Old School Vs. No Class

When I read that Jack Elam had died at the age of 82, I couldn’t believe it. Okay, I believed it. But I didn’t like it. The world can ill-afford to lose the likes of Jack.

I got to know Jack back in the 70s when we both played in a Wednesday night poker game. What I remember best was how eerie it was sitting across the table from Jack and that wild left eye of his, trying to figure out if he was looking at me or at three other guys.

A remarkable thing about the man was that he brought a family-sized thermos bottle to every game. It was filled with bourbon. You could always tell when we were playing our last hand because Jack would just be pouring out the last drop. It wasn’t just in front of the camera that his timing was impeccable. To Jack’s credit, whatever it might have been doing to his liver, the booze never seemed to affect his behavior. Even after five hours, you would have thought he’d been lapping up spring water.

He was a terrific poker player. But he really made his reputation playing liar’s poker on movie and TV sets. He was legendary at the game. To hear his fellow actors describe it, I suspect with some exaggeration, he made more dough that way than by acting. And, best of all, he didn’t have to pay an agent’s commission on his winnings.

The Wednesday game consisted mainly of actors and myself. Regulars included Dick and Vince Van Patten, Don Galloway, Roger Price, Ned Wertimer and Ronny Cox, and, on occasion, Allan Miller, Gene Troobnik and Lee Majors.

The game took place at Wertimer’s Studio City condo. Specifically, it took place on his second story loft. It was in that small space that the poker table was wedged. As a result, only two players had easy access to the stairs if they needed to use the ground floor facilities. If any of the other five players needed to heed the call of nature, two or three players had to get up and move their chairs and themselves. I mention the physical set-up because it played such an essential role in my most cherished memory of the dearly departed.

The year, I believe, was 1974. We had a new guy in the game that evening. His name was Richard Dreyfuss. He had made a few movies already, most notably “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz” and “American Graffiti.” It happened, luckily for him, that he had one of the two seats with easy access to the stairway, whereas Jack was wedged into one of the corners.

Ours was not a big game, you should understand. In their game, the likes of Steve Martin and Danny Melnick played for thousands. We played for slightly lower stakes. If you had a truly terrible night, you might lose two hundred bucks.

We were about an hour and a half into the game when, suddenly, Mr. Dreyfuss announced, “That’s it, gentlemen.” He thereupon wrote out a check for about sixty dollars, stood up, brushed his hands together like a Vegas dealer going on a break, and skipped down the stairs.

I looked across the table at Jack. He looked like a cartoon character. A very angry cartoon character. I had never seen such disgust and outrage in a face before. Veins were popping out of his neck in places where veins don’t usually exist. His face had gone crimson. I was surprised not to see smoke shooting out of his nose and ears. At the same time, he was moving his mouth, but no actual words were coming out. Only noises and a little bit of spittle.

When we heard the sound of the door being closed downstairs, it seemed to act as a release on Jack. A flood of indescribable profanity came gushing forth. It was as if Vesuvius had erupted, and instead of lava, obscenities flowed out over the countryside.

Although the spirit of the words was clear enough, only some of them were actually intelligible. It seems that Elam and Dreyfuss had the same agent; that Dreyfuss was presently on hiatus from “Jaws” while Steven Spielberg and his associates got the kinks out of their mechanical shark; that Dreyfuss was getting paid $250,000 for the movie; and that he had already signed to star in his next one for a cool million.

The fact that a wealthy young man was leaving a game short-handed because he was losing sixty dollars was an offense to everything Jack held sacred. If it had been a western, Elam would have gunned him down, and the jury would have carried Jack out of the courtroom on their shoulders. But, unfortunately, it was real life. Still, if Richard had had to get by Jack to leave the game, I guarantee he’d never have reached those stairs alive.

By this time, I’m sure that somewhere Jack is playing liar’s poker for halos, harps and wings, and that St. Peter is running around in his skivvies, saying, “I was so sure he was bluffing.”