre on West Forty-fourth Street. There, I would work in the second balcony, seating audiences for an already popular new late-night program called
The Tonight Show,
which starred a multitalented fellow named Steve Allen. I arrived well before showtime, and once I got up to my second-balcony post, I saw that rehearsals were still under way onstage below me. I sat down to watch, instantly awed to find myself smack in the midst of genuine television stars doing their thing. There, planted behind that piano he played so expertly, was Steve Allen himself, kibitzing with his regular comic ensemble—Louis Nye, Tom Poston, and Bill Dana—each of whom would go on to great successes of their own. They were all tossing around very funny lines so effortlessly, honing their material for the broadcast to come. I laughed—and loudly, too—as I sat alone high above them. Then the show’s boy-and-girl pair of house singers—Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, who later famously became major husband-and-wife headliners in the business—stood up and ran through a number or two. I was so impressed with their magnificent voices; they were barely out of their teens, and yet they were already right here making a splash in the big time.
My God,
I thought,
how is it that all these people are just so talented, so confident, so professional—and here I am, this nobody page up in the second balcony, waiting to seat their fans?

I mean, it was clear to me in that very moment: Maybe I needed to rethink this quest of mine. Had I really chosen the right business in which to pursue a career? I began asking myself all over again:
What is my talent, anyway?
That question in particular—to which I had absolutely no answer—was the one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Or at least for many, many more years yet to come.

Cut to nearly a decade later:

The truth was, I must have had something to offer as a television persona because, for starters, at the end of that 1955 summertime stint as a
Tonight Show
page, old Al Flanagan did in fact call me back to Hollywood. He gave me work as a stagehand at KCOP-TV and eventually tipped me off to a better job that he thought I could pull off down in San Diego. That better job led to even bigger things in that town, including a local live Saturday-night talk show that allowed me to interview all kinds of people, many of them well-known celebrity characters passing through the area. One such celebrity, who held major sway over the culture and who has a chapter all his own in this book, happened to rave about the show after a most memorable guest appearance, and my phone soon began ringing off the hook. Most of the calls were from well-wishing friends, but one came from a Los Angeles agent named Max Arnow from GAC. He was eager to get a load of me in action, so he flew down to San Diego shortly after. I drove to the airport to pick him up. He was easy enough to recognize amidst the rest of the arriving passengers: very flamboyant, very brassy, very Hollywood. I then brought him to the TV station, where he reviewed some of the shows that we’d managed to record on tape (very few copies of my work existed in those days). He seemed to like what he saw, but made no promises. He did say, however, that he would try to make something happen.

Now this was in 1964, when talk shows weren’t exactly booming. In daytime, Mike Douglas was becoming an afternoon favorite in national syndication through Westinghouse. And of course NBC’s
Tonight Show
ruled supreme in late night. It was then starring the sensational Johnny Carson as host, who had followed the also sensational Jack Paar, who had, in turn, followed the originally sensational Steve Allen. Naturally, I’d never forgotten my first day as an NBC page, watching Steve from the balcony and requestioning all of my ambitions in that thoroughly humbling moment. But nowadays I was watching him on an all-new show, shot in Hollywood and syndicated by the Westinghouse Group. His latest antics were being broadcast out of a studio renamed the Steve Allen Playhouse on Vine Street, across from the Hollywood Ranch Market. This new version of his previous show was wilder and always daring. Whenever Steve allegedly ran out of material, for instance, he would send someone over to the Ranch Market, which housed a huge bulletin board plastered with crazy personal ads from people looking for jobs or for love or for God only knows what. And Steve would call up these people on the air and pry loose screamingly funny in-the-moment conversations with them. Always sharp and spontaneous, his humor never failed to dazzle me. Plus, his happened to be the only national talk show regularly taped in Hollywood at the time, so he got the greatest and starriest guests of any host working. It was wonderful television.

Anyway, my man Arnow, true to his word, had been poking around trying to find me a bigger opportunity in the business. He met often with his young subordinate agents, telling them that I was the next great new talent on the rise. Of course, none of them had actually seen me—but one of them, named Bobby Levine, happened to be in a restaurant across from the Steve Allen Playhouse one night and heard the rumor that Steve was preparing to quit the Westinghouse show. Levine immediately started telling anyone in the restaurant within earshot about this guy named Regis who was doing big things down in San Diego. Steve Allen’s executive producer, Chet Collier, turned out to be sitting there at the bar, hearing every word of Levine’s nonstop spiel. Chet, having had a few drinks already, made sure to spell out in ink on the palm of his hand the name “Regis” so that he wouldn’t forget. The next morning, he woke up, stared at his palm, and called Bobby Levine. Bobby raved on about me even more, quoting the showbiz powerhouse who had earlier praised me as well. And that did it. Chet and his lieutenants were down in San Diego to witness my very next Saturday-night show. The guest that evening was none other than the glamorous Hungarian movie queen Zsa Zsa Gabor. Chet’s gang stayed backstage, watching the live broadcast on the monitor. Luckily, Zsa Zsa and I hit it off famously, having a good laugh together. Afterward, backstage, she just blurted out for all the execs to hear:
“My God, he’s as good as Carson!”
That was all the encouragement they needed.

Next thing, they called and asked me to go to Cleveland to pinch-hit for the daytime star Mike Douglas, who was planning a vacation. They wanted to see me try my hand at a national daily show for a week. Mike, at that point, had never let a guest host sit in for him, never wanted one to either. But he finally relented and I got my shot. His staff was terrific (headed by the dynamic executive producer Woody Frasier and including a young guy named Roger Ailes, who would decades later put Fox News on the map). They even flew in a guest of my own choice, the colorful wrestler Freddie Blassie, who’d been such great fun on my San Diego show. The high jinks actually escalated on the Douglas show: While doing some stunt with Freddie, I inadvertently slapped him on the face. He, of course, blew up and began chasing me around the studio, looking very much like he would kill me once he caught me. The largely female audience screamed in terror! I probably did, too. Finally, we had to stop the chase, but not before he grabbed my hand and pretended to crush it. Except that he did crush it—
Freddie was one very strong guy!
—and accidentally managed to break one of my fingers. (I mean, I
think
it was an accident!) I still have the bump to prove it. But he was a wonderful friend. And we made some great TV there, and elsewhere in later years.

Anyway, the Westinghouse people liked what they saw and wanted to see more. So next they gave me another week—this time in Hollywood, actually guest hosting for Steve Allen himself, the guy whose shoes they seemingly wanted me to fill. They liked how that turned out, too. And then they offered me the job to take over the show from Steve once his contract ended, which was apparently happening
within weeks
! I wasn’t counting on that. I would have preferred that we’d created a brand-new show built around who I was and what I did rather than be compared to the remarkable one-of-a-kind man they simply wanted me to replace. The same man I’d watched from the second balcony roughly nine years earlier and who’d left me instantly awestruck on my first day of work in the television business.

What followed, I must honestly tell you, bothered me tremendously. I was flown around the country on one of those promotional meet-and-greet tours, stopping off at the various cities whose stations had been airing Allen’s show nightly. And no matter where I went, some TV critic would inevitably ask, “Why you?” I mean, they had never heard of me. They’d cite so many of Steve’s great abilities and talents, and then openly ask me, “So what’s your talent?”
There was that damned question again
—the one I’d never stopped asking myself, starting well before that first day in the Hudson Theatre balcony.

And I still didn’t have an answer for them—or for myself. Never quite precisely, anyway. It just got more humiliating and embarrassing every time someone raised it. It hurt, and I hated it. Worse yet, it also dominated my thoughts. I should have been focused entirely on succeeding at my big break, my new national show in Hollywood. Instead, as I went from city to city and watched Steve’s last handful of programs each night on my hotel room TV, I grew more and more discouraged. My hopes had suddenly all faded. On the last night of the tour, the actual Friday before the Monday when I would take over, I was put up at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. I watched Steve’s final show. And then I couldn’t sleep. At all. Instead, I stayed up until dawn, looking out my window at the Golden Gate Bridge.