Memories of Johnny

My sister just called with the news that Johnny Carson -- my former employer -- has died of emphysema.

I worked as the writers' assistant at The Tonight Show from 1986 to 1990. I quit almost exactly one year before Mr. C announced he would be retiring in 1992. If I had known the end would be coming so soon, I would have stuck it out the last two years, even though by that time my relationship with several of the writers had become rather frosty.

In many ways, it was the best job I've ever had. In other ways, it was a frustrating place to work. Drue, his former assistant, once described her position there as "a velvet trap," and I could relate. But at no time did I feel any dissatisfaction as the result of the actions of Mr. C, who was the most courteous and decent person I've ever come across in Hollywood.

I shouldn't be shocked at this news. The tabloids had reported that he was suffering from emphysema, and I'd hoped they were wrong. I do remember the first time I encountered him backstage; he had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Some time after that, he was rumored to have quit.

I began my job at The Tonight Show on May 20, 1986. I remember it well, because it was my 30th birthday. That day, I worked from 9:00 a.m. until 1:00 a.m., when the head writer and his partner finally finished the sketch that was scheduled for later in the week. I must have mentioned it to one of the writers, because as the last one trudged down the stairs to go home that night (I had to remain to type the pages), he muttered "Lousy way to spend a birthday."

At the time, these late night scripts were delivered to Johnny's home, so he would see the pages when he awoke in the morning. After finishing the script, I would type his address in Point Dume onto an order form and call our messenger service before leaving the package with the guard at the NBC gate. Only then would I get to go home.

Eventually, I was given a computer to use (in 1986, few TV production companies were using them) with the idea of modeming the script to Mr. C -- but we were never able to get that to work. Eventually, Carson Productions bought one of those "new-fangled" fax machines -- and we were finally able to stop using the late night messenger service. But to this day, I remember his home address. I've never divulged it to anyone.

Around the office, we referred to the man who paid our salaries always as "Mr. Carson" or "Mr. C." But he never put on airs -- when he called (and he called my boss several times a day), he always identified himself as Johnny.

He was a shy man. Those who knew him well reported that he was not easy to know, and only became gregarious when he was performing. I remember one day -- it was the week we were celebrating his 25th anniversary as host of the Tonight Show. Anniversaries were acknowledged with a prime time special, and this one was planned to really live up to that term. The day before the show, all the staffers (about 20 of us) were called into the office of the production manager, who informed us that in honor of the anniversary, Mr. C had given us all an across-the-board $100 a week raise.

So we had Don in the art department (the guy who was responsible for creating all the "We'll Be Right Back" graphics they showed before commercials) make up a giant thank-you card, which we all signed. We asked Drue if we could present it to him in person. She let us know when we could meet him in her office.

Johnny's office was located downstairs, below the stage where we taped the show. We crammed into Drue's outer office and she called him out to meet with us. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable and a little embarrassed by our show of gratitude. He accepted the card, and made a point of shaking hands with all the guys. He kissed each of the women on the cheek. We all returned to work.

I don't recall him ever visiting our offices. He would begin his day by reading several newspapers -- and script pages, if we had sent him any the previous night. Then he would call the head writer to discuss anything of interest in the news and that evening's show. Those phone calls could result in us scrapping whatever we had already prepared for that day's taping, to be replaced with something else brainstormed that morning.

There were ten writers; half of them only wrote monologue jokes - the rest of them also worked on the sketches and desk pieces that were performed after the first commercial break. By lunchtime, each of the monologue guys would be finished with about five pages of one-liners, which they would slip under Johnny's office door. Johnny would drive in from Malibu in the early afternoon and assemble the monologue himself. The writers never knew until the taping which, if any, of their jokes made it in. Eventually, a couple of them realized that they could find out sooner by hanging out in the little cubby where cue card guy Bob worked -- they would come back upstairs to our office, either disappointed or triumphant about what they saw Bob write on those cards.

He could be moody. If he was in a good mood, he could recite the phone book and it would get laughs. But if he was in a bad mood, the best jokes in the world would fall flat, and the writers would most likely be blamed. Needless to say, the guys spent a lot of time trying to analyze Johnny and his moods. Before each taping, they would hover waaaay backstage, hoping he wouldn't see them. They wouldn't move up close to the backstage monitor until he was safely onstage, delivering the monologue. Legend had it that in the wild New York days, Mr. C would fire writers who were hanging out backstage, because he thought they should be spending all their time writing jokes for him. I have no idea if that was true, but the guys took enough stock in that to stay out of his way before the taping.

One day, not long before our 5:30 taping, he got the news that his friend, drummer Buddy Rich, had died. That day's show included one of the sketches where he impersonated Ronald Reagan. He was done up in his Reagan wig and makeup and seated at the Oval Office desk -- and for some reason, his microphone didn't work. It's the only time I ever saw him angry -- so did about 500 people in the audience. He blew up, came backstage, and ordered Fred de Cordova to fire the sound guy responsible for wiring the mic. Fred calmed him down, the show went on and the next day, we were dark. The sound guy kept his job. I never asked him what happened, but my bet is that Mr. C apologized. That's the kind of man he was.

He only ever called me on the carpet once. In many ways, the Tonight Show was like a big, dysfunctional family. Johnny didn't like anyone to see the scripts before the taping -- he was convinced that if spontaneity was lost by the staff and crew, that they wouldn't laugh -- and that would affect the audience's reaction, as well. So I wasn't supposed to distribute the scripts to the rest of the staff and crew until the very last possible minute.

However, in many cases, that wasn't exactly possible. Sketches needed sets, costumes, makeup and props, and these often needed as much as a week to build. So I would quietly distribute an early draft of the sketches to the appropriate people, all of whom knew they weren't supposed to let on. But one day, someone had left a copy of the script in the makeup room, and one of that evening's guests was seen chuckling over it in the chair. Johnny called me directly (uh oh!) and reminded me that the scripts were NOT for distribution. He was very nice about it.

Of course, I continued distributing the scripts to the necessary departments as needed. But I wasn't caught again.