Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (23 page)

My thirty-five minute trip on the “N”ostalgia train flew by in a New York minute, and before I knew it we arrived at my designated stop—the 49th Street station at 7th Avenue. I exited the subway and made my way onto 49th Street where I found a street vendor. What fun! A street vendor! I bought a cream-filled donut and a cup of coffee in a paper “I ♥ NY” cup for old time’s sake. “I really do love New York today,” I thought to myself. “What was I so scared of before?”

I walked east on 49th to 6th Avenue and headed north toward 50th Street, sipping my hot beverage and obscuring pedestrian traffic flow by stopping to crane my neck for a glimpse of the mammoth skyscrapers. Up, up, up they reached higher and higher toward the heavens. I recalled my 1987 visit to the Empire State Building—it was exhilarating to be on top but also terrifying, because it was a long, long way to fall. I felt both exhilarated and terrified that very moment—exhilarated to be at the top of my profession and terrified that the fall from stardom would be devastating.

Why wouldn’t I give a hoot about losing my little claim to fame? Starring as a Rockette had been one rip-roaring adventure. Heck, working with bonafide stars had been an absolute ball, too. Performing alongside Buddy Ebsen made me happy as a pig in a mud hole. That gentleman was a top-notch celebrity—the real McCoy. I hope I’m still happily hoofing away in my eighties like Buddy. I may not be a professional my whole life like he was, but I’m still going to keep right on dancing. I punctuated that thought by taking a big, determined bite out of my donut, as a yellow taxi sped by.

Act 1, Scene 5

Come and Listen to a Story about a Man Named Jed

It’s all about who you know. Being the cow’s rump without complaint must’ve won me points with our
Gypsy
choreographer, Toni Kaye, because when Buddy Ebsen phoned her looking for two singer-dancers for his stage show, I was on her list of recommendations. Buddy Ebsen was a showbiz legend, hoofer, and star of the silver screen having played opposite such leading ladies as Judy Garland and Shirley Temple. On television he starred in the miniseries
Davy Crockett
(1954-1955) as Davy Crockett’s sidekick, as detective Barnaby Jones in
Barnaby Jones
(1973-1980), and most recognizably as ultra-rich hillbilly Jed Clampett on that hilarious hit,
The Beverly Hillbillies
(1962-1971). I absolutely loved
The Beverly Hillbillies
. Working with Buddy would be my first brush with real fame, and I desperately wanted to perform with him. Still, I didn’t want to get too excited about the possibility for fear that I wouldn’t even be called let alone chosen. The golden carrot dangled in front of my nose. I tried to forget about it and went about my daily business.

Unfortunately, I also went on vacation to Hawaii with my boyfriend, and that is where I was when the call came. (These were the olden days before cell phones.) I returned home golden tan and a little plump from one too many piña coladas by the pool and found this message on my answering machine: “Hello. I am calling on behalf of Buddy Ebsen. Toni Kaye recommended you for his upcoming show, and we would like you to audition on…” I nearly had a heart attack, as I reached for my calendar. It couldn’t be! The audition date had already passed. I had missed my big chance.

I was sick with grief at having missed the audition and phoned back right away, my voice shaking. A woman with a German accent answered the phone. “Hi, this is Kristi Davis returning your call. I am so very very sorry that I didn’t call sooner, but I was in Hawaii. Is there any chance I could still audition? I was so excited about performing with Mr. Ebsen.” “Oh, I’m afraid not,” the woman replied sounding sincerely compassionate. “We have already cast the show.” “Oh, no! Really? Oh, that’s terrible. I really really wanted to do it. (Sigh.) I…I hope you’ll accept my apology for not responding earlier. Please, please feel free to call if anything comes up in the future.” I was devastated. Why was I off gallivanting around the Aloha state when I should have been home, available for auditions? What was I thinking? Why hadn’t I taken my career more seriously? I could have kicked myself for leaving town when such a prime job was at stake. “This kind of mess up will never happen again,” I vowed.

Miracle of miracles, the mess cleaned itself up. As luck (or destiny) would have it, a week later I received another phone call from the same woman: “I’m Buddy’s wife, Dorothy. I’m calling because one of the dancers had to back out, and you sounded so disappointed on the phone that I called you first to fill her spot.” I could not believe what I was hearing. “We would like you to come audition at our home this weekend,” she continued. Not at some studio or theatre, but actually at their home! I was beside myself with excitement. This was too good to be true!

On audition day, I drove north from San Diego to Buddy and Dorothy’s home near the Pacific coast. My mind was awhirl with “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, I am going to Buddy Ebsen’s house!” I couldn’t believe when I actually rolled into the driveway of his mansion. So this is how the other half lives. His beautiful brunette, decades younger, German wife greeted me at the door. “You must be Kristi. I’m Dorothy,” she said warmly. I stepped into the foyer beyond which stood a grand spiral staircase leading to the second floor just like in
The Beverly Hillbillies.
“And this is Darla,” Dorothy continued, introducing me to the one remaining dancer who had already been cast from the first audition. I wondered where Buddy was and half expected to hear trumpets blaring, announcing his grand entrance down the magnificent staircase. Or maybe he would shoot off his rifle and say, “Weeeeeell, Doggies!”—his famous Jed catch phrase.

Instead, this spry, white-haired eighty-four-year-old, who could have easily passed for my grandfather, casually sauntered out of his office, shook my hand, and said a kind hello. I immediately recognized him as a vintage version of Jed Clampett. The whole experience felt surreal. No longer just some fantasy television character, he was a real live person who was talking to little ol’ me. Buddy shared that he had always dreamed of creating his own, live stage show. Branson, Missouri, was the perfect place to welcome an old hoofer, and when famous country music star Roy Clark invited him to perform at his theatre there, Buddy accepted. “What could possibly be in Branson, Missouri?” I wondered.

“So, do you know the shim sham?” Buddy inquired as he took off tapping right there in the foyer. Stomp brush step, stomp brush step, stomp brush ball change, stomp brush step. “Yes,” I replied, and Darla and I began to imitate his feet as he skillfully demonstrated a few standard tap steps. We stayed in our street shoes so as to not scuff his floor.“Good. Now this,” Buddy instructed as he continued to throw fancy footwork at us.

“Let’s have you try singing some back-up vocals,” Buddy said as Dorothy produced the sheet music to“The Ballad of Davy Crockett”—a catchy tune about the American folk hero known as the “King of the Wild Frontier.” I was considerably more nervous about the singing than the dancing, but it wasn’t anything too difficult, and Debbie was singing with me. I faked it as best I could. This was beginning to feel much more like a rehearsal than an audition, and it soon became clear that I was going to be in the show!

Finally, it was time for a break. I was stunned when Dorothy ushered us into the kitchen where she had prepared a German feast for lunch. It happened to be Buddy’s birthday, and he loved German food. We all sat there devouring the tasty vittles. I was in absolute heaven. Getting my PhD in psychology would have been great, but how can you beat dancing, singing, and eating German food with Jed Clampett in his very own mansion in California? Life just doesn’t get much better than that. I was overwhelmed by the Ebsens’ generosity. What a day this had been.

Subsequent rehearsals were held at a local dance studio during the day, when it was empty and free of potential paparazzi. The show was essentially a series of songs, skits, and dances. It highlighted the various roles Buddy had played during his television career, including Jed Clampett, Barnaby Jones, and Davy Crockett’s sidekick, Georgie Russell. Some songs Buddy had written himself. Darla and I practiced our part of the act with Buddy, which consisted of 1.) a
Beverly Hillbillies
skit with Buddy playing Jed Clampett and Darla and I taking turns playing “Bonnie Sue”—cousin of the character Ellie Mae, Jed’s daughter in the show, 2.) singing backup for many of Buddy’s songs, and 3.) a little soft shoe dance with Buddy. “I also need you two to do a dance number by yourselves to give me time to change costumes. I want it to be some type of dance challenge where you try to outdo each other,” Buddy declared. “Can you do that?” Darla and I assured him we could, and we set off choreographing our dance duel to the “St. Louis Blues.”

Buddy observed and often interjected pearls of showbiz wisdom, old tricks of the trade. “Ya gotta leave the crowd wanting more!” he said one time. “Do this with your hands on the exit. This always gets them,” he said another time as he put his hands out to the sides with palms to the audience and, with fingers spread, shook them like crazy. “And put a move on the ‘button’ (an accentuated beat at the end of a song) to drum up even more applause,” he added as he did a sharp body pose mimicking the emphatic musical finish.

“Now we’ve gotta get you gals some costumes, because we want to take some publicity photos before we leave for Branson,” Buddy decided. Darla announced, “I think I can get us these gorgeous costumes that we wore when I was a Love Boat Mermaid.” I was thoroughly impressed. Love Boat Mermaids were a group of sexy dancers who performed weekly on the hit TV series
The Love Boat
, which ran from 1977 to 1986. As a teenager, I adored the show’s romantic adventures on the high seas, especially when they brought on dancers. “As far as shoes are concerned, we’ll need the silver, open-toed, t-strap, ballroom dancer-type shoes, with two-and-a-half-inch heels. And we definitely must have rubber on the soles and braces under the arches,” Darla strongly advised, espousing exactly what was required to make our legs the safest and the sexiest. I certainly concurred on the rubber.

True to her word, Darla delivered the goods: high-quality, handmade costumes from
The Love Boat
. They were white and silver rhinestone-studded spandex leotards, low cut in the chest and high cut in the legs with spaghetti straps that crisscrossed in back. Over the leotards we wore matching silver-sequined, waist-length jackets that opened in front. The costumes were appropriately sexy, and Buddy and I approved. The ballroom shoes were beautiful but took me a while to get used to, as I was accustomed to dancing in sturdier character shoes with only one-and-a-half-inch heels. I was glad Darla had taken charge, because, being a more seasoned dancer than I was, she really knew the business. I liked her a lot and looked up to her as a mentor of sorts.

Darla’s expertise was even more obvious when we finally had the professional photo shoot. The publicity shots were taken at the dance studio and consisted of several poses with the two of us flanking Buddy on either side. “You ladies kiss Buddy on the cheek,” the photographer directed. I never in a million years would have dreamed I’d be smooching Buddy Ebsen. Upon seeing the developed photos, I noticed how Darla angled her body to look great for the camera, while I was in one unflattering pose after another. I had no idea how to bevel properly—how to place my feet to make my feet and legs look pretty—or how to pose for photos to maximize my assets.

Dorothy and Buddy flew to Branson ahead of us to get settled, as Buddy was also preparing for an exhibit of his paintings in St. Louis (he was an artist, too). Darla and I didn’t fly in until the day before the show opened. We landed in St. Louis and then boarded an eency, weency, super-bouncy, nearly-make-you-throw-uppy commuter plane to Springfield, Missouri, from which we would have a forty-five-minute drive to Branson. The Springfield airport was small and manageable, but if you arrived at 11:00 p.m., there weren’t a lot of folks on duty to help you. The place was absolutely deserted, so when Darla and I realized our luggage had not made the trip with us, we had no one to turn to for help. Our first show was the next afternoon, and if our luggage didn’t arrive we’d be dancing without costumes. (Note to self: Always carry your costume on board with you in case of such a mishap. It’s luggage you can’t afford to lose.) All we could do was grab a cab and call the airport in the morning.

Driving through the hills into Branson, we noticed all the billboards advertising shows featuring old country stars: Anita Bryant, Glen Campbell, Tony Orlando, Wayne Newton, Jim Stafford. As we entered the main drag on Highway 76, we saw theatres sporting the same names. “There’s the Roy Clark Celebrity Theatre!” I shouted, a chill of excitement running down my spine at the sight of the place where we’d be performing and staying. I remembered the banjo-picking Roy Clark from the country music and corn-pone TV show
Hee Haw
that my family and I watched when I was a kid.

The next day, after a good night’s sleep in our very own rooms with kitchenettes (yes, folks, this was the lap of luxury), Darla and I headed to the theatre to prep for the show. Upon entering the backstage door, we couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered in graffiti—signatures of the many, famous musical acts that had played there. “That is so cool!” I exclaimed, in awe of our predecessors. We then met the band that would accompany us. They eagerly presented us with their headshots, which they signed, of course, as well as their demo tapes. These good old country boys all had their own individual musical projects and dreams. There was a lotta talent in them thar halls and more musicians than you could shake a stick at in Branson. Luckily, while we were introducing ourselves to the band and getting settled in our dressing room, our costumes arrived from the airport. We hadn’t come up with a good backup plan, so Darla, Buddy, Dorothy, and I were relieved, to say the least.

We performed two shows daily (2:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m.) on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday following the popular
Jennifer in the Mornings
show—a post-breakfast production for all those earlier risers and/or theatre maniacs who wanted to squeeze in as many shows as they could in one day. A spunky blond singer-dancer, Jennifer woke up the crowd with her high-spirited clogging. She was a tough act to follow, but Buddy was a well-loved TV and movie celebrity who knew how to work an audience, milking every last bit of laughter and applause. Plus, at eighty-four, he could still tap dance circles around the best of them. After each show, Buddy stood in a little booth where he signed autographs and greeted his adoring fans (a must in Branson). The whole experience was such a hoot.

During our shows, we noticed a mysterious, shady, skinny, acne-faced young guy slinking around and taking pictures. Later I discovered he was a reporter from
Star
magazine.
Star
ended up running a one-and-a-half-page story on Buddy, which was, surprisingly, quite complimentary and well written. The best news was that Darla and I were in one of the photos. We didn’t look too shabby either. Buddy, in a long-haired wig and holding an electric guitar, was featured on the cover with a decent-sized photo and caption that read, “Buddy Ebsen turns rock star—at 84.” Although he was trumped by a much larger picture of Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and the headline story “Fergie bought pot from palace guard,” it still wasn’t bad for an octogenarian. We three were pictured in the
National Enquirer
, too, which noted that Buddy was “definitely still alive and kicking!” I never dreamed I’d end up in the tabloids without birthing a three-headed alien baby or spotting Elvis at a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Kalamazoo. An article in a local Branson newspaper mentioned how Buddy’s act “will feature two new dance partners, adding to Ebsen’s extensive list of renowned leading ladies including Shirley Temple and Judy Garland.” Judy Garland and I both danced with Buddy Ebsen! It was almost incomprehensible.