“I’m no alcoholic; I’m a drunkard. There’s a difference. A drunkard doesn’t go to meetings.”
Best known for an Oscar-nominated performance in The Hustler (1961), and ribald turns as Ralph Kramden in the TV series The Honeymooners, and Buford T. Justice in the 1970s camp classic Smokey and the Bandit. Jackie Gleason was raised by his mother in Brooklyn after his father walked out. He fell in with gangs and hung out in pool halls as a teenager, but eventually started performing at amateur nights. He was discovered by Jack Warner in 1940 while working at New York’s Club 18. He landed a job as host of the CBS variety show The Cavalcade of Stars (1950), which was renamed The Jackie Gleason Show two years later. One of Gleason’s recurring characters, bus driver Ralph Kramden, was spun off into The Honeymooners. Though only thirty-nine episodes were initially completed (not counting later revivals and specials), The Honeymooners became one of the most beloved shows in the history of television and remained a syndication fixture for decades. Gleason played mostly bit parts in film, but his career revived with the original Smokey and the Bandit (1977) and its two sequels.
WHAT BETTER WAY for two friends to spend the afternoon? In one corner was Jackie Gleason, biggest television star in the world. In the other, Toots Shor, most beloved bar owner in Manhattan. The two were squaring off in a heavyweight-title bout of boozing. Gleason, as was his custom, was armed with a fifth of scotch; Shor, with a bottle of fifteen-year-old brandy. Nothing on the line but bragging rights.
During the 1940s and ‘50s, Toots Shor’s was the biggest sports bar and restaurant in Manhattan. Some called it a gymnasium with room service, though the health benefits were questionable. Toots, the owner, had worked his way up from bar back to bouncer to bartender, befriending the city’s elite along the way. His was an affectionately insulting brand of charm—”crum-bum” was his go-to nickname—and his clientele ate it up. DiMaggio, Mantle, Sinatra, Bogart, Chaplin, Berle, Cronkite were all regulars. But few loved the place, or its proprietor, as much as Gleason. When Gleason was down on his luck, the stretch between his failure in Hollywood and his job with CBS, Shor had taken care of him: At one point Shor estimated Gleason had owed him $10,000 in loans and unpaid bar tabs. Gleason never forgot it.
In later years, Gleason would call Shor the best friend he ever had. That didn’t mean, however, that he wasn’t willing to take the piss out of him from time to time. In fact, Gleason and Shor were constantly one-upping each other, always engaging in some stupid wager or another. Most famously, Gleason bet Shor double or nothing on his bar tab that he could beat him in a race around the block. The only stipulation was they had to run in opposite directions. Shor accepted. As soon as Gleason saw Shor round the corner, he hailed a cab, drove around the block, and was patiently waiting at the bar when Shor returned, huffing and puffing.
Most famously, Gleason bet Shor double or nothing on his bar tab that he could beat him in a race around the block. The only stipulation was they had to run in opposite directions.
This latest drinking contest had started at noon. And by the time most of Manhattan was knocking off work for the day, both men were well into their second fifths. Gleason was talking trash about his opponent to everyone in earshot. At one point Shor had enough. “You’ve got the face of a pig,” Shor told him. Gleason shot right back: “Well, you’ve got the body!” Around 6 p.m., Gleason excused himself from the table. Said he needed to the use the bathroom. He stumbled across the bar, then did a face-plant at the entrance to the dining room—right in the path of everyone who wanted to step inside. The maître d’ and a waiter naturally rushed to pick him up.
“Leave him,” Shor instructed. “I want ‘em all to see what happens when you mess with the champ.”