Judy and Me

I’ve tried to understand why it has taken so long to put this story down on paper and the only honest reason is that I let Judy Garland down. Let’s be clear, I was not a key character in Judy Garland’s life, but I think in an important way I let her down. So, I needed to sort some things out before I wrote the story. Ironically, or perhaps predictably, the writing of it has helped me do just that—sort things out. And in a special way, what I have to say is really for her. Are you listening, Judy? I hope so.

It was 1956. I was a twenty-one-year-old U.S. Air Force pilot stationed at Ardmore Air Force Base in Oklahoma. After six challenging months at Ardmore, the Air Force wanted us somewhere else. I can’t tell you why because they never said. Those decisions were above our pay grades. Moving often was a part of life in the military. If you wanted to grow roots in a place you liked, then the service wasn’t for you. But growing roots wasn’t something we thought about. Seeing the country and the world was a great adventure—one we gladly embraced. Some of us were being sent to Europe and some to Japan. I was going to Japan.

Flying was our great passion, and the chance to see the world was a bonus. So we were excited about our new orders to go to the mysterious and faraway Orient, a place I’d only seen in the black and white Hollywood movies I grew up on.

Those were magical times for young military aviators. Even though we were training for war, and our very existence and purpose as military aviators was to be prepared for war, it was peacetime, which made all the difference. Just the idea that we actually got paid to fly those big flying machines when many of us would have done it for nothing.

And to think that I was headed to Japan was definitely something to write home about. It had been just eleven years since General Douglas MacArthur had accepted the surrender of the Empire of Japan on the battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay. I was eleven at the time and a paper boy, and I clearly remember yelling “Japan surrenders. Read all about it,” as I hawked newspapers on a main street in Drexel Hill, PA to passing cars.

I’m telling you these things so you will have some sense of the times and what an adventure all of this was for a kid from suburban Philly who hadn’t been much of anywhere before the Air Force. For some perspective, New York City was a two-hour drive, but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet. Unlike today, most people didn’t travel far from home back then.

We were full of aircraft-grade, high-octane testosterone, which pretty much fueled our three main interests: flying, girls, and hanging out with fly-buddies. Depending on the day, the hour, and the hormone clock, what or who topped the list got a little fuzzy. When we were flying, it was all about the flying, and when we were with girls, it was all about the girls. It was an exciting, challenging time, and beautifully uncomplicated.

I was one of the few guys in our squadron who owned a car, and when I learned that the government would pay to ship it to Japan, I took them up on it. I decided to drive with my buddy, Chris Brooks—a fellow officer and pilot—from Oklahoma to San Francisco where the car would be shipped overseas by boat. We would then board a Super Constellation for the twenty-three-hour flight to Tokyo. Twenty-three hours with two refueling stops—Hawaii and Wake Island. Things have changed since then! Chris really wanted to go through Las Vegas. He liked craps and wanted to gamble in that famous town. Vegas was not nearly as big and grand as it is today, but back then, it was a hot place to be. So, off we went.

We took turns driving and drove straight through, stopping only for gas, food, and other necessities and made it to Vegas in record time. We had about two weeks before our report date in Frisco and we didn’t want to waste any of it. After finding a cheap motel room, we shaved, showered, and spruced up in our best “civvies” for a night on the town, and before we knew it, we were cruising along what would become the world-famous Vegas strip. When I saw a marquee in front of the New Frontier Hotel with Judy’s name on it in great big letters, and I said, “Hey, Chris, Judy Garland! Whada’ya say?” It sounded good to Chris, so I parked the car and we went in.

When I was a kid and growing up felt extra hard, I’d spend a precious quarter for the Saturday matinee at the Waverly Theater and escape into the magical world of movies. If I didn’t have a quarter, I’d try to sneak in with my buddies; we had about a fifty percent success rate. The Waverly ran continuous performances on Saturdays back then, so sometimes we’d sit in the front row and watch a good movie two or three times in a row. I grew up watching Judy Garland on that big screen. The Wizard of Oz alone played at least once a year in theaters all over the country like it does now on TV. I never thought that someday I would meet her though and call her “Judy.”

For Chris and I, that casino was like being in a movie—gambling tables, slot machines, people flashing money around in denominations we had only heard about.

“Hey Chris, did I just see a fifty dollar bill?” I said.

“Yeah, and I think I just saw a hundred!” he said. Man! Uncle Sam paid us less than a hundred bucks a week.

We headed for the bar. A couple of Scotches later, Chris was ready for the craps table and I went to see if I could get a ticket for the Judy Garland show starting in less than an hour. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the hotel’s large and impressive dinner theater. It was a first. The truth was, I had only seen one live performance in my life and it was in a rough-and-tumble Texas beer hall. The performer was Elvis Presley before he became “The King.” But that’s another story for another time. Let’s get back to Vegas in 1956. Once inside the big dinner theater, I saw my first full orchestra in person. The musicians were tuning their instruments as we all waited for the show to start. I sat there taking it all in: the big stage, the huge curtain, all the wealthy-looking people in their expensive clothes eating dinner and drinking booze at their tables. I felt like the only one there with brown shoes on.

There must’ve been an opening act, but I can’t remember who it was. What I clearly remember, though, is when the orchestra began to play in earnest as the curtain slowly opened. I could not speak for the rest of the audience, but I was pretty thrilled when I realized that the pretty, petite woman who walked out through the opening in the curtain was actually Judy Garland, in person. She looked so small on that big stage, yet I immediately felt her charisma, part of which came from a sense that she was vulnerable in a kind of way that drew the audience to her. She hadn’t even spoken or sang a word yet. Of course, in some way we felt we already knew her from watching her movies, and I’m sure that had something to do with how we felt when we got our first glimpse of her in person.

And then, she began to sing. For the next hour, she worked her magic on us. A couple of times, being the curious person I was, I managed to take my eyes off of her for a few seconds to observe the phenomenal effect she was having on the rest of the audience. As with me, she made them laugh and even tear up now and then. I had never experienced anything like it before. It was as if she had made a personal connection with each and every person in that theater. And even though I have seen some very good performers since then, none of them connected with their audiences the way she did night after night in Vegas in 1956.

I was certain that no one wanted the show to end, but like all things, it did. At some point, she had changed into her iconic hobo costume, and for her final number, the stage and the entire theater went black. A small, bright spotlight fell on her as she sat with her legs dangling over the front of the stage. Just picture Judy Garland as an impish hobo sitting there in the spotlight as she begins to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” There was not a dry eye to be found. I saw more than one grown man trying to sneakily wipe his tears away.

After a torrential burst of applause and a standing ovation that took some time to subside, we gathered ourselves together and slowly straggled out of the theater. Everyone seemed to take their sweet time as though they didn’t want to accept that it was over.

I found Chris still gambling at the same craps table, and since I wasn’t into gambling, I sat down at an empty roulette table nearby to take in what I had just experienced and to do some people watching. It was maybe a half an hour later that I noticed Judy Garland with a small group of people walking into the casino from the lobby. My back was against the roulette table and they stopped directly behind me. I heard someone tell a funny joke and I turned around to see who had told it. I found myself looking directly into Judy Garland’s eyes and she was looking directly into mine. We were both laughing, and without thinking, I winked at her, which seemed to make her laugh even more. I immediately turned away. Judy and her party continued walking and went into the dining room, which was off to the left of me. It all happened in a few quick seconds.

It wasn’t in my nature at the time to be so bold as to wink at an older woman, even if I knew her, and surely not a living legend who I had been watching in movies ever since I could remember and who I had just seen mesmerize a theater full of people. But, there it was. I did it and I sat there thinking, “Geez, did I just wink at Judy Garland?” As I began thinking of what a great story I had to tell Chris later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the woman who was with Judy Garland’s party.

She said, “Hi, my name is Peri Fleischman. I am Judy Garland’s private secretary and she would like to know if you would care to join us in the dining room.”

It’s quite possible that all rational thinking turned off at that point. I said, “Sure.”

She asked my name as we walked toward the dining room, and for some reason, I said “Bob” even though I had been “Mac” for the last couple of years ever since someone decided to call me that on my first day in the Air Force. They were all sitting at a big round table, and after Peri introduced me to everyone, I sat down between her and a man they called Cookie. So there we were: Judy Garland, Peri Fleischman, Sid Luft (Judy’s husband and manager), Cookie, and yours truly. I had suddenly been snatched from obscurity and dropped into the world of the rich and famous.

Since I was in civilian clothes, they had no way of knowing what I did for a living, and when Judy asked, I said I was in the Air Force. She asked what my job was and I said I was a pilot. With some enthusiasm, she said “Oh, so was Sid,” as she smiled at him. She asked what I flew and when I said I flew C-119’s and that I was a troop carrier pilot, Sid—who knew from my answer that I was flying a multi-engine aircraft—asked me what plane I flew to transition from single-engine into multi-engine aircraft. When I said the B-25, Judy excitedly said, “That’s a plane that Sid flew!” It turned out that Sid was a test pilot and at some point he flew the B-25. That impressed me. He asked what I thought of the B-25 and I said I thought it was a good airplane. He agreed.

Judy asked where I was stationed and when I told her that I was on my way to Japan, she looked at Cookie, the man on my right, and said, “Fix him up, Cookie.” I had no idea what she meant. Cookie had an air of confidence about him and an easy-going manner. He was dressed in a camel sport coat and a tie, and when Judy said “Fix him up,” he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a pad and pen. He wrote something, tore off the page, and handed it to me. It said: “Dear Lemy, Take good care of Bob. He’s a friend of Judy’s and mine.” It was signed, “Cookie.”

When he saw the blank expression on my face, he said, “You’re an Air Force officer headed for Japan. Who do you think Lemy could be?” Well, I knew very well that the Commander of U.S. Far East forces was four star General Lyman Lemnitzer, but I hesitated to say his name because, really, this guy in civilian clothes is fixing me up with General Lemnitzer?

But then Judy said, “Does it help to know that Cookie is a general?”

Yep, that helped a lot, so I asked, “General Lemnitzer?”

“We’re good friends. We were classmates at West Point,” Cookie said.

I don’t know what I said or if I said anything at all at that point. For the life of me I can’t remember. I just know that right after that Judy stood up and said, “Come on Bob, let’s go gamble.” I stuck the note in a pocket and stood up.

Judy asked if anyone had money. I think it was Sid who handed her a twenty and off we went into the casino. I don’t remember seeing Chris anywhere. Judy and I headed for the nearest gambling table where she bet the twenty and lost. That was the extent of our gambling. Did I feel just a little self-conscious because everybody in eyeshot was staring at us? Well, yes, but since I was never a “fall-apart” kind of guy, I just went along with the program.

“Let’s go talk somewhere,” Judy said. We went into the cocktail lounge and sat down at one of those little round cocktail tables. We ordered drinks and comfortably fell into conversation. At one point early on she asked if the staring eyes bothered me and I acknowledged that they did.

“The trick is to pretend we are the only two people in the room,” she said. It helped and she was good at it; I don’t think she ever looked around the room, not even once, even though there were plenty of people eying her and probably wondering who I was. I took her advice, and I would learn later that she had a real gift for making people feel at ease.

“You should be in the movies,” she said.

“I don’t know about that.”

She went out of her way to assure me that she didn’t make a habit of encouraging anyone to get into the movies because she knew how tough the business was. “Only a very few ever really make it. But you should be in the movies.” I don’t think I said anything. Then she told me that James Dean was a friend of hers and that I reminded her of him.

We talked for a long while until Judy said she should get to bed soon. We left the cocktail lounge and sat down on a big round seat in the middle of the lobby and continued talking. When it was time to say goodnight, Judy motioned to someone who worked at the hotel, and within a short time, she was told that her car had arrived. We walked outside where a limo was waiting. Before she got in, she invited me to come to her dressing room the next evening before the show and to sit at her table for the performance. I told her I would. She told me to come about an hour before showtime, gave me a big hug, and said she would see me the next day. We must have been together for hours. Time really flew when you were with Judy.

Chris somehow got back to our motel room on his own that night, and he was already there when I arrived. It turned out that he had been so focused on gambling that he never saw what was going on with me and the Garland crew. When he was ready to leave and couldn’t find me, he went back to the motel. As I told him the story, he just listened with a big fat smile on his face.

Late the next day, we headed back to the New Frontier. Chris was always a hit with the girls and comfortable on his own, so there was no problem with our going in different directions. About an hour before showtime, I asked someone how to get backstage and when I got there, I told a guy at a small desk that Judy Garland was expecting me. He checked my name against his list, found it, and said OK. I couldn’t believe this was all really happening. Naturally, I had to ask him where her dressing room was, and when I knocked on the door, a young guy opened it and asked if Miss Garland was expecting me. As I was about to answer, Judy spotted me and said, “Hi Bob,” as she came over and gave me a big hug.

There were a few people in her dressing room when I walked in that first time, though I don’t recall now exactly who. People came and went during my many visits. As you might expect, the regulars were Sid and Peri. After introducing me to whomever was there, she invited me to sit with her on a small love seat against the wall. It was always the same—Judy on my left and me on her right—and after we sat down, she reached over and took my left hand in her right hand. That became our routine each time I visited. We sat there together, holding hands, and talking, night after night, before and after each show.

When it came time for Judy to get ready for the show, she told me to give my name to the maître d’ and order whatever I wanted, that it was all taken care of. I’m sure she knew that Second Lieutenants didn’t make much money. When I gave my name to the maître d’, he said, “Oh yes, good evening, Lieutenant. Please, right this way.” After I was seated, he asked if I would like to see the menu, but I declined because I didn’t want to take advantage of Judy’s generosity. That’s how I had been brought up—be grateful and don’t be greedy.

The night before, an usher had shown me to a small table on the far left toward the back. Just one day later, the maître d’ himself was escorting me to the best table in the house. It was big enough for at least six people and was smack in the center about three or four rows from the stage. As if that wasn’t enough, Judy had obviously remembered from the night before that I drank Scotch because there was an expensive, unopened bottle of it sitting on the table along with ice and soda. I thought, “Man, so this is how these people live!” I also wondered what happened to the partially empty bottle of Scotch after the show was over and I left.

It was all very impressive, even heady for a young guy like me who, one could argue, was still soaking wet behind the ears. Looking back at it now, it was all a little surreal. Twenty-four hours earlier, I wasn’t even sure if I could afford a ticket to the show. One day later, I was sitting at Judy Garland’s table like some kind of celebrity, waiting to see and hear her work her magic once again. Not only that, but I was expected back in her dressing room after the show! And it all started with an innocent little wink.

Back then, movie stars were people we saw on a big screen in a theater. They weren’t only bigger than life on the screen, they were bigger in our minds, too. They weren’t like the rest of us. They were fantasy people who fulfilled our dream lives. Hollywood went to great lengths to create movie stars and to keep their fans as starstruck as possible. It was different then. I didn’t know anyone who thought they would actually meet a Hollywood movie star, let alone become a friend of one. Meeting Judy—the real Judy—was an eye-opener. Living legends are real people with the same feelings and longings we ordinary people have? This was completely new to me.

When the show ended, I went backstage and found the dressing room full of people. As before, Judy greeted me with a big hug, took my hand, and introduced me around—some were friends and some were friends of friends. We then headed for the couch again where we sat holding hands and talking. The conversation in the room was always lively and upbeat and often accentuated with good humor. Judy was always gracious to everyone. She was one of those people who had the priceless ability to make each person she spoke with feel special. She could have written the book How to Win Friends and Influence People. The conversation was always about the person she was with and rarely about herself.

One night after a show, we were sitting on the couch as Sid and a few others stood in front of us talking. One of them was a pretty young woman, a dancer, and Judy told her, “I love the way you do that turn (or something similar). It’s wonderful. How do you do that?” And then, she went on talking with this dancer in such a way that any uninformed observer might have thought the dancer was the star and Judy was some obscure chorus girl. Now, that may not seem so unusual, but you must consider who she was at the time and that she was the same way with everyone.

We drank some after that second show as we did after every show, but never before. Her dressing room was well-stocked with only the best stuff. After an hour or so, everyone but Peri had said goodnight. Judy had made it clear that she wanted me to stay. Sid and Judy’s marriage was beginning to look like no marriage I had ever seen. It wasn’t long before I got it: Judy and Sid lived separately (at least in Vegas while I was there). Judy asked if I would like to go to her apartment with her, and I answered with my all-encompassing “Sure.” With that, the three of us headed for a backstage door.  Just outside was a black limo waiting for us.

Up until that moment, I had never even dreamed I’d ride in a limo. They were scarce to be seen back then and I had never even considered it. The fact was, just a few short years earlier, my idea of a nice ride was sitting in the backseat of my uncle’s two door-coupe with my junior prom date and my cousin Hart at the wheel. Really, we were happy to get any ride at all. Now that was a good night.

But there I was, standing in front of that magnificent, long, shiny black limo with Judy Garland and her private secretary and the chauffeur was holding the door open for us to get in. For a split second, I wondered about limo protocol. I remember thinking, “OK, I’m getting into a limo with Judy Garland and her private secretary. Am I doing this right? (Doing it right? How can I do it wrong?) Let the ladies in first and then get in and sit down, dummy!” So that’s what I did, and it was just fine, maybe even perfect. Hey, what can I say? I was adapting. It must have been the pilot training.

The limo ride was a short one. The hotel had provided an apartment for Judy, and it was one short block from the backstage door. I think it was still on hotel property. We entered into what I guessed was the living room; it wasn’t big or fancy. There was the kind of 1950s-style couch that could be found in any middle class home at the time, a couple of other chairs, an unremarkable coffee table, and some nondescript pictures on the wall. It was simple and plain and it wasn’t in the same family as the limo we’d just arrived in.

Judy and I sat down on the couch and Peri sat facing us in a chair on the other side of the coffee table. As in her dressing room, Judy sat close to me even though this couch was full-size. She wasn’t “all over me,” and I never had the sense that her closeness came from neediness. She was, by nature, warm and affectionate with people with whom she felt comfortable and safe. I think it was that simple, and for some reason, she felt that way with me.

The three of us talked for maybe fifteen minutes, and then Peri said goodnight and disappeared through the only other door in the room. I thought later that she stayed only long enough to be satisfied that I was a good guy and safe.

On the coffee table directly in front of me, there was a copy of what I think was the first edition of Playboy magazine. I couldn’t help but notice it when I first sat down because on its cover was a picture of Marilyn Monroe lying there naked. For fifteen minutes, I had politely ignored dear, lovely Miss Monroe. But after Peri left, Judy pointed at the cover and asked, “What do think of that new magazine?”

“Yeah, it’s all the talk,” I said.

Playboy was a pretty big deal when it first hit the newsstands. It was radical stuff, and it caused a big stir throughout the country. I just remember feeling like I was in unfamiliar territory and wasn’t sure how to act. I was with a grown woman and not just any grown woman. I was with Judy Garland and that made a difference.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Judy asked.

It was a rhetorical question and I played it safe.

“She is,” I agreed. Enough said.

Somehow the conversation turned to politics. She was actively supporting Democrat Adlai Stevenson in his presidential bid against incumbent President Dwight Eisenhower and she wanted to know my thoughts on the race. She asked me if I thought Stevenson could win, and I told her I didn’t think so. When she asked why, I said I thought he seemed a bit too intellectual or professorial to the “common man.” I didn’t think he could overcome Eisenhower’s overwhelming popularity with the general public. As Supreme Allied Commander, five star General Eisenhower had led the largest military force in world history to victory over Adolph Hitler. He was a national hero and an exceptionally likable man who instilled confidence in virtually every American. Even though she liked Stevenson, she admitted, “I think you’re right.” In November, Eisenhower won in a landslide.

It was late, and Judy said, “I’m sorry, I’m a little tired.” Without another word, as though we had known each other for years, she put her head on my lap and fell asleep. I was sitting there with Judy Garland sound asleep with her head on my lap, the same Judy Garland who I had watched in the movies ever since I could remember and the living legend who had just a few hours ago received another standing ovation.

All I could think was, “Hmm, what do I do now?” Well, I did what I would have done for anyone. I let her sleep for a while and then I nudged her a little. “Judy, it’s bedtime.”

She woke up and apologized and walked me to the door. She asked if I could come to see her again the next day and I said, “Sure.” She gave me a peck on the lips and a big hug and we said goodnight.

The next day when Chris and I arrived at the New Frontier, I spent some time in the lobby and casino just taking it all in. We were both still slightly amazed at the amount of money that some of the gamblers lost at the tables. That—along with other things like the shills and the hookers—just added to the fascination and the experience. Once, while I was walking around, a guy came over to me and said, “Excuse me, aren’t you Judy Garland’s friend?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought so.” I think he wanted to talk some more, but since I wasn’t sure who he was or what his intentions were, I politely excused myself and moved on.

The backstage security guy at the desk checked his list again for my name and waved me through. There were maybe seven or eight people in the dressing room when I arrived, and after greeting me with a big smile and a hug, Judy introduced me to everyone before we headed for the couch. She apologized again for falling asleep the night before and I brushed it off. I wondered if maybe performing so incredibly well every night was more stressful than the average person could know.

People mingled and chatted while we sat on the couch. Inevitably, they often congregated in front of us to talk with Judy and occasionally me if someone brought me into the conversation. I was still too shy to initiate one. At one point that night, Sid was in front of us with a man and a woman. The man was talking about something while Sid let a small stack of silver dollars fall from one hand into the other. Suddenly, the coins fell to the floor, making a lot of noise as they scattered here, there, and everywhere, effectively ending the man’s story.

While people were picking up the silver dollars, Judy scolded him, “Sid!” and gave him a look like you might see on a mother’s face while giving her child a playful reprimand. I found out later that it was an intentional “accident.” Judy told me that the “silver dollar drop trick” was something he used to interrupt—and hopefully end—a boring story. Truthfully, I was kind of impressed. It worked and I don’t think the guy telling the story ever knew what happened.

I was starting to get a sense of which people were closer to Judy and Sid than others based on the nature and tenor of the conversations and I suspected I had somehow become part of this inner circle. At one point, Sid revealed to the two or three people who were there more often than the others that Judy had a two-week contract with the hotel for $55,000 a week. That was a lot of money in 1956, and at the time, it made her the highest-paid performer in Las Vegas history.

Once again, Judy’s performance was spectacular. As usual, the audience was not eager to see the show end. When I went backstage, she was already sitting on the couch and she motioned for me to join her. When I sat down, she took my hand and explained that she wasn’t feeling well. She said she had thrown up in the bathroom before the show. I asked her what she thought the problem was, and she said it was just nerves. She said it was not uncommon for her to feel that way before a performance.

Because I knew zip about show business and entertainers, I was puzzled by what she had just told me. Judy Garland gets nervous before a show? Judy Garland? She goes out there every night in front of hundreds of people and blows them away! She never seems the least bit nervous. Yet, she had just told me that she gets stage fright. Later, when I gave Chris the nightly update, it occurred to me just how stressful it must be to put her reputation, her career on the line every night in front of all those people knowing that they expected her to give them what only the living legend, Judy Garland, could. The living legend thing was a high-maintenance label. She couldn’t get any higher than that in the show business pecking order; the only other direction she could go was down.

Judy was never surrounded by a flock of sycophants and she had no entourage. For all appearances, her ego did not begin to approach the size of her talent. Maybe that explained her appeal: the vulnerability that millions of fans and I found so attractive and endearing. She was just as human as we were; she was one of us. But at that moment, as we sat there holding hands, I was puzzled when I learned she had had a bout of stage fright and I did not know what to say to her.

I could only guess that word had gotten around that she wasn’t feeling well because the dressing room didn’t fill up with people that night. Even Sid wasn’t there. It was just Judy, Peri, and me. Within a few minutes, Peri asked me if I would help her get Judy to the apartment. When Judy stood up, she seemed weak and tired. So with Judy in the middle and Peri and I on each side helping to support her, the three of us walked slowly behind that huge curtain to the backstage door and the waiting limo.

Once we were in the apartment, Judy thanked me, gave me a hug, and asked if I would be able to come to the dressing room the next day before the show. I said I would and said goodnight.

When I arrived at the dressing room on the fourth night, I was greeted by a healthy-looking, well-rested Judy, but she could barely speak. She had laryngitis! Needless to say, that was a problem, but one that had already been handled. She said she called her friend Jerry Lewis and he had flown in from L.A. to fill in for her. I didn’t know it yet, but this was going to be a very interesting night. Since Jerry Lewis didn’t come into the dressing room before the show, I would see him for the first time on stage.

I left the dressing room at the usual time, went out to the theater, and took my seat at Judy’s table. As always, a new bottle of expensive Scotch was waiting for me with ice and soda. But there was a second bottle of some other kind of whiskey on the table as well. Within minutes, a well-dressed, middle-aged couple joined me. When they arrived, the man said, “Hi Bob, it’s nice to meet you. We’re friends of Judy.” They gave me their names but I can’t remember them now. I just remember that they were quite pleasant. There was some small talk and then it was showtime. We were all sitting there waiting for the show to begin and wondering how Jerry Lewis would pull it off.

For many years, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were the biggest comedy team in America. They were huge on stage, on television, and in the movies. But after years of success, they broke up earlier that year and it hadn’t been a pretty thing to watch. It was big news at the time and their fans were shocked. They were so tightly connected with each other in the minds of the public that it was almost impossible to imagine what success they could possibly expect as single acts. Their break-up was still very raw when Jerry Lewis flew into Vegas to help Judy out that night. In fact, Dean and Jerry weren’t even talking with each other and everyone knew it. As if that didn’t make it tense enough, the theater was packed, as always, with Judy Garland’s fans who had come from all around the country just to see her in person, only to learn she would not be performing and Jerry Lewis was filling in.

The curtain opened and Jerry walked out. He walked to the center of the stage and just stood there looking at the audience without saying a word. I can’t remember if he stood there making some famous Jerry Lewis faces or if he was expressionless. Whatever he did, it worked because the audience began to giggle a little and then to laugh. He was using their uneasiness to his advantage. Finally, in quintessential Jerry Lewis style, he said, “You were expecting someone else?”  Our spontaneous laughter gave him unconditional license to continue, and from that moment on, he never skipped a beat.

There was one uncomfortable moment though. It came after he had announced that William Bendix was in the audience and invited the then-popular movie actor onto the stage with him. They bantered back and forth for a while, and thanks to Lewis, they were funny together. That is until Lewis asked Bendix some throwaway question and Bendix said, “Well Dean, I…” It was a slip and everyone in the theater caught it. Except for a few groans, you could have heard the infamous pin drop. There was an uneasy silence for a few moments, but somehow Lewis graciously and masterfully moved on, quickly taking the egg off Bendix’s face as he went. Lewis was perfect that night.

After a while, he excused himself and walked off stage right. A few seconds later, he came back leading Judy by the hand onto the stage with him. She was kind of shrugging her shoulders and apologetically pointing to her throat to tell everyone that she couldn’t contribute to the show. She got a huge ovation. I never knew if they planned it before the show, but it worked out great. Jerry left Judy standing there alone for a few seconds as he walked off stage again and returned with a chair. He told her to sit down and not to worry about anything; he would take care of everything, including the singing. He said he would sing her songs for her and told her to whisper the words in his ear if he got stuck. Then, he knelt down beside her, Al Jolson-style, motioned to the orchestra, and began to sing. He sang most if not all of the songs she would have sung if she could have, occasionally leaning toward her to get some lyrics. It wasn’t Judy Garland, but it was good, and so far as I could tell, the audience was satisfied. It was a remarkable performance, one for the books.

When I walked into the dressing room, it was full of people, including Jerry Lewis’s wife Patti. I was sitting on the couch with Judy when Jerry walked in. He came in full of energy and immediately had everyone’s attention. He went on about how hip the audience was, how none of his jokes were lost on them, and how nothing he said or did went over their heads. Looking back years later, I realized what a big deal that performance must have been for him. It was shortly after his breakup with Dean Martin and his career outlook was far from certain, so how he performed as a single that night in such a high-powered venue as Las Vegas was important.

After Jerry had settled down, and while he, Patti, and few others were standing in front of us, Judy introduced me to him. “Jerry, I want you to meet my friend Bob. He’s going to be an actor.” Now, even though that’s what she wanted for me, I had never said I was going to be an actor. Whenever she brought it up, I was noncommittal. But there she was introducing me to Jerry as someone who is “going to be an actor.”

Jerry looked at me, and without saying a word, he scrunched up his face as if to say, “Yeah, right. I’ve seen a million pretty boys like him.” He turned away and started talking to someone else. Simultaneously, Judy and Patti said, “Jerry, that’s not nice!” Judy squeezed my hand and said “I’m sorry.” I don’t think I said anything, but I took note of the difference between the guy I just saw onstage and this wiseguy in front of me. Years later, I learned that Jerry Lewis had a reputation for being arrogant, even callous.

Knowing that Chris and I had one more day before we had to leave for San Francisco, Judy invited me to a little party in her dressing room after the show and asked if I thought Chris would care to join us. Up until then, she hadn’t met him and I had been hesitant to ask if she would mind if I brought him with me, so I was happy that she suggested it. When I asked Chris, he answered with his big smile and said, “Really? Yeah, I would.”

After another great Judy Garland performance, Chris and I headed backstage. When we arrived that last night, the dressing room was full of people enjoying themselves. I saw Judy on the far side of the room talking with a group of people. Chris and I remained near the door since I only knew Judy, Sid, and Peri, and Chris only knew me, never mind that this was a whole different world to a couple of twenty-ish Air Force plane jockeys. Granted, I had become quite comfortable with Judy by then, but that wasn’t enough to make me feel like I belonged with all these other people I didn’t know. Judy was well aware of that, and when she spotted us, she flashed a happy smile at me and signaled that she would be with us soon.

It wasn’t long before she wound her way to us, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “I love you,” in my ear. She then gave Chris a big smile as I introduced him to her. He matched her big smile with his big smile. After a little chitchat, Judy asked if I could stay until everyone else left and I said I could. She then excused herself and said she would be back.

The moment she was gone, Chris looked at me and said, “She just said she loves you!” I just mumbled something. We did not use the ‘love’ word lightly back then and that was the first time Judy had said that to me.

There would be no couch-sitting that night. Judy was the hostess and she did her job well, mingling and pleasing all with her easygoing personality. Chris and I stood near the door and took it all in until Chris said he was going out to the casino for some last minute gambling. I told him I’d see him later.

After everyone else had left, Judy, Peri, and I walked out to the limo for the short drive to the apartment. Except for the first night, Peri always said goodnight within a few minutes of arriving. She trusted me. Judy and I talked for a while, but I had already told her that I was going to make it an early night because we had a long drive ahead of us and she understood. She said she hoped I would seriously consider becoming an actor when my Air Force tour ended. I said I would at least think about it. When I said it was time for me to go, she walked me to the door, put her arms around my waist, looked up at me with her warm brown eyes, and asked, “Will you write to me?”

“Will you write back?” I answered.

“Of course I will,” she said nicely.

It was many years before I understood and acknowledged it, but I was experiencing a bit of a self-worth deficit that night, which explains why I questioned her sincerity when she asked me to write to her. Part of me resisted what was right in front of me. I wasn’t able to fully accept Judy’s friendship simply for what it was, which, as I realized much later, was genuine. It had nothing to do with Judy. She couldn’t have been more sincere. The truth was, I still needed a lot more life experience and some serious growing up to do before I would be able to believe that someone like Judy Garland could actually take such an interest in me.

She may have sensed some of that because she went out of her way to try to convince me that we were now friends, true friends, and that she wanted to keep it that way. When she assured me she would write back, she handed me a slip of paper with her address on it, reached up, put her arms around my neck, and gave me a kiss. Yep, it was a real kiss and a good one—very good. Then, I left.

Okay, so this story wouldn’t meet the smell test if I hedged on the kiss thing. So here’s the deal: Of course there was a physical attraction going on between Judy and me and I’m sure that had something to do with the invitation to join her in the dining room. But we never talked about it and even though she was always affectionate and we seemed always to be physically close, we didn’t flirt. Now, you may wonder … even ask … if I think there might have been more if I had taken the initiative. Well, life is full of wonder, dear reader, and that’s a good thing. Don’t you agree?

One night, as we sat on the couch together, Judy picked up something from an end table and as she handed it to me she said, “I just love this picture.” It was a photograph of her and Mickey Rooney when they were young.  It was a simple photo that could have been taken with a $15 Kodak Brownie camera. This was one of many clues that helped me understand who Judy “the person” was. She became Judy Garland, the star, every time she walked out on a stage or acted in front of the film cameras, but when her work was done, she turned the star-switch off and became simply, Judy.

Speaking of photos, in all that time, I never thought to ask to take a photo with her (yet I am positive that if I had, she would have happily agreed). Many years passed before I even told others about it. At some point I told my parents because I thought they might get a big kick out of it. And aside from Chris, I can’t recall telling any of my buddies about Judy and I. I don’t know if Chris ever mentioned it to anyone either. That’s the way it was.

In the short time I knew her, I came to care very much for Judy. That feeling has only grown deeper over the years. I have no doubt that I would have liked her just as much if she hadn’t been Judy Garland the megastar. I also believe that our friendship would have lasted to the end—hers or mine.

But, for reasons that even to this day I still do not fully understand, I never wrote to her. For that, I am sorry. I think she may have needed my friendship more than I needed hers. I was young and free, living from one moment to the next, doing what I loved every day. My life was filled with friends and adventure. It was intense and real in a very basic sense. I lived in the moment, not worrying about the past or future. But Judy’s life had always been defined and contained within the great American world of celebrity. It was the only world she had ever known; she had been a big star from early childhood. As close as she ever came to experiencing a ‘normal’ life was when she played that kind of part in a movie. She grew up in a high-pressure world and was still in it when I met her. And despite the difference in age and background and beyond the physical attraction, we felt comfortable together—that feeling that you have known the person for years even though you’ve just met. It is perhaps not as common as we would like, but it happens.

Though I had not written to her, there would be two occasions on which I would go to see Judy. I served 9 months in Japan before being flown back to San Francisco to be discharged from the Air Force. Since I had a boyhood friend who lived in Hollywood, I decided to go there to check out the acting thing. That story must be left for another time because this is about Judy and me.

After about 2 years in Hollywood, it was time to leave. I decided to stop at Judy’s house on the way out of town, even though, by now, it had been close to 3 years since I met her in Las Vegas. I didn’t even call first. What can I say except to tell you that I am describing the peculiar behavior of a young man I used to know a very long time ago.

I walked to the front door and rang the bell. I wondered if she would remember me and if she did, how I could possibly explain my failure to write to her. I was already feeling embarrassed. I waited about a minute, but no one answered, so I turned and started back to my car. Just then, a car pulled into the driveway and Sid Luft got out.

He walked quickly toward me and said, “Can I help you?” As he got closer and before I could answer, he recognized me. “Bob, where in the hell have you been?” he said. I felt embarrassed and foolish. Three years and he not only remembered me, but he let me know that I had let Judy down. He was nice about it, but his words said it all. I mumbled something about Japan and Hollywood and told him I was on my way to New York. He told me Judy was in London and that he would tell her I stopped by to see her. He asked me to stay in touch and then I left.

The second time would be during my beatnik days in New York. I was lost and did not know how to find myself. During one of those grey days, I had learned that Judy Garland would be playing at the Palace. It was a pretty big deal. People were saying how they would love to score a ticket. I didn’t tell anyone I knew her. I was in one of my two pairs of pants, unshaven, and broke. I didn’t even have enough money for a bus or subway ride, so I walked from uptown to the Palace. By the time I got there, the lobby was empty, the ticket windows were closed, and the cashiers were counting their money. Of course I could not have afforded a ticket anyway. I thought, “What am I doing here?” As I turned to leave, Sid walked into the lobby. We were the only two people there and he immediately spotted me.

“Bob, where in the hell have you been?”

Trust me, I’m not making this stuff up. It was exactly what he had said in Hollywood as I was leaving town. He should have said, “Bob, what in the hell is wrong with you?” Instead, he sized me up and asked if I was staying for the show. Before I could answer, he said, “Of course you are. Come on.”

He walked to a door that led into the theater, opened it, and asked an usher who was standing just inside if he had a seat for “my friend.” The usher said there was only one empty seat in the house and pointed to it. It was right there to the left of the door. Sid told the usher to give it to me. He told me to go around to the stage door after the show and he would take me in to see Judy. Then, he left.

The comedian, Alan King, opened for Judy; he was very funny. Then it was time for the great Judy Garland. It was the first time I had seen her in over four years. When she walked out onto the stage, I felt a rush of conflicting emotions. The theater was filled with her fans and she did not let them down. They were nuts for her. They gave her all their love and she sang her heart out for them. She was great. And then it was over.

I walked out into the lobby. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like a bum and thought I must look like one too. Should I go to the stage door or just go home? What will she think when she sees me? How could I possibly explain myself? There was no getting around it, I had been an abysmal friend. No, I had not been a friend at all. I went outside, lit a cigarette, and walked around to the stage door. There was a long line of people waiting to get a glimpse of Judy Garland. I didn’t see Sid anywhere, but I fell in at the end of the line. Within minutes, Sid came up behind me.

“How did you like the show?” he asked.

“She was great.”

“Give me about five minutes. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

I said OK, but I considered leaving. Then Sid came out and told me that she was not feeling well but that she would like to see me tomorrow. He told me what hotel they were staying at, gave me their room number and phone number, and told me to call. I said OK, we shook hands, and said we’d see each other tomorrow.

I never called.

And that is where the story of Judy and me ends. I know, I was a strange young man. But that was then and as life would have it, I’ve learned a few things in these long years since Judy Garland fell asleep on my lap. I’ve learned that once someone finds their way into your heart, the story never really ends.

I’ll see you somewhere over the rainbow, Judy, and I am so sorry I never told you—I love you, too.