(Tape #4 with Sonny Day. Recorded in his study, February 20.)
HOAG: SO THAT’S HOW YOU and Gabe met. In boot camp.
Day: Right.
Hoag: You’re not enjoying this, are you?
Day: How do you expect me to enjoy it? The man broke my heart.
Hoag: How?
Day: Not now.
Hoag: When?
Day: When I can handle it. Don’t push me.
Hoag: The good times then. Your impressions of him, when you first met.
Day: Okay. Sure. Gabe Knight was a square. He was from a place called Lincoln, Nebraska. He lived in a big white house on one of those wide, quiet streets with the big elm trees. They had a porch swing. His dad was a pharmacist, always wore a white shirt, and for fun he sang in a barbershop quartet. The old lady, she wore an apron and baked pies. The town held a fucking parade for him when At Ease opened there. First time he took me there, I swore I was on the backlot at Warners.
Hoag: What was he like?
Day: A Boy Scout. A milk drinker. He said shucks. Called his dad sir. Went to church. Wrote home every day to his girl, Lorraine, who actually, I swear to god, lived in the house next door. He married her. She was his first wife. That was before he got corrupted.
Hoag: And what did he think of you?
Day: He thought I was a Dead-end Kid, the kind who stole old ladies’ handbags and opened fire hydrants on hot summer days. Not true. I have never opened a fire hydrant. Seriously, I was as foreign to him as he was to me. He never knew a Jew before. Let alone slept under one. The characters he and I played, those characters were really us. That’s why it was so good.
Hoag: How did the two of you hit it off? Or should I say why?
Day: Show business. He was putting himself through the university there as a kind of entertainer. He worked as a DJ on the local radio station for a buck a night. Performed in summer stock, the straw hat stuff. He could sing, play the ukulele, and he was a pretty fair hoofer. Did a magic act, too, for kids’ birthday parties. Juggled. Palmed. Used it in The Big Top, remember? He did a little bit of everything. None of it great, but what the hell did they know in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Hoag: Was he funny?
Day: He was clever. Comedy itself, the art form, he knew shit from. I taught him everything.
Hoag: You became friends?
Day: We’d both performed. It was something we had in common and talked about and kept talking about. He had the bug, see. He loved to talk about movies, radio shows. And he loved hearing about the Catskills. When we had a pass, we’d sit over Cokes and talk all night. Pretty soon I’m showing him some of the old routines me and Mel did, and he was laughing and chipping in. And then he was taking off. And so was I. Once we got started, we riffed all the time, like a couple of musicians. It was our release. Basic training was a pretty awful place, believe me. You were told where to go, what to do. And for all you knew, you’d be dead in six months. Most of the guys drank to blow off steam. With me and Gabe, it was humor.
Hoag: Did you compare him in your mind to Mel?
Day: Hard not to. He was a big brother type. A little older than me. Tall, solid, dependable. People liked him.
Hoag: Was he serious about wanting to become a performer?
Day: You mean, what would have happened if we never met? Hard telling. Gabe was a small-town boy, conservative, not the sort inclined to take the big chance. I think he’d have settled down and ended up behind the counter of that pharmacy. We weren’t looking for something to happen. It just did.
Hoag: You make it sound like a love affair.
Day: It was, at first. And then it’s more like a marriage. You spend all your time together, plan your future together. There’s trust, affection, loyalty, jealousy. The only thing you don’t do is fuck. Come to think of it, it is just like being married, (silence) Whoops, sorry, Hoagy. Old joke.
Hoag: When did you realize you were good together?
Day: Right off. The guys kept hearing us and wanted to know what we was doing, so we tummeled some routines and started doing them for ’em. In the barracks. In the mess hall. For fun like in the dorm at Pine Tree. We did a drill routine where this tough sergeant, Gabe, is drilling a clumsy recruit, me, who keeps dropping his gun. That was our first big routine. We did it in At Ease.
Hoag: I remember it.
Day: We did one where I’m the city slicker teaching him, the hick, how to play poker. I figure I’m conning him out of all his money, only the whole time he’s conning me. We did two recruits trying to identify what they’re eating at mess. Oh, we did the old dance routine from Pine Tree, too, except we made it a USO dance. I was basically the same character I had been. He was Mel. But from the beginning we got belly laughs. Mel and me never got laughs like that.
Hoag: What was the difference?
Day: Shared experience. We was all in this together, we was all frightened. Plus, there was Gabe. …
Hoag: What about him?
Day: (silence) He was a brilliant straight man. It’s taken me a lotta years to admit that. When we were on top, I always thought it was me. Everybody said so. They said anybody could have played his part, that he was a stiff, that I was the reason for our success. I believed that. I was wrong. He was a brilliant straight man. Best in the business.
Hoag: That’s a pretty big admission from you.
Day: It’s the truth. We just clicked, that’s all. I was very hyper, very New York, you know? Go go go. He was very calm and collected. Midwestern. Innocent. Handsome, too, though I always thought his Adam’s apple was kind of prominent. … We had great timing together. Gabe had this instinct for knowing just when to push the right button to make me funnier. And he knew just the right moment to rein me in and move on to the next bit. Not a second too soon. Not a second too late. He could feel the moment.
Hoag: Did the two of you talk about the future? About sticking together?
Day: We dreamed about becoming big stars the same way the other guys dreamed about fucking Betty Grable. It was wartime. You took it one step at a time. Ours was to get up on a stage. They used to have these dances Saturday nights on the base. A band. Local girls. Nice girls. So one Saturday night when the band took ten, some of the guys egged us into going up there. First couple minutes, everybody thought we was whackos. But once we got rolling, making fun of the sergeants, the officers, the food—they dug us. We performed at the dances every week. We was the highlight of the show. It so happens that one of the guys who sees us one weekend—now we don’t know this, mind you—is a recruiting officer who had been a talent scout at Warner Brothers. Al Lufkin. Went on to become a vice president there. Anyway, for every showbiz success story there’s some kind of cockeyed, crazy coincidence. Here’s mine—Al Lufkin is about to get married in New York to Len Fine’s sister.
Hoag: Len Fine from the Pine Tree?
Day: The same. So Al happens to mention to Len about seeing these two funny soldiers down in Mississippi, and Len says, Sonny Day, sure, he’s a real talent. I discovered him.
Hoag: You don’t know this is going on.
Day: I don’t know a thing. All I know is we finish basic training, we take the train up to Fort Dix, New Jersey, and our unit is shipped out to Europe. Only, Gabe and me aren’t on the boat. We’re ordered to report to some special recruiting unit.
Hoag: What kind of recruiting unit?
Day: We don’t know. All we’re told is to report to a theater on West Fifty-third Street in New York City. So we find the theater. Gabe’s getting a stiff neck looking at the tall buildings. We show the soldier at the door our papers, we walk in, and we’re in the middle of some big-time show being rehearsed. There’s chorus girls, musicians, a band leader who looks a helluva lot like Kay Kyser, and these three girl singers who I’d swear are the Andrews Sisters. But what the hell are the Andrews Sisters doing there? What the hell are we doing there? Turns out they’re putting together a revue called You’re in the Army Now, which is gonna travel around the country and put on benefit performances to help with recruiting and morale. They want us to do our act in the show—you know, a couple of genuine recruits showing the humorous side of army life. And that’s how we broke into showbiz—courtesy of Uncle Sam. They assigned us to work with a writer who’d written for Edgar Bergen’s radio show. A soldier, like us. He helped us polish our routines and he gave us a couple of new lines. Two weeks later we hit the road. The night before we left, I went out to Brooklyn and visited the old man in the hospital. My mom made me. Last time I saw him. (silence) He was really out of it, didn’t even know me. I had so much hatred for him and anger, and it didn’t go away just because he was dying there in front of me. I felt … I felt tremendous pain about that.
Hoag: Were you on the road when your father died?
Day: I came back from Cleveland for the funeral. It was just me, the old lady, a couple relatives. We went back to the apartment when it was over, had some schnapps, and I caught the next train. It was … well, I guess you could say it was an end for me, Hoagy. And a beginning. (end tape)
(Tape #5 with Sonny Day. Recorded in his study, February 21.)
Day: You know what I could really go for? A Baby Ruth candy bar. Used to eat ’em by the dozen when I was zonked.
Hoag: Does that mean I can have the last piece of pineapple?
Day: Hell no.
Hoag: So tell me about being on tour with You’re in the Army Now.
Day: It was the most fun I’d ever had. We started in Buffalo. Stayed a couple weeks. Then did Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis. Had our own train. Stayed in the best hotels. It turned out that Warners was financing the whole thing. They had plans to film it somewhere down the line. They’d send different contract players out to join us for six or eight weeks—Jack Carson, Joanie Blondell. They’d emcee the show, do sketches. The whole thing was like a dream. Gabe and me went on in the middle of the show for about ten minutes. Rest of the time it was one big party. The girls, Hoagy. We was traveling with two dozen fun-loving, man-hungry chorus girls. We had wild times, especially on those trains. PJ parties. Singalongs. Drinking. But they were nice girls. All they were looking for was some affection. They thought we were cute. I was twenty-one. Gabe was twenty-three. What can I tell ya, there was a shortage of men.
Hoag: Didn’t Gabe have a problem with that, being so square?
Day: Gabe Knight turned out to be one of those guys who says he likes vanilla—because it’s the only flavor he ever tasted. Once he started getting a little action, he had a permanent hard-on. I mean, girls coming and going twenty-four hours a day. He was always kicking me out of our room. I’d go find the girl’s roommate. Didn’t do too bad that way, either.
Hoag: Did you and Gabe get along?
Day: He snored. Whistled off key. Tasted food off my plate. I hate that. Ask anybody. But we were buddies. And we were going over real well. Audiences loved our stuff. They even wrote a new routine for us. Gabe is sitting on the steps of the barracks in the moonlight, playing his uke and singing “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” I come out and join him. I’m a dogface from Brooklyn, he’s a dogface from Nebraska, and we’re both homesick as hell and frightened. So we share a smoke and talk about home and Mom and our best girl. And then we finish the song together. Scared the shit out of me the first time we tried it. I kept saying, where’s the laughs? We gotta have laughs. But the people loved it. Seemed genuine to them.
Hoag: Did you guys sense that you were about to become big stars?
Day: Mostly, I think we felt we were being swept along by something that was much bigger then we were, you know? Then we hit L.A. in—what was it?—winter of ’43. Warners was ready to make a movie of the show. Me and Gabe, we were ordered to report there for a screen test. We met Jack Warner, we—
Hoag: Remember what he said to you?
Day: I remember I was so frightened I didn’t know my own name. He asked us which one of us was Knight and we both said, “I am, sir.” They filmed us doing our routines in front of a backdrop. We went back to the hotel. Next day they pulled us aside and told us we weren’t being included in the movie. We were crushed. We figured that was it. End of party. But that wasn’t it at all. See, Jack Warner had decided to give us our very own movie, At Ease. He loved us. It was a dream, Hoagy. I kept waiting to wake up. I didn’t wake up for thirty-five years.
Hoag: What was it like being out here then?
Day: This was a great town in those days. Pretty. Weather was beautiful. And the studio was huge—not like now. Blocks and blocks of streets on the backlot. Castles. Jungles. Lakes. Extras walking around dressed like Bengal lancers, like Robin’s merry men. And we were part of it. But on the other hand we weren’t. Technically, we were still attached to the army. At Ease was considered a recruiting picture. It came off like Jack Warner was doing a great thing for his country. In reality he was making a low-budget comedy with two stars and a bunch of army training footage that he got all for free. But they put us up in a nice apartment building in Encino. Gave us per diem money. A car. Whatever we needed.
Hoag: Who thought up At Ease?
Day: It was concocted on the run. Warner handed us to Hal Wallis, who sent a couple of writers down to see us perform with the company at the Pantages Theater. They talked to us for about fifteen minutes backstage. A week later they’d built a standard plot around five of our routines. Gabes a rich-kid momma’s boy, used to the soft life. I’m a two-bit con man, used to being on my own. We take an instant dislike to each other at the induction center, then turn out to be bunkmates, then rivals for the same USO girl. In the end we become great soldiers and great buddies. Strictly formula. But they gave us a great cast of pros to work with. Bart MacLane was the drill sergeant. Ward Bond was the camp boxing champ. Priscilla Lane was the girl. Lucille Ball was the friend. We learned a lot about screen acting from those folks. It’s all repetition. Start. Stop. Stand over here. Do it again. And the scenes are shot out of order. Hard to keep your level up. We worked our asses off fourteen hours a day on At Ease. Did what we were told. Conked out every night. We weren’t having any fun at all until guess who comes up to me on the set one day and says hello—Heshie Roth.
Hoag: Of Seetags fame?
Day: The one and only. Very interesting life story, Heshie. If he wanted to tell it, he’d make a helluva best-seller. I mean, he knows where all the bodies are buried. But I guess he’d just as soon forget. He’s a very upstanding guy now. A lot of the people he moves with now, they don’t even know how he ended up out here.
Hoag: How did he?
Day: Bugsy Siegel brought him out. Remember I mentioned how Heshie ran around with the Jewish mob when we was in Bed-Sty? Well, Benny Siegel was the idol of every punk in New York in those days. Lived like a king in the Waldorf. Moved in the fanciest circles. Anyway, he took a liking to Heshie when Heshie was a kid. It was his idea to put Heshie through law school. So now it’s 1944 and Benny Siegel—nobody called him Bugsy to his face—has moved out to L.A. to take control of the mob action out here. Know who his right-hand man is?
Hoag: Allow me to guess—a bright young attorney by the name of Harmon Wright?
Day: Correct, pally. There was a lot of independent action out here then—racetracks, nightclubs, offshore gambling. Bugsy came out here to take all of it over. Bumped off anybody who got in his way. Heshie concocted the controlling partnerships and shit like that to make it legal. And this was just for starters. The main reason Bugsy was out here, according to Heshie, was that the Mexican border was practically in L.A.’s backyard and the guys in the East wanted to set up a drug pipeline. Heshie, he was the juice man. He spread it around—police department, DA’s office, attorney general. In the meantime, Bugsy Siegel became the toast of Hollywood. Screwed every starlet in town. Hung around with Cary Grant, George Raft, Jack Warner. Show people love gangsters. They excite ’em. So when Heshie comes up to me on the set, well, he’s in a position to show a couple of soldiers a pretty good time. Gabe and I got very little sleep after that. We met starlets. We even got to meet Benny Siegel.
Hoag: What was he like?
Day: A movie star. Handsome, charismatic, and a real dandy, right down to his monogrammed silk shorts. And what a temper. He threw a big bash at George Raft’s house one night, and Heshie brought us and introduced us. Benny said to us, “It’s a fine thing you’re doing for our country.” I said, “Coming from you, Mr. Siegel, that’s a real compliment.” Suddenly, the man’s eyes turned into hot coals. Lips got white. And he said, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” I started stammering. I see my life pass before my eyes. Then all of a sudden he relaxes, throws an arm around me, and we were pals. Scary guy. Right on the edge. (silence) That was my first Hollywood party. Half the guests were upstairs with somebody they didn’t come with. I made it with my first Oscar winner that night. On the diving board. (silence) Yeah, we had a good time after we met up with Heshie. Only, Gabe, he started feeling guilty for his sins. So he and Lorraine got hitched when we were in his hometown for the opening of At Ease. Made a great story for the papers. We went all over the country to promote it. Before we left L.A., Heshie pulled us aside and said, “Listen, I wanna handle you when the war’s over—movie contracts, nightclubs, Vegas.” I said what the hell’s in Vegas. He said Benny’s gonna make it into the biggest, most glamorous gambling resort in America, with top entertainers. Strictly legit. We said to Heshie, sure, sure, we’ll talk. See, deep down, we believed this whole thing was some kind of happy accident of wartime. You know, that it wouldn’t last. Until the numbers started coming. At Ease turned out to be Warners’ second-biggest grossing picture of the war, right behind Casablanca. A smash. Right away, Warners was interested in putting us under contract. Lorraine, she wanted Gabe to finish college. She wanted kids and a white picket fence. Plus, she thought I was a bad influence. But Gabe, he’d gotten a taste. He wanted it. So when we was discharged in ’45 we signed a personal services contract with Heshie and set him loose.
Hoag: Did you have any qualms about being hooked up with a gangster?
Day: None. I always believe in sticking with people you know. And Heshie, he had a personal stake in us. He was anxious to get out from under Bugsy’s wing. Start his own business. For a couple of years he’d been tucking away a little juice money on the sly. A nip here, a tuck there.
Hoag: Are you telling me HWA was started with mob money?
Day: Mob money the mob didn’t exactly know from. They thought the cops pocketed it after a raid, or Heshie paid it to some independent who ended up getting bumped off. The stuff disappears, who knows where.
Hoag: How much are we talking about?
Day: Fifty thousand. A hundred, maybe.
Hoag: Pretty gutsy, wasn’t he?
Day: (laughs) Better Heshie should be my agent than somebody else’s. Bugsy, he was too volatile. He wasn’t gonna be around for long. Heshie knew that. As it turned out, Bugsy Siegel got shot in the eyeball one year later. By which time the Harmon Wright Agency was doing pretty damned well for itself.
(end tape)