The Importance of Being Ernie: Read online

  Elvis stared out the limo’s window and quietly said, “What are ya workin’ on?”

  “My Six Loves ... with Debbie Reynolds. What are you doing here?”

  “Fun in Acapulco. It’s not as fun as it sounds,” he replied with a sigh. He continued to stare out the window in silence. I was hoping he’d turn the TV back on, but he didn’t.

  We continued our slow-speed tour of the Paramount lot, Elvis staring out the window, me staring at the TV’s blank screen.

  Eventually, we arrived back at the soundstage, and the limo came to a stop where my amazing journey began.

  The limo driver hopped out of his front seat and raced to the rear door, but Elvis had already opened it. The driver, now chagrined and tense, snapped to attention and waited for the King’s next move. “Gotta get back to work,” said Elvis.

  “Me, too ... I guess,” I said.

  Elvis climbed out of the car, but I lingered in my seat, taking one last look at mobile television. I wanted to be able to describe it in complete detail to all my doubting friends. They could be pretty hard to sway when it came to futuristic inventions, especially electronic devices that worked without being plugged into a wall outlet.

  Elvis, now outside the limo, peered back inside the rear compartment where I was still sitting. That sly, crooked grin formed on his lips, and he said, “Bugs Bunny comes on after Popeye. If you wanna stay and watch it, you can.”

  My mouth dropped, surprised by his generous offer. “I wish I could ... but I’d better get back to my soundstage before my mom worries.”

  Elvis nodded and said, “See ya, son.” He hurried to a nearby stage door, went inside, and didn’t look back, which I was hoping he might do. Now that Elvis was gone, the limo driver gave me the ol’ stink eye that said, Beat it, kid, you’re trespassing!

  I slowly climbed out of the limo, scanning the area to make sure my mom didn’t see me. There’d be hell to pay, Elvis or no Elvis. Luckily, the coast was clear.

  I arrived back at my soundstage door and took one last look at the limo. A thought dawned on me that made me smile: Elvis knew when Bugs Bunny was coming on. He knew the cartoon schedule!

  Long live the King.

  CHAPTER 11

  My Three Sons

  The year was now 1963. I was ten years old. My life was about to take a profound turn, exactly like my brother Stan’s did a few years earlier. The producers of My Three Sons asked if I would audition for the role of Ernie Thompson, the new kid in the neighborhood. The request came as a complete surprise. It was an opportunity to become a regular on a huge hit series, the chance of a lifetime.

  I reported to the offices of Don Fedderson, the show’s executive producer, and saw that no other child actors were waiting to read. That was surprising. The usual suspects, Bill Mumy, Mark Hamill, or Ron Howard, always seemed to be at the important auditions. This time, though, I was there alone. We figured Fedderson was being polite because of our personal relationship. As soon I was gone, a truckload of child actors would probably be arriving.

  Whatever the case, the pressure was on. I had to “deliver the goods” with my reading. I tried to focus on my audition scene, reading it over with my dad who was with me. At last, the oak wooden door to the boss’s inner office opened, and the casting director ushered me in.

  Fedderson sat behind a huge desk, glowering like a Supreme Court justice. He was a hulking man whose perpetually tanned faced and steel-framed glasses exuded money and power. George Tibbles, the show’s head writer, and Gene Reynolds, the director, were also present. I decided to focus my attention on Reynolds, mainly because he was the only one who seemed friendly. He was a former child actor himself, and I’m sure he knew what it was like to stand in my shoes.

  After a bit of genial chitchat, I read with the casting director. When I finished, I glanced around the room, and everyone was grinning. That was a good sign. Still, Fedderson didn’t leap up to shake my hand and tell me I’ve got the job. He sat on his throne, coyly silent. Reynolds thanked me for coming in, and it was time to leave the room.

  As I was heading for the door, I mentioned that my family was leaving for a vacation in Palm Springs. The big boss suddenly spoke up and ordered me to wait in the outer office. I groaned silently. As much as I wanted to hear I got the part, I was anxious to hit the road for a holiday.

  I sat down next to my dad in the outer office. A long fifteen minutes ticked by, and not a word was uttered by anybody. What in hell was happening? There must be a heated debate going on behind the closed doors, some voting for me and some against. At last, Fedderson emerged from his office.

  He said, “Sorry about the wait, buddy. I’ve got a vacation home in Palm Springs, and, well, I had to look everywhere for these.” He held up a jangle of keys. “Since Barry’s going to be joining our family, I thought you might like to stay at my place.” That was one sweet way to start a holiday.

  A defining new chapter of my life began. I became a full-fledged member of My Three Sons, put under contract to play Ernie Thompson, the friend next door, for a whopping salary of three hundred dollars per show. It was a pittance compared to salaries today, even after accounting for inflation. I couldn’t have cared less about the money, though. Becoming part of MTS and spending more time with my older brother was good enough for me.

  My parents, needless to say, were ecstatic. It wasn’t just the extra money to them; it was added bragging rights. They now had two kids working on one of the most popular TV sitcoms ever. What were the odds?

  My character was introduced on the series in an episode called My Friend Ernie. I was Chip’s new buddy and hung out at the Douglas house, annoying the heck out of Bub (William Frawley). That became an ongoing gag.

  Being a series regular now, I had to attend studio school full-time, putting in three hours of studying a day. When I wasn’t working on the set, I’d get my time done in one uninterrupted run. That was great. On other busier days, it took all day to get in my three hours, usually done in ten-to twenty-minute chunks. That was hell. You’d have your nose in a math book, trying to figure out a problem, and then get called to come work. After the scene was done, you’d return to the math problem, get in a few more minutes of study, only to be called away again in another ten minutes. That was the routine until you cobbled together three hours of schooling.

  The ringmaster of my helter-skelter education was Sally Hickerson, a seventy-year-old studio teacher who claimed to have tutored Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland at MGM back in the day. She was way past her prime now and easily flustered, a fact that my brother and I exploited to the max.

  One of our favorite stunts was to march into the schoolroom, click our heels, raise our right hands in a mock-Nazi salute, and yell, “Heil Hickerson!” Our cruel little stunt would send her into a tizzy, and she’d reprimand us in a warbling Julia Child falsetto. I knew that I was being a little monster, but the disgusted look on Miss Hickerson’s face was worth every page that I had to transcribe from Webster’s Dictionary as punishment.

  Schooling at the studio had another drawback: a shoddy, one-room classroom. Ever the penny pinchers, the production company built an unventilated cubicle for us on our soundstage, right under Don Grady’s dressing room. Grady was an accomplished musician and could play every instrument imaginable ... all day long. I’d be trying to memorize the Constitution downstairs while Don would be stomping his foot upstairs, keeping time to a song. His floor, our ceiling. Eventually, Stan or I would grab a flagpole with Old Glory on it and ram it into our ceiling to quiet the thumping. That was another sin in our teacher’s patriotic eyes, a real desecration of the American flag. We’d be copying Mr. Webster’s book for hours after that. To this day, thanks to Don Grady’s constant toe tapping, I can only decipher algebra in a 4/4 musical time.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ernie Becomes Famous

  The basic template for every MTS episode started with a son having a problem (a girl, a job, a car, etc.). Over the course of the story, Dad�
��s invisible guiding hand would lead his troubled boy to a solution, and the son would think he’d figured out things on his own. Since I was the “new kid next door,” my character was used mainly as a supporting player in everyone else’s story.

  Eventually, an episode was written that focused on Ernie. Ironically, Tim Considine, the original oldest son who played Mike, wrote it. I replaced him a year later when he left the show. (More on that later.) The storyline had me spying on Mike and an old flame. Since James Bond films were becoming hugely popular, I donned a trench coat, popped out of trash cans, and skulked down alleys in my pursuit.

  After that episode aired, my fan mail shot up. It was nice that the fans of the show seemed to notice and like me. The letters were a real ego boost. Occasionally, though, they were a bit disturbing, particularly if the letter contained a picture of a fan that purportedly was Ernie’s “twin.” It was usually a photo of some scrawny, genetically challenged kid who wore ugly oversized glasses and had gnarled buckteeth. I knew I wasn’t in Cary Grant’s league, but I just didn’t see myself in these guys, either. It seemed like there was a nation of nerds breeding out in the heartland, and I had somehow become their leader.

  I discovered another odd phenomenon about big-time TV fame: people confused the scripted character of Ernie with the real me. That can cause a lot of identity issues for any actor, no matter what age. I’m sure I embodied some of Ernie’s personality. I was bright, articulate, and, in some situations, cocky like my TV alter ego. In real life, though, I was a pretty shy kid who had learned to “turn on” my personality in professional situations. As Barry, I had to work to overcome my reticence and be comfortable with new people. Suddenly, way more people knew me as Ernie, not Barry. It’s like they recognized something about me that I didn’t know. I found that schism unnerving. I’m not a psychologist, but that discord was most likely the root cause for some of the troubles I had later in my life.

  Things got even more confusing back at public school, which I attended during hiatus between shooting seasons. Kids were either overtly nice, trying to court a celebrity, or downright hostile if Ernie didn’t act the way they expected. Grade school is a jungle, and I suddenly felt naked among the ruthless natives.

  Public school was good survival training, though. I learned to joke my way out of confrontations with bullies and to laugh off the mockeries. Humming the My Three Sons theme song while tapping their feet (re: the show’s animated introduction) was a frequent taunt. Once a hallway clogged with kids parted for me like Moses at the Red Sea. As I walked forward, the students on either side of the hall tapped their toes and hummed my “favorite tune.” I laughed it off on the outside, but inside I was crying.

  Naturally, I complained to my parents about my newfound notoriety, but they insisted that I stay in public school. They felt that it was good for me to be with my peers. Easy for them to say; they weren’t getting tapioca tossed at them in the cafeteria. In retrospect, my parents made exactly the right decision and that probably accounts for whatever sanity I’ve maintained. I certainly grew a thicker skin.

  Now that Stan and I were working on the same hit TV show, the family coffer was filling up nicely, so we moved to the upper-middle-class enclave of Studio City in the San Fernando Valley. My parents bought a ranch-style house with four bedrooms, three baths, and a huge swimming pool. They liked the idea that it was located next to the Studio City Park, a place they hoped I could make a few new pals. I was finding that increasingly hard.

  On the days when I wasn’t working, I’d venture over to the playground on my bike, make a quick sweep through the park, watch the kids playing ball, and then ride back home without uttering a word to anybody. The more famous I got, the more tentative I was about walking up to strange kids.

  I realized that making new friends would require a little creativity on my part. The Beatles had just exploded in America, so I joined the fan club and sent away for a Fab Four Fan Kit that included photos, buttons, and a long black Beatle-style wig. I thought that if I went to the park wearing my new Beatle wig and Beatle boots, it would be a cool look, something far different from Ernie. I’d be the envy of every kid on the playground.

  Moments later, I was pedaling across the park on my lime-green Schwinn, the one with a long banana-shaped seat and high-backed sissy bar. My shiny black Beatle wig, held in place by an elastic band under the chin, crowned my head, and I was certain that I was a dead ringer for John or Paul, or at least Ringo. (Who was pretty nerdy after all.)

  I skidded to a stop next to the basketball court, threw down the kickstand, and waited for heads to turn. They did. Within seconds, a bunch of jocks sporting crew cuts gathered around me and started laughing their asses off. One of the bigger kids lifted my wig off the top of my head, elevating it as high as the rubber strap under my chin would allow. That got a laugh from the kids. When he let go of the wig, the hairy mop snapped back down on my noggin, landing askew. The elastic band worked flawlessly, and that elicited howls. Mortified, I pedaled away from the jeers and catcalls. I rarely went back to the park after that.

  My true childhood playground was the Desilu Studios where MTS was filmed. There was always something amazing to discover. One of the coolest places was a storage area where they kept old movie props, some of them dating back thirty years or more to when RKO owned the lot.

  Amid the piles of forgotten treasures, I found the model buildings that simulated New York City in the classic film, King Kong. It was all there collecting dust: the Chrysler Building, the Broadway theaters, even the Empire State Building that Kong had climbed. When we weren’t working on the set, my brother and I played our version of Kong, running amuck amid the miniature buildings and feeling as powerful as the great ape himself. One Monday morning we arrived at the studio, and the model buildings had vanished. We were told that the old props were thrown away to make room for newer ones. Holy crap, we were pissed. Those models were so cool. If I’d only had the foresight, I would have asked for all of New York City. They’d be worth a small fortune today on the movie memorabilia circuit. Steven Spielberg paid $60,500 in 1982 for the “Rosebud” sled from Citizen Kane. Can you imagine the dollar value of the Empire State Building from the original King Kong?

  Another fun stop on the Desilu playground was an underground garage where they stored the 1920s gangster cars used in the TV series The Untouchables. Stan and I had a ball climbing in and out of these classic autos with their running boards, pretending to battle it out as Eliot Ness and Al Capone.

  Another great pleasure was sneaking onto the Paramount Studios lot that was right next door to Desilu, literally. I already knew the layout of the studio, having worked there earlier and taken a tour of the place with Elvis in his limo. A rickety wooden fence was all that separated the two studio empires. Stan and I found a break in the barrier, which gave our unauthorized visits an added air of danger. Trespassing was well worth the risk, though, since Paramount had a huge Western town where Bonanza and many other cowboy sagas were filmed. The authentic frontier buildings, dirt streets, horse troughs, and wooden walkways sparked our imaginations. Imaginary gunfights were mandatory with every visit. Paramount also had an enormous water tank (and still does) that could float an entire pirate ship when it was filled. That was a sight to behold.

  Lunch at either studio commissary was always a mind-bending spectacle. It was a freak show of costumed actors working on Star Trek, Hogan’s Heroes, My Favorite Martian, Mission Impossible, and Lassie. You’d see purple aliens dining with Navajos or country spinsters breaking bread with baldheaded KGB agents.

  After living in our new home for about six months, I finally made friends with a neighbor boy, Jack McCalla. Whenever I wasn’t working, we played “army” for hours, digging trenches and building forts. Once we dug a pit so deep, we buried a huge wooden crate in the hole, and it became our subterranean headquarters. We stocked it with rations, installed a toy periscope to spy on the enemy soldiers above ground, and slept there on many summ
er nights, sweating it out like real “dogs of war” in our unventilated fort. We abandoned the bunker after winter rains flooded the place ... and a few rats moved in to salvage our soggy rations.

  There was another force in the world that was reshaping my views and my tastes: the English rock-and-roll invasion. Personally, I identified with the blossoming youth rebellion. Publicly, my wholesome alter ego, Ernie Douglas, was depicting me as a very different person. A new identity schism was brewing.

  The kids at school and on the playground saw me as an agent of the “old guard.” I was ostracized because my TV twin was more pervasive than the real me. As Ken Kesey said, “You were either on the bus or off the bus.” Barry wanted to be “on the bus” but I kept getting recognized as Ernie and thrown off. As far as I could see it was a case of mistaken identity.

  Trying to keep with the changing times, I begged my mom to get me a guitar like my new rock-and-roll heroes. She did, mainly because music lessons fit in with her cherished vision of me as a well-rounded performer.

  My first and only guitar teacher was a sixteen-year-old prodigy, Gil Reigers, who later became Johnny Mathis’s guitarist and arranger. Gil taught me to play the current hits like “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Blowing in the Wind” as well as classical Flamenco guitar, and I got pretty good.

  I was even asked to perform on Art Linkletter’s House Party, a very popular live daytime show. This was my first guitar performance, on live network TV no less, and my jitters made my fingers freeze up. Luckily, Linkletter blabbed on about my lengthy acting credits while I was playing “Malaguena,” and the audience couldn’t tell how badly I mangled it ... I hope.