Rickles' Book by Don Rickles and David Ritz Read Free Book Online Page B

horseman,” I tell Ted Post, the director. “I’m a Jew from Jackson Heights. The last horse I saw was pulling a buggy in Central Park.”
    “We’ll have a blind driver sitting behind you,” Post assures me. (“Blind driver” means that the man will be off-camera.) “He’ll be holding the reins. He’ll take charge.”
    A half-hour later, I see that the blind driver is half-blind. I get the feeling he likes his liquor.
    “Don’t worry, Don,” says Albert, “these TV people know what they’re doing.”
    We’re doing all this on the Universal lot that, in those days, included a large section of dirt roads. The road we’re riding leads down to one of the main gates of the studio.
    Albert and I climb on board. I ride shotgun. Albert takes the fake reins. The blind driver takes the real reins. The man is not in good shape. We could be in serious trouble.
    Post says, “Action!”
    The horses don’t move. The blind driver doesn’t move.
    “Get those horses going!” yells Post.
    The blind driver snaps the reins with the strength of someone unfolding a dinner napkin. The horses still don’t move. They’re too busy slobbering. A couple of the extras dressed as Indians start whooping it up. The horses couldn’t care less.
    Finally the Indians start throwing pebbles at the horses.
    “Hey,” I yell, “don’t get ’em mad. You trying to kill us?”
    Suddenly the horses take off with a vengeance. They’re foaming at the mouth.
    Thank God we have the blind driver. But where is he? I look behind me and see that he’s taking a nap.
    Meanwhile, we’re storming down the hill a hundred miles an hour. There’s no stopping these horses. The camera crew scatters out of the way.
    Albert looks at me, I look at Albert. We don’t have a clue of how to stop these crazed animals.
    We’re fast approaching the Universal gates where the security guards are frantically waving their arms and screaming, “Stop them! Stop the horses!”
    “Whoooa!” Albert yells.
    “Whoooa!” I yell.
    The four mad horses don’t understand English. They’re breathing like they got asthma. They’re racing through the gates and charging down the city street with me and Albert bouncing up and down like balloons, two shmucks in Old West army outfits.
    Cars veer out of the way and screech to a halt. Pedestrians scream in fright. Buses slam on their breaks. Finally, the horses get tired and stop in front of a Mobil station.
    Me and Albert, grateful that our lives have been spared, let out a sigh of relief.
    A big burly cop in a white helmet and aviator sunglasses climbs off his motorcycle and menacingly approaches our wagon.
    Looking me dead in the eye, the officer says without a hint of humor, “Okay, who’s the wise guy?”

Untold Tales of Sinatra and
Rickles at the Sands!
Plus, the Steamiest Story
Ever Told!
    S inatra was the Sands.
    He ran the place.
    Those were the days of the Rat Pack in Vegas. I never received an official membership card, but Frank made me feel part of the fun. He invited me to the party.
    The party took different forms. All of them, of course, were designed by Frank, master party-planner and prankster.
    The pranks were always directed at others. It seems I was a popular target. It was Frank’s court. Frank was the king, and we were happy to be court jesters. Sometimes the jesting came when you least expected it.

    I’m onstage at the Casbah Lounge at the Sahara Hotel.
    By now, I’ve been playing the lounge a couple of years. I’ve built up a little reputation. For the first time, they’ve even slapped on a cover charge. It’s only five bucks, but it makes me feel good. I’m no longer free. You have to buy me.
    Things are going good.
    I’m on stage. I see a fella hugging and squeezing his girl. Looking down at him, I say, “What, are you nuts? Take a look at her!”
    I’m ribbing a guy who’s big as a beach ball. “Hey buddy, there’s a new thing out there. It’s called a diet.”
    Suddenly, I see two