My Alter Ego: Red Buttons

My brother called me a short while ago. He was crying. He is subject to doing that at odd times but then he said, "Someone in the family has died." Being as there aren't too many people he could be talking about I wondered who. "I have to tell you something Jerry, you knew Red Buttons, I knew Red Buttons. Jerry, you are no Red Buttons." Then, still snuffling, he summarily slammed the phone down.

I immediately flashed to Newsvine. Sure enough, Red Buttons had died at 87. I joined my brother, I cried also. I won't tell you of my brother's encounter with Mr. Buttons, but mine has been a family story since the early 60's. I had a girlfriend in Columbus, Georgia that owned a bar and liquor store. (Scout's Honor) One day she and I were sitting in the bar when she ran out of Old Grandad. In those days Old Grandad was like an appendage, went everywhere I did. My sweetie said, "Sam, why don't you run up to the liquor store and get another bottle? Just tell the manager I sent you and he won't charge you.

Now this girlfriend (I will call her Sweetie.) was rather new to me. We had just met a few days prior. The people at the liquor store didn't know me. When I walked in the door, the man behind the counter was standing there looking at me kind of funny. Everybody in the place looked at me kind of funny, then started clapping. The store manager said, "What can I do for you, sir?"

I said, "I am here to pick up a bottle of Grandad."

He reached up on the shelf, placed a bottle of Grandad on the Counter and said, "And that will be on the house. My family sure enjoyed your show."

I was taken aback by that but I thought maybe the guy is weird. At least he knew I didn't have to pay for the booze, Sweetie must have called him. I took the bottle and returned to the bar.

"Did you have any trouble getting the Old Grandad?" she asked.

"You mean you didn't call up there and clear it?"

"No."

"Well when I walked in the guy seemed like he knew me and he said the bottle was on the house."

"That son of a gun, who did he think he was giving my booze to? I am going to call him and straighten this out right now." Sweetie was mad, red mad.

I heard her on the phone, at first irate, then calmer, then laughing. Laughing louder and longer than I had heard her so far. She came back to her bar seat and placed her hand on my arm while continuing her deep belly laugh. When she settled down, she said, "The store manager thought you were Red Buttons. He had just watched a Red Buttons performance at the Three Arts Theatre. He was paying for the Old Grandad out of his own pocket."

To make a long story short, Sweetie and I attended the next available performance. We took an unopened bottle of Old Grandad with us. We managed to get word to Mr. Buttons that we had something for him. We were invited back stage. After a few fingers of Grandad, the three of us got to be quite chummy. Red Buttons was older than me, about a foot shorter than me, but I continue to have people call me Red Buttons to this day. If they get real insistent, I tell them, "No, I am sorry, I am not Red Buttons." Sometimes they will persist. When they do I tell them, "Actually I am Gene Hackman." Most of them tell me they knew I was someone.

This story is embellished but true. A great entertainer and a one time drinking partner has gone on. I will miss him.