Dead Ringer for the Late Schnozzola

Bill Grimes is an advertising salesman whose looks and gravelly voice landed him a job in show business. As a Jimmy Durante look-alike, he has made convention appearances around the country, flown to Melbourne, Australia, to make a TV commercial and recently made a cameo appearance in a Chicago funeral home for an upcoming movie. Grimes, 92, and his wife, Frances, live in North Hollywood.

I grew up in Philadelphia. I got married in Philadelphia. I never finished grade school because I had only one thing in mind. I wanted to get a job. I wanted to help my parents, to have enough to eat, and that was the thing.

Back in them days, it was pretty rough. My first job, I helped around the fruit store, sweeping up and straightening up the fruit and vegetables. Then later on I sold newspapers. Then I became a businessman as a kid, sold pretzels, packs of chewing gum out on the streets.

I’ve been selling advertising for about 60 years on and off. I first got involved in it when I was a traveling salesman for these other companies. I always carried a sideline of matches or printing or something like that and picked up an extra few bucks on the side.

Your pen’s got an ad on it, somebody’s name on it. That’s what I sell. Everything that can have a name. Calendars, balloons, a million things with the ad on it.

I’m still selling advertising, and in fact this year I’m lining up better than I have in years. I’m getting some pretty good-sized orders, unbelievable.

I’ve got two sides of my life--my normal life and then my Jimmy Durante life, which I got involved in about 12 years ago.

Originally, when I got involved with the look-alike, the biggest percentage of the performances I did were at conventions. And I’ve appeared before senior citizen homes, veterans hospitals and convalescent hospitals.

One of the first jobs I did was at the Bonaventure Hotel, a big convention for women. As I walked in the door, the bright light was on me, and soon as they saw me, the crowds of women ganged around me, and they went wild. And they started shaking my hand and saying, “Gee, I’m your fan,” and I shook hands, and hugging and this went on. The women adored him.

Then the master of ceremonies said, “Bill, let’s take a 10-minute recess.” As we were walking out the door, he kept repeating, “If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.” I don’t think there’s anybody in show business that was as well-liked as Durante.

I’ve worked up my own sketch more or less--nobody ever wrote anything for me--and I wrote up all my own material, and it’s looking pretty good. I looked for records, sheet music, publications, and finally, I come up with a book about Mrs. Calabash. Every time I introduce my wife, I say, “Meet my wife, Mrs. Calabash.” People get a kick out of that.

One day, I wrote a letter to Jimmy, told him who I am, and said, “I’d like to meet you if there’s any possible chance. We’d probably have a lot to talk about,” and so forth and so on, and forgot about it.

About a month later, I get a letter, handwritten, from the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas, and he got a great kick out of it, but he never offered to meet me, and that was it.

I picked up the paper one day, and I see that he passed away. I said to my wife, “Gee, I’d like to go out to the funeral, show the courtesy,” and after I got through saying that, I thought, “Wait a minute, that would be the worst thing I could do--walk in there, here he’s in the casket, and here, me, I walk in.” I changed my mind. So the result is I never met him. But I’ve got his letter.

Even today, you’d be surprised how many people don’t even know that he passed away, and they come up, “Are you Jimmy Durante?” I say, “First of all, no, and in the second place, he passed away seven, eight years ago.” And they insist, “Oh yes you are, oh yes you are.”