The Toughest Gig Ever for a Saloon Comedian

Of all the gigs in all the world, the last one Tom Dreesen ever expected to do was Frank Sinatra’s funeral.

How he adored that man. Sinatra was a surrogate father to him. Tom will tell you flat out, “Frank Sinatra gave me far more advice than my own father ever did.”

He was at home in Sherman Oaks when a call came on the night of May 14 that Sinatra was dead.

Tom didn’t sleep for the next 40 hours.

Every time he checked his telephone answering machine, the tape would be full. People were calling to express condolences to him. How strange this was.

Yet they knew how Tom felt.

He had toured with Sinatra for 13 years. He knows of no artist who spent more nights on stage with Frank than he did.

So there he stood Wednesday inside the Good Shepherd Church, master of ceremonies at a wake.

He will never forget introducing Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas, Robert Wagner, Frank Jr. and everyone else who got up to speak.

Just as he’ll never forget being determined not to cry, to keep the mood light, to make the mourners laugh, because that’s what Frank would have wanted, because Frank would have said, “Let’s make it 10 minutes, because if it’s 11, we’re outta here.”

Just as he’ll never forget carrying that gardenia-adorned coffin, along with Don Rickles and Steve Lawrence and the other pallbearers, and the teardrops streaming down famous faces, and the eerie silence inside the church.

And then the door opening.

And thousands of people on a street in Beverly Hills, erupting into cheers and applause. Applause . . . at a wake.

Tom thinks Frank would have loved that.

*

Long ago, I met this young guy from the same general neighborhood whose goal in life was to be a comedian. Yeah, right. And maybe I’d be president of France.

He shined shoes, tended bar, worked construction. Whatever paid the rent. After a while, he hooked up with another comic, Tim Reid, and did an act called Tim & Tom.

I wrote them a couple of jokes. Bad ones. “What’s 7 feet tall and makes your bed?” “Wilt Chambermaid.” That kind of thing.

Luckily, they had better material. Tim eventually broke off to become successful on TV, in shows like “WKRP in Cincinnati” and “Frank’s Place.”

Tom worked clubs, opening for headliners like Smokey Robinson and later Sammy Davis Jr.

One night, Pat Henry, who often was Sinatra’s comic, introduced them. Frank said, “Hi, kid.” Tom went home and wrote “Hi, kid” on a wall.

Holmes Hendricksen, a vice president with Harrah’s, saw him in Las Vegas. He suggested to Sinatra’s attorney, Mickey Rudin, that this kid might make a good opening act for Frank.

Rudin asked, “If I give you a week with Frank Sinatra, would you want more than $50,000?”

Dreesen replied, “If you were me and got a week with Frank Sinatra, would you want more than $50,000?”

Tom got the job. He couldn’t believe his luck. Pretty soon he was in Atlantic City, N.J., standing in the wings of the Golden Nugget, listening to Frank sing “Come Fly With Me,” and next thing he knew, Frank was flying with him.

For 13 years, they would do long engagements together, sometimes hit 45 to 50 towns a year. Tom turned down other offers. Agents left him over it. Friends such as Jay Leno ribbed him about it, he says, kept telling him to do something else.

Tom didn’t want to do anything else.

*

One night in Palm Springs, they went to a saloon called Chaplin’s to get a drink. “If I’m a saloon singer, then Tom is a saloon comedian,” Frank had once said, to Tom’s eternal joy. “We’re just a couple of neighborhood guys.”

A woman came in, asked if the bar had a jukebox. Sinatra looked at her. “No,” he said, “but I’ll sing for you.”

The woman said no thanks and left.

Tom said, “She didn’t recognize you.”

Frank smiled. He said, “Maybe she did.”

They enjoyed each other’s company. If Tom asked a favor, Frank granted it, every time. If Frank needed one, Tom dropped everything.

In the church Wednesday, Tom fought off the tears. Then someone popped in a CD. It was Frank’s voice, singing, “Put your dreams away, for another day . . .”

He had made Frank laugh. Frank finally made him cry.

*

Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053, or phone (213) 237-7366.