Read Online Jeannie Out Of The Bottle by Barbara Eden - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Eden
Tags: Biography, Non-Fiction
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justice, he didn’t give me a hard time.
Instead, he got me a second interview for the same job, but he didn’t mince his words when he prepared me for it, either.
“For God’s sake, Barbara, wear that tight gingham dress, and this time take that goddamn coat off!” he said.
Grateful to get another chance at the job, I wore the dress, and even before I arrived at the building I took my coat off. At the same time, I consoled myself that at least that way, I knew that I wouldn’t have to peel off my coat at the audition like some kind of a stripper.
The director was urbane, kind, and polite. He asked me where I’d studied, then after a minute or two thanked me and I was dismissed. Gingham dress or not, I hadn’t gotten the job.
But just as I was walking down the hall, a man lolling by the watercooler chatting with a group of other men detached himself, came over to me, and asked what I was doing in the building.
I explained I was there for an interview but that I clearly hadn’t gotten the job. The man seemed sympathetic and asked me who my agent was, and that, I thought, was that.
When I got back to the Studio Club, there was a message to call Wilt.
“Bar, you got it!” he said, jubiliant.
Mr. Watercooler, it turned out, was Nat Perrin, the producer of the show for which I’d just auditioned.
My very first job. Twelve spots on twelve live shows as a dumb blonde who sang off-key and appeared in skits with the star of the show, a new performer named Johnny Carson.
Later, I found out that the reason why the director hadn’t immediately cast me in the show was because, as he later explained to me, apologetically, “When I found out where you had studied and for how long, I assumed that an intelligent girl like you could never pass for a brassy blonde who sings off-key. I’m afraid I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Nat Perrin had set him straight, so now I had my first job, on The Johnny Carson Show, a live summer replacement for Red Skelton’s show that was projected to run over the summer of 1955. Johnny was only twenty-nine at the time, married to his first wife, Jody, but restless, insecure, and, I discovered afterward, drinking too much, perhaps to assuage his nerves at getting his big break at last.
Those nerves were never on display during the show, though. Johnny was brilliant at what he did, and really clever, but I could tell that the only time when he was really comfortable was when he was onstage. In private, he was quiet and extremely self-conscious.
No one could get close to Johnny even at that early stage in his career, least of all me—mainly because CBS gossip had it that, married or not, offstage Johnny had a taste for curvy blondes. As a result, whenever I was around Johnny, I wore armor, metaphorically speaking, and he probably sensed my reserve.
Perhaps I overreacted, because in fact Johnny always behaved like a perfect gentleman. As it happens, he lost his cool in my presence only once. A hapless secretary, unaware that Johnny was allergic to cats, brought hers to the studio, and Johnny visibly bristled when he saw it. The secretary was ordered off the set, and the show went on without any further incident, but I could tell that Johnny was upset.
Offstage Johnny was acutely sensitive, but onstage, like most comedians, he protected himself with a hard shell that might as well have been made of stainless steel and Teflon. That shell was impervious to any hurts, any slights, any rejections, and Johnny, like countless other comedians, wore it like a second skin and always would.
Decades later, I made six guest appearances on The Tonight Show. Johnny was nice to me, if impersonal. One time, at the end of the show, he threw in a brief mention that we’d worked together early in his career. I could tell that the memory of the days when he wasn’t a big star deeply embarrassed him, and he didn’t mention it again, either in public or in private.
However, when we both had Las
Instead, he got me a second interview for the same job, but he didn’t mince his words when he prepared me for it, either.
“For God’s sake, Barbara, wear that tight gingham dress, and this time take that goddamn coat off!” he said.
Grateful to get another chance at the job, I wore the dress, and even before I arrived at the building I took my coat off. At the same time, I consoled myself that at least that way, I knew that I wouldn’t have to peel off my coat at the audition like some kind of a stripper.
The director was urbane, kind, and polite. He asked me where I’d studied, then after a minute or two thanked me and I was dismissed. Gingham dress or not, I hadn’t gotten the job.
But just as I was walking down the hall, a man lolling by the watercooler chatting with a group of other men detached himself, came over to me, and asked what I was doing in the building.
I explained I was there for an interview but that I clearly hadn’t gotten the job. The man seemed sympathetic and asked me who my agent was, and that, I thought, was that.
When I got back to the Studio Club, there was a message to call Wilt.
“Bar, you got it!” he said, jubiliant.
Mr. Watercooler, it turned out, was Nat Perrin, the producer of the show for which I’d just auditioned.
My very first job. Twelve spots on twelve live shows as a dumb blonde who sang off-key and appeared in skits with the star of the show, a new performer named Johnny Carson.
Later, I found out that the reason why the director hadn’t immediately cast me in the show was because, as he later explained to me, apologetically, “When I found out where you had studied and for how long, I assumed that an intelligent girl like you could never pass for a brassy blonde who sings off-key. I’m afraid I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Nat Perrin had set him straight, so now I had my first job, on The Johnny Carson Show, a live summer replacement for Red Skelton’s show that was projected to run over the summer of 1955. Johnny was only twenty-nine at the time, married to his first wife, Jody, but restless, insecure, and, I discovered afterward, drinking too much, perhaps to assuage his nerves at getting his big break at last.
Those nerves were never on display during the show, though. Johnny was brilliant at what he did, and really clever, but I could tell that the only time when he was really comfortable was when he was onstage. In private, he was quiet and extremely self-conscious.
No one could get close to Johnny even at that early stage in his career, least of all me—mainly because CBS gossip had it that, married or not, offstage Johnny had a taste for curvy blondes. As a result, whenever I was around Johnny, I wore armor, metaphorically speaking, and he probably sensed my reserve.
Perhaps I overreacted, because in fact Johnny always behaved like a perfect gentleman. As it happens, he lost his cool in my presence only once. A hapless secretary, unaware that Johnny was allergic to cats, brought hers to the studio, and Johnny visibly bristled when he saw it. The secretary was ordered off the set, and the show went on without any further incident, but I could tell that Johnny was upset.
Offstage Johnny was acutely sensitive, but onstage, like most comedians, he protected himself with a hard shell that might as well have been made of stainless steel and Teflon. That shell was impervious to any hurts, any slights, any rejections, and Johnny, like countless other comedians, wore it like a second skin and always would.
Decades later, I made six guest appearances on The Tonight Show. Johnny was nice to me, if impersonal. One time, at the end of the show, he threw in a brief mention that we’d worked together early in his career. I could tell that the memory of the days when he wasn’t a big star deeply embarrassed him, and he didn’t mention it again, either in public or in private.
However, when we both had Las
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