Rita Moreno: A Memoir (14 page)

Ann:
Oh, that’s nice, honey. What kinda dance?

Rita:
It’s Spanish dance.

Ann:
(glazed eyes)

Rita:
Yeah, it’s uh, you know, uh, it’s flamenco, the sevillanas, pronounced “sevi-yah-nas.”

Ann:
Sevi-what? Sevi-what-nas? I see! Like rumbas and tangos? Spanish stuff!

Rita:
(with a barely discernible sigh).
Yesss
…Yes, that’s kind of it…. So, I want you to know that I just love it soooo much when I’ve seen you dance on all those platforms
and steps and stuff! I mean, it’s really scary, and boy, I just don’t know how you did it! (Pause.) How
do
you do it?

Ann:
Listen, honey, what’s your name?

Rita:
Rita.

Ann:
Well, lemme tell ya somethin’, honey, if I have to do one more fuckin’ dance on one more fuckin’ platform, I will strangle that fuckin’ choreographer!

Every time my idol dropped the old F-bomb my head literally snapped back with each utterance. I gasped but did not wish to appear critical. On this mission, Ann Miller was the headliner; I was only eye candy.

The reason we were assigned to fly from LA to Palm Beach was to open the famous Casablanca-style luxury hotel the Colony, known for its art deco palms and white leather Polo bar. For this occasion, I was outfitted with a gorgeous wardrobe borrowed from the MGM costume department. Just packing had been a heady experience. All of my dresses had been worn by stars and were stored with labels like, “Ava Gardner, screen test,” or “Bette Davis, party dress.”

At that time, Palm Beach was a seriously big-time society place with very wealthy “gentlemen,” mostly scions, and bejeweled, coiffed Babe Paley types. (I believe that Palm Beach is
still
in that time, having been placed in suspended animation around 1953.) “Coiffed,” in this case, meant a very smooth, jaw-length, “barely there” pageboy with a side part. Even then, Palm Beach women were skeleton-thin (what author Tom Wolfe would later dub in his novel
Bonfire of the Vanities
“the X-rays”). This made me question the Duchess of Windsor’s old saying, “One can never be too rich or too thin.” Palm Beach women seemed to be both.

The Palm Beach women fell into two categories: the old-style
heiresses who resembled the horses they rode, and younger trophy wives. The prettiest and youngest of the trophy wives I met on that weekend jaunt was an instant favorite of mine, Gregg Dodge, otherwise known as Mrs. Horace Dodge Jr. She was an expensive bottle blonde whom I had last seen performing at the Copacabana as a showgirl.

Gregg had become the fifth wife of the Dodge auto heir at the first moment that she noticed a breast droop. Smart move, as the wealth seemed limitless. (As it turned out, Gregg would hit that limit, but it did take her some time to achieve bankruptcy.) When I met her that weekend, she was in her glory— gorgeous and rich, so very rich, and still a happy-go-lucky Texan gal who wanted to show it off and share her good fortune.

When Gregg invited me to her mansion on the main mansion drag, Ocean Drive, it was obvious that she had scored wealth beyond anything I had ever even glimpsed. As she led me up to her bedroom, I noted that Gregg was even leggier than Ann Miller. I would have loved to see them in a kickoff.

We were already deep in girl talk. I gushed, “I just thought you were the most beautiful girl I had
ever
seen in my life when I saw you strike a pose.” I meant it! I also complimented Gregg on her gleaming skin.

She couldn’t wait to pass along her secret: “Vaseline! But you apply it very, very thin, sweetie.” This was an old showgirl trick.

We walked through what seemed to be a series of walk-in closets. (If memory serves, an entire floor of the mansion was a walk-in closet.) Finally, Gregg said, “Come ovah to my fuh closet and I’ll lend you one of my stoles.”

Oh, my God!
I thought, as we walked into a vast cooler.
Is this what heaven is like?
Heaven in the Arctic! The closet was filled with forlorn dead creatures, which didn’t bother me in the least
back then. Gregg chose a silvery blue mink stole and stooped to drape it over my shoulders. I felt like kneeling, as if this were a coronation.

I walked on air for the rest of the week, feeling very complete, thank you very much.

Gregg Dodge went on to live a long, expensive life. I suppose you could say that she “misspent” her later years, since she spent every cent of Dodge’s money. Dodge decided to divorce her at one point, crying, “I can’t afford this woman anymore!”

He dropped dead before the divorce was final, but Horace had cut her out of his will—and besides, he didn’t have any money left, thanks to Gregg’s talent for spending. But, ever resourceful, Gregg sued her mother-in-law, claiming she interfered in their marriage and turned Horace against her. They settled out of court for an undisclosed amount, but it was rumored to be in excess of nine million dollars.

Gregg spent that money, too. Finally, she married her bodyguard and spent
his
money. He shot himself in the head. She went on to live a long life, dying at age eighty-seven, but she died in “reduced circumstances.” I can still see her legs, her hair, her glowing skin…and feel the surprising lightness of that fine “fuh” she draped across my shoulders.

*   *   *

The most important evening event on that publicity weekend was the official opening of the Colony Hotel. This took place at the in-house nightclub, the Royal Room, which still functions and books many cabaret artists. The place was jammed with socialites, horsey folk, and famous people of every stripe.

The person I remember most vividly from that event was Anita Ekberg, the Swedish-American model, actress, and pinup
girl. Anita, a lush Nordic beauty, was at the height of her fame and caused a stir every time she brandished those exceptional “ladies”: her giant breasts. And brandish those breasts she did, causing much alarm or joy, depending on your gender.

Anita made all of the papers the next day because she—most likely in her substantial cups, pun intended—decided to grace the waters of the Atlantic Ocean with her voluptuous self. Well! The word got around instantly—isn’t that what press agents are for?—and at least three-quarters of the populace of the Royal Room raced out to see what was going on.

It looked like the club was vomiting people as out they scurried. The ladies got sand in their golden sandals and hopped about on one foot to take them off, looking for all the world like crazed marionettes in their hurry to see the spectacle.

And what a sight it was! Anita emerged from the sea like Venus rising above the frothy waves, minus the clamshell, strapless chiffon clinging like Saran Wrap. She truly showed the world and us mere mortals what God can achieve on a good day.

But all good things have to come to an end. The goddess, walking along the sand, fell down ugly.
Splat!
Right down on her ample derriere, ass over teakettle, glocken over spiel, and legs splayed, one still airborne as her goddess tunic slowly crept up to her knickers and, the final insult, her tiara cocked over one eye. Showtime was over and that rude, fickle audience sauntered back to the club, looking forward to more booze and buzz.

I was sitting with Ann Miller close to the door that led to the beach, watching the sandy crowd crunch their way back to their tables, when I spotted a
very
handsome redheaded gentleman in full formal wear. He was accompanying a lovely, regal woman wearing
the
gown of the moment. I had seen that dress in
Vogue
magazine that very day: a silk taffeta print with large red roses on a full gathered skirt. Gorgeous! It was the very first time I’d ever seen a woman wearing white opera gloves. In other words, a
lady
.

As this couple slowly walked in, sauntering as though to catch everyone’s attention, the gentleman in question caught my eye with an expression on his handsome face that was unmistakable. His hairline moved back an inch, as when a predatory animal spots his prey and paralyzes it with “that look.” It was obviously lust at first sight, and I remember thinking
Whooo, this guy don’t waste no time!

All of this happened in the wink of an eye while his white-gloved companion in the beautiful dress was busy trading hellos with friends. To me, though, their procession was taking place in slow motion as they reached their destination at the opposite end of the room. They were gorgeous.

For the rest of the evening, I played a private little game that I called “eyesies.” Every time I looked this man’s way, I would catch him sending me smoldering signals. They were so obvious and so shameless that I actually started to laugh. Whenever I caught him staring at me, I would point my finger at him as if to say,
Caught ya!
He didn’t even blink.

I’m surprised that no one else noticed our game, but they were too busy looking at this beautiful couple. I was also stunned that a man with such a perfect woman at his side could be even remotely interested in the likes of me.

At one point, I asked Ann to take a look to see if she could identify him. “Oh, honey, who the hell knows?” she said. “They all look the same to me: rich!”

I want to add that, had I sent the most subtle
I’m interested! What next?
visual message, I have no doubt that this man would
have sent someone over to my table to escort me upstairs. No doubt whatsoever!

Imagine my shock, then, weeks later, when the redheaded man who had flirted so boldly with me reappeared on the cover of
Life
magazine and I discovered who he was: the young senator from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy.

There was a show that night with an upcoming comic who probably wanted to slit his throat after his stint, because nobody, but
nobody
paid the least attention to him except Ann and me. The first rule of thumb in my profession is to never, never, never perform for high society. They will murder you; they will destroy your will to live through their toxic inattention.

After that debacle at the Royal Room, we were all invited to attend a reception at one of the Topping brothers’ mansions on the waterway. I don’t remember which Topping brother it was, but brother Henry was married to Lana Turner, and brother Dan later became part owner of the New York Yankees.

The mansion was exactly what you would expect if you lived in that milieu, but you can imagine that my eyes were popping out. The front lawn was actually at the back of the house, because that was where the boats—or rather, the
yachts—
were docked. That was where all of the outdoor festivities took place.

Out on the lawn, I ensconced myself on a carved-stone Victorian bench, where a number of rich old roosters put the make on me. I really wanted to go back to my room, but Ann prevailed upon me to stay.

At one point, Ann also somehow convinced me that we should go on an exploratory mission to look inside all of the medicine cabinets. I did investigate a few medicine chests with her, but got cold feet after I saw a year’s worth of condoms in one. Yes, the entire bloody cabinet! I fled the house at that point, fearful that
the owner/reprobate would somehow find me looking in there and haul me off to one of those endless bedrooms to give me what-for with his bottomless supply of Goodyears.

A bit shaken, I returned to my perch on the front lawn that was really the back lawn. This time, not a soul approached or spoke to me, but I wasn’t moving from my cold stone bench. I was kind of hoping some of those old farts had fallen into the canal. In truth, one of the boats was rocking rather suspiciously.

Ann finally came outside again, looking so breathless and wide-eyed that I asked whether she’d been caught during her exploratory journey through the immense manse.

“Oh, my gawd, honey!” she said, with those Minnie Mouse eyes as big as plates. “You will
not
believe this! I’d already finished with the cabinets and walked out to the hall when I heard some thuds coming from behind a closed door. I opened it, and would you believe it? Pressed against a bookcase was a woman with her skirt over her head, with a man leaning into her with his pants around his ankles, doin’ it!”

Ann was shrieking by now, so I was grateful for the band playing the good-night song, “Wishing (Will Make It So),” as she told me in detail about the amorous couple having a major go at it.

“There were a number of books, some open, that must have tumbled from the force of the action and lay all over the floor,” she said. “Well, you know, that makes sense, right? When you’ve got a skirt over your head and don’t have a clue where you’re being pushed, things
will
fall off the shelves.”

“So what did you do?” I was completely caught up in her story, picturing the whole scene.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept saying, ‘Oh, my God, oh, my God, ohdearohdear, ohmy!’ Have you any idea how
complicated it is to pull up your undies with a skirt over your head? Well, better than showing your face!”

We were helpless with laughter by then, as I tried to imagine Ann Miller, Miss Potty Mouth, reduced to uttering pithy things like, “Oh, my!” while this hapless couple skittered around, skidding on books and trying to pull up their underwear.

The next day at lunch, I tried to guess which couple Ann had surprised in the act, but it was impossible. I observed too many red-eyed people looking as if they wished they were dead. You know, with the kind of expression that says,
What was I thinking?

Ann and I had some more raucous laughs over the mating couple, and I made her swear that she’d really uttered those inane words, so unlike her. She assured me that yes, it was the truth. She was that genuinely shocked.

Ann then told me that she had become very fond of me. “You’re okay, honey,” she said, adding that she had planned a special treat for me when we flew back to Los Angeles that day: She had rearranged our Pan Am tickets so that we could enjoy a three-hour stopover in New Orleans and have dinner at Antoine’s,
the
restaurant for “great, great Southern and Cajun cookin’, honey. Really glamorous!”