I never met comedian Don Rickles in my life, but I did have a dream about him once. And, as I have nothing better to write about, I intend to tell you about it.
For the hopefully depraved, I’m sorry. This is was a G rated dream. Though I have always felt like I owed Mr. Rickles an apology.
Why will become apparent in due course.
The dream begins in the middle of the Arizona desert. I’m at a gas station, pumping gas into a hulking Seventies car. What I’m doing there, I don’t know. Maybe I’m on a trip, it’s not important.
I’ve almost finished when this other hulking Seventies car pulls up to the same pump. Out pops Don Rickles. This, I should say, isn’t Old Rickles. This is Rickles in the prime of his life. Dressed for success. He might be heading to the Jonny Carson show. He wasn’t, but that only becomes important later.
The instant I see Rickles, I start insulting him. Nothing mean, just joking around, like he was famous for in his act. Sort of showing my stuff. Young punk sort of thing, right?
What I said escapes me now, but it doesn’t go over as well as I like. Rickles gets this insulted look on his face, and I suddenly realize this is how everyone who meets him reacts. Like they’re as good as he was at this.
Now I’m embarrassed. I want to make it up to him. I offer to buy the man lunch. It doesn’t take much. Maybe Rickles was hungry.
We head inside, and, remember, this is the middle of the desert. As far as you can get from civilization. And yet there’s a line there from counter to door. I take a place at the end and suggest to Rickles he go up front, check out the menu, see what he wants. Which he does.
Nothing untowards. Nothing sketchy. I, in good faith, was doing the right thing.
Thing is, we do not dream continuously. Every so often the mind moves from one subject to the next. It is the way of the subconsious.
So the next thing I know, I’m in a school gymnasium filled with people. I’m sitting on a rickety folding chair in the middle of everything. I know no one there save my Mother, who sits to my right.
Up in front, performing, is a ventriloquist with a dragon puppet. The man is dying. He and his puppet go through their routine and no one laughs. The heart breaks to see it. If I remembered his name I wouldn’t tell it to you, just out of pity for the guy. Though that was probably the best part of his act.
The ventriloquist is about halfway through his act (God help him if he wasn’t, he was so bad) when a man in a suit comes walking in front of the audience. He might be the principal of the school, I dunno. Whoever he is, he’s the savior of the night, as he whispers a few in the ventriloquist’s ear. With a great deal of relief, alleged performer and puppet leave for parts unknown.
The audience doesn’t cheer. It just feels like they should.
The man in the suit steps in front of the microphone and says, “Let’s all give thanks to,” insert name here, “for entertaining us while we waited. Now, thankfully, our real guest has finally arrived. Let’s give a big, warm welcome to Mr. Don Rickles!“
From the back of the gym comes Rickles. Same suit he had on before, bright smile on his face, the perfect entertainer.
He trots to the front and shakes hands with the man in the suit, most thankful to be invited. While the man makes tracks to one side, Rickles takes the microphone and surveys the audience.
All at once I know, I know, that the smile on Rickles’s face is false. He’s furious. He really wanted that sandwich, and he thinks that punk kid at the station welched on him.
Worse, he knows I’m here. Absolutely certain. And in a few moments he’s going to spot me and tear into me like he’s never torn into anyone before.
Right in front of my mom.
So I’m sinking in my seat, hoping my movement doesn’t draw his attention, hoping that I can get on the floor, on my belly, knowing that it’s too late, no matter what I do, I’m getting publicly humiliated.
Which is where I woke from the dream. Thankfully.
Like I said at the start, though, I always felt like I owed Rickles an apology. Never managed to give him one while he was alive, and since he’s passed on it’s probably too late to try. Which also makes me feel a little guilty.
Honestly, though, I don’t know why. Sure, I never fulfilled my promise and bought him lunch. But when you think about it, I’m the real victim here.
I mean, I could have dreamed of anyone. The most gorgeous woman in the world, say. Someone who’d have made Helen of Troy look like Medusa.
And who’d I get? Don Rickles.
