The Night I Punched Liberace

The Night I Punched Liberace

This was back in the days of black and white. 

Television was still in its infancy, all big box cameras and flat lifeless sets. Variety shows were easy to produce, performers would work for next to nothing (and sometimes less) just to get their mug out onto the airwaves.

Some of the stars were there to dazzle, but I'd been around long enough in the business to know: the showier the presentation, the more they had to hide.

You see, I'd come up through the ranks of the old vaudeville circuit. Me and my older sister Darcette, we had an act back in Chicago from the moment I could sit up straight; 'The Boogie Woogie Babies', they called us. I handled the bass clef, because that was the easy part, while Darcette ran her cold, magic, bony fingers over the upper ivories. 

My folks? They had a thing about not working for a living. And that's where Darcette and I came in.

It was a cute act. Even at that young age, somehow, I had an immediate grasp of the power I possessed the moment I walked onstage. At first, I'd dutifully hold Darcette's hand as we walked onstage, playing shy for the audience. The more I blushed, the more they ate it up. 

Then one night, halfway to the piano, I broke away from my sister and ran straight down to the front of the stage. With a grin bigger than my face, I looked into the darkness, panning the void like I knew them all, before flopping down on my padded ass and staring heavenward. After a few beats, Darcette marched down and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet, admonishing me for being such 'bad boy' the whole way to the bench.

The audience loved it and that, much to horror of Darcette, became the standard opening to our act. 

I was five years old at the time, but they dressed me up like I was three. See, I hadn't gotten my growth spurt yet, so they milked that bit as long as they could. Darcette, on they other hand, shot up like a bean pole; side by side, we looked like Mutt N Jeff. After a point, I started growing, too. Fortunately, for the act, for every half inch I grew, Darcette grew a whole one. And when I started to lose my baby fat, my folks began padding my little sailor suit in order to keep me nice and plump looking.

I kept on playing, eventually getting good enough where I'd take a solo turn. I wasn't as technically accomplished as Darcette, but I made up for it with showmanship. And I'd sing, too. Not great, but then, when you're a kid, you don't have to be Sinatra to hold a crowd's attention. 

But time marched to it's own beat, and eventually our act grew stale. And by the time Darcette was sixteen she'd met the man of her dreams... a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Eventually, the two of them became inseparable. Goodbye, Darcette. 

And my folks? Well, to pay the rent they got into running hootch, making the all too common mistake of sampling their own goods a bit too much. Discreet, they were not; the local cops caught wind of their going-ons and going to jail, they went. Goodbye, Mom and Pop. 

Of course, by then, hormones got the best of me. My not so cute phase? Well, it lasted longer than than vaudeville, that's for sure. Soon there wasn't a bill that would have me, so I kept myself useful, playing stagehand, sweeping what needed to be swept and running the spotlight. By that point the circuit was dead, anyway. Nothing left but a bunch of jugglers and vulgar burlesque dancers. The rest of the acts had either found their way into the movies or gone the way of the silent picture show. 

Fortunate for me, one of those those burlesque dancers took a shine to me - told me I had that special 'something', and introduced me to the magic of pancake make-up. Turns out, you can turn a face riddled with acne into something stage-presentable with that stuff. 

Her name was Lucille Champagne, equal parts brassy and bubbly, she had the biggest pair of tits I'd ever seen. Between sets, she'd let me play with them - not that they did anything for me. 

Yeah, you see, I was queer. Knew it from day two. It's like being offered a glass of milk or a bottle of root beer; you know which one you want right away. Lucille was disappointed, but that didn't stop her from trying to pop my cherry. See, Lucille? She liked 'em young - too young. Got her into a lot of trouble one day, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

On the day our troupe received notice that the theatre we'd been playing in Chicago would be torn down, Lucille grabbed me by the hand and we were on the next train to Hollywood, who made it very clear, very early on, that I was not the camera-ready type. So, I settled for extra work, when I could get it, and spent the rest of my time playing piano in dive bars. Whenever Family Welfare would come snooping around, Lucille would claim to be my mother and tell them to get lost, which, for a President Jackson or a roll in the hay, they would happily do. 

Lucille actually got some nice parts, speaking parts! Turned out her brand of moxy and those giant jugs made for the perfect gangster's moll. But.. old appetites grow larger with time, and  just as her star was about to rise, she made the mistake of getting caught in bed with a 14 year-old by the boy's father. Turns out, Lucille had been dating the dad just to get close to the son. The old man got the authorities involved and Lucille vanished quicker than Fatty Arbuckle's career. Goodbye, Lucille.

At this point I was sixteen; all skin and bones, but strong. You pull enough stage rope, and take enough dance lessons, you create the sort of body that'll catch some guy's eye. And my age didn't hurt, either, chicken hawks were always more than willing to offer me an easy way out. "Come lay by my pool. Come sit on my lap. Let me buy you a drink." Nope. Not for me. I'd met a few of those former golden boys once they got to be the wrong side of twenty and the stories they shared wised me up to that racket real fast. 

Of course, I used to have Lucille looking out for me, but with her in the wind, I was on the streets and on my own. I'd sleep wherever I found work, mostly dive bars, catching zzz's under the piano between sets. 

That's where I met Tommy Bomber.

A few years my senior, he was a young, greasy comedian. Came into the bar one night for a quick drink between sets and ended up taking up residency next to me on that bench as I played. We sang song after song. I kind of knew what he was after, but I wasn't quite ready to sing that particular tune - not yet, so we became best buds. He kept telling me I was wasting my time in Hollywood. New York was where it was all happening. I told him every dance instructor I'd ever had made it crystal clear I didn't have what it takes to make it on Broadway. He laughed. "Fuck Broadway," he said. "Television. That's where it's at." He told me you don't even have to be that good, just show up. They're dying to fill air time. 

Tommy was established enough to secure a booking at a club in New York; an opening slot on a bill of four for one week. On the strength of that, he sold everything he had and bought a pair of one way train tickets to NYC. "Pack up, kid. You're going to New York!" At first, I balked, but then I took a look around me. What the hell did I have going on here? Nothing. I'd just turned eighteen, and a fresh start sounded like a good idea, so, I took him up on his kind offer. That train ride felt like forever. Between us, we didn't have a penny, so we spent most of the trip walking through the dining car, stealing table scraps. 

We had nothing but 83 hours to kill, so the entire time, Tommy kept trying out his new material on me. He wanted something sharper for the New York crowd. It was raunchy stuff, and he even incorporated my stories about Lucille. I didn't mind. Share the memories, that's my motto, otherwise they die with you.

New York City opened up like a magic jewel; we were both dazzled. Tommy's act went over well and he got himself an agent. Me? I wasn't as fortunate. So I started hanging around 30 Rockefeller Center. Initially, I'd pass the day being an audience member, bringing with me various jackets, hats and a pair of fake glasses to avoid being pegged as 'that guy in the audience'. Eventually, the wardrobe ladies took a liking to me and helped me out - it became a kind of competition between them. Fatty Patty and Madge. They'd sneak me stuff from the craft services table, too, complaining that I was too skinny to dress. 

Those ladies? Lifesavers. I love 'em like they were my mothers. When a job backstage, moving sets became available, they hooked me up and just like that, I was a union man. 

Tommy and I? We drifted apart. He turned out to be another rocket that never quite broke through the atmosphere. His climb started well. As the clubs and gigs got ritzier, his choices offstage became more and more dicey. Someone introduced him to a hustler named Luka, who, in turn, introduced him to a needle. 

The day I read his tiny obit in the Times, I cried my eyes out. Good-bye, Tommy Bomber. 

Years went by... the folks at NBC? They were my family. And as families do, we shared everything - even tales of our storied pasts. Seems folks liked mine and word quickly spread about my days in vaudeville. Before I knew it, I was saddled with a nickname I never thought would come back to haunt me: The Boogie Woogie Kid, or... as most would call me, simply 'Boogie' or 'Kid'. Everyone had a good laugh and each time a newcomer would join the family, they'd be clued in regarding the origins of my moniker. 

Spring forward, one of the shows I'm hauling set for is none other than The Kate Smith Hour. 

Kate, fucking Smith.

She was a nice enough broad, but, oh, how I hated hearing her sing; like listening to a cat wanting to be a bird. 

'The Songbird Of The South' was on the downside of her career, but she still held court with the Mom and Pop crowd, which is why she was on NBC.

In 1952, she was hosting a variety show. And, since the airwaves were brimming with similar fare, the show's booking agents were always looking for acts to fill time. That's the only explanation I can give for the day one of them walked up to me and told me I was going to be on the show that night. I cried foul, but it fell on deaf ears. I was then ordered to report to one of the dressing rooms in Studio 1A. Like a good little employee, I did as I was told.

I knocked on the door and the powdered face of a leering jester loomed out from the other side. 

It was Liberace. He shook my hand - I wasn't impressed - and he ushered me inside. With great flourish he told me to call him 'Lee' (all his 'friends do') and that he'd heard I was 'in the building.' Turns out, back in the days when he was still doing the classical circuit, he'd met my sister, Darcette and caught our act in a theatre in Chicago.  

I asked him how he knew my sister and he muffled out something about buying her a drink at a bar he frequented when playing the windy city - which made me wonder what kind of a bar would serve a 16 year-old, but I let it slide.

Then he told me all about how he was dying to have his own show, but the only way that was going to happen is if he became a regular face on those of others. He'd been trying to get on Kate's show for some time, but the booking agent said key jockeys were a dime a dozen and put audiences to sleep. So, if he wanted to be on the show, he'd have to come up with an angle. 

I was that angle. 

He'd introduce me and tell the audience about my days in vaudeville. All I had to do was smile and say 'thank you'. Oh... and handle the bass part on a boogie woogie number. He asked if I was familiar with Chicago Breakdown by Jelly Roll Morton. I scoffed. It was one of the songs I cut my ivories on. 

We agreed on a key, he gave me that smear of his that passed for a smile, and showed me the door. 

As soon as I was on the other side, I was ambushed on either side by Patty and Madge, who whisked me away to wardrobe and make-up; they said I could use a coat of polish, or two. 

The ladies in make-up cut my hair, gave me a shave and moisturized the hell out of my face, while the duds Patty and Madge stuck me in had me looking like a million bucks. I saw my image in the mirror and said, "Hell, yeah, I'd fuck that guy."

As showtime drew near, I got the flop sweats. I was 31 years-old. What was I thinking? Though I'd never stopped playing, I'd long given up all dreams of playing for a living, let alone being invited into the living rooms of folks across the country. But then I thought, what the hell? It'll make for a good story for the newcomers. 

As I stood backstage next to Liberace, I took time to look him over; I always like to know who I'm getting in bed with. First off, he reeked of perfume - not cologne, perfume, so much so, as if I wasn't nervous enough, the smell of him made my stomach flip. Then there was the wave of his hair; he looked like a damn French poodle. And his suit? Like Little Lord Fauntleroy all grown up and meeting the queen for cocktails. He kept tugging at his shirt cuffs and just as I was about to tell him to knock it off, Kate introduced our act as, "Liberace and A Special Friend."

That didn't sit too well with me. I did not want to be known as 'Liberace's Special Friend'.

Cursing under my breath, I strode shoulder to shoulder with Lee to center stage. As we got closer to Kate, he cut me off dead, grabbing her paw and glad-handing the old lady like he was running for office. He then stepped directly downstage to the center camera and began to address the television viewers like some evil marionette. My face flushed a brilliant red as he babbled on effusively about how he had 'a special surprise' for the audience. He made up some crap about the legends of vaudeville as he ushered me before the camera, introducing me as 'The Boogie Woogie Baby!' Slapping me on the shoulder, he made some joke about me growing up big and strong. 'I guess from now on we'll have to call you 'The Boogie Woogie Kid,' he crooned, as his eyebrows did a crazy dance on his forehead. 

My smile, frozen in place, hardened to a mean sneer as I gave him a steely, sideways glance. If he caught the gist, he didn't let on, steering me toward the grand piano stage right, filling our cross with his inane jabber. He made a big show of where I should sit and where he was going to sit and what we were about to do, standing right in front of me, blocking me from view of the camera throughout.

Finally, he sat, bobbed his index finger up and down for a count of four to set the the tempo and we were off to the races. My fingers quickly found their familiar groove as his pranced around the ivories, fluttering faster than a hootch floozie's eyelashes. I kept focused on my hands, only glancing to the right on occasion and smiling, to let the audience know I was still there. Lee, on the other hand, hammed it up, mugging directly into the camera, never glancing at the keys even once. 

I thought to myself, 'aww, this ain't so bad.' But then Lee began straying from the song, throwing in bits of classical melodies and popular Broadway songs. I get it. He was there to entertain. That's also when I felt his left hip strike mine with a force that caught me by surprise. As the song continued, I felt more and more that he was muscling his way into my bass clef turf. His actions grew more animated and I felt another hip check, and then another. 'Waitaminute...what is this?'

Then, laughing aloud, he began to reach over me, with the two of us occasionally striking the same key. I could feel something boiling deep within as my face locked into a scowl. 

That fourth hip check? That did it. 

I lost it. 

I slammed my hip into his so hard it sent him reeling off the bench and damn if he didn't land hard on his skinny little tush. As he rose back up, squaring off to complain, I clocked him one... right in the puss. Out of nowhere, music swelled up behind me, the lights changed, and Kate, flustered, was bubbling her way through the announcement of a new sponsor. I was about to go for Lee's throat when a cameraman I knew really well pulled me off of him. From there, a security guard hustled me out into the alley, telling me, in no uncertain terms, to go home. 

I reported for work the next day, at my usual time. No one said a word. Seems a union rep had already paid the head honchos a visit telling them they couldn't fire me because they'd asked me to do something not stipulated in my job description. That rep let them know that any form of retaliation would would be viewed as an act of bad faith, nullifying the union's contract. And with no contract? Good luck staying on the air. 

So everybody acted like it never happened. Except Patty and Madge, who sidled up to me in the commissary, giving me the eye. They told me NBC felt so bad for Lee that they'd offered him a slot in the summer as a replacement show for Dinah Shore - and I was officially banned from that set. 

My face must of fell, because Patty gave me the big doe eyes and said, "Don't feel too bad, kid. That Liberace? He deserved it. Besides..." she confided, "I hear he's a big faygeleh."

To which I replied, "Yeah, well, so am I."

Then, without batting an eyelash, Madge piped up, "Really, kid? Aww, that's too bad."

I felt my blood getting hot. "Oh, is it? Is it really?" 

"Yeah, too bad for you," she said. "I heard that Lee fella is hung like a horse!'

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