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Davis Rules | |
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If it's the laughter that I'll remember, then I should have completely forgotten my encounter with Brady maid Ann B. Davis. But that's not the case. Having been lucky enough to grow up in a vaguely theatrical family, I got to scrounge around the sidelines while my family cavorted with all the never-quite-weres who performed at the Beverly, a dinner theater situated in glamorous downtown Jefferson, Louisiana. I met them all: George Maharis (an intensely un-nice human), Dawn Wells (from Gilligan's lsland -- and very nice), Dwayne "Dobie Gillis" Hickman (OK guy), M*A*S*H's Larry Linville (extremely pale but surpisingly nice bod), even Cesar Romero (charming -- and I don't mean that sarcastically). Imagine the thrill when my mother one afternoon told me that she was going to the hair salon were she worked to give Ann B. her wig for the show. She asked if I wanted to come along. I did. Who wouldn't? I don't, however, remember what Neil Simon play she was in -- it was a dinner theater, so of course it was Neil Simon -- but I remember her in blue, a yellow bow in her hair and a small, New York-style dog in her hand. I didn't say I watched her on TV or anything. I think I just said hello. She shook my hand with her dogless hand and said, "How do you do?" She was bigger than I ... but then I was nine or so years old and lots of people were bigger. My mother gave her the wig in the kind of wig carrier you always see drag queens with. She got into whatever loaner car the Beverly had scored for her, waved good-bye and drove out of my life forever. Then, I thought she looked just like she did on TV: plain. Now I think of her looking like the sort of woman only a butch(er) could love. (circa 1972) |
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