Dick Cavett on his career in show business, and more.

Dick Clark’s death reminded me of how much a part he was of some of the most fun I ever had in my life. I mean being on “The $25,000 Pyramid.”

“Password” was fun, too, and being a panelist on the old “What’s My Line?” was a superthrill. But the laughs gotten from my friendly sparring with Dick Clark were great, and the games themselves were a day at the gym for your brain. Five shows in a row taped with only economics-dictated short breaks between them left you all but cortex-dead and, when the show was in Los Angeles, barely qualified to drive yourself home.

I liked Dick Clark and we had a pleasant, kidding on-air relationship that played well, and it was fun winning money for the civilian contestants. Although I had never been a fan of “American Bandstand,” I had admired his defiance on that show of the “too many black ones” crowd who threatened his sponsors. He and I had an odd thing in common: people on the street frequently said to him, “Hey, aren’t you Dick — um — Cavett?” And I got the reverse. (Once it was, “Don’t try denyin’ you’re Dick Clark.” I didn’t.) And whenever we saw each other, we’d compare how many times this had happened to each of us since the last time we’d met.

The show was still in New York the first time I did it. My ABC show had ended, and eerily, the “Pyramid” set was in my old studio in place of mine.

In those days “Pyramid” was on only once a week, in the evening, and they taped two at once. I’d never seen the show and somewhat foolishly accepted the offer. Not the move of a wise person, but it turned out O.K.



Recklessly, I learned the game on the job, so to speak. Dumb as this was, it was also good in a way. I had nothing to lose, didn’t even care whether I won or lost, and this relaxed me to such a degree that in the two tapings I — and my partners, of course — beat the pyramid all four times, costing the company a bundle.

Somehow I was invited back, and having learned how chancy and nerve-wracking the whole thing actually was, I tensed some and, caring now, I with my perfect record began to lose sometimes, like everybody else. What can we learn from this?

Here is a sample of the self-inflicted but pleasant torture of pyramiding.

The host’s and my on-camera “feuding” was lighthearted, and Clark’s perfect combination of a quick mind, genial on-camera nature and masterful ability to hit just the right note in banter made him perfect for his job.

A sample of our allegedly humorous joshing: He’d say, “Our next contestant comes all the way from Florida and — yes, what is it, Dick?”

Me: “If she hadn’t come ‘all the way,’ she wouldn’t be here, would she?”

He would deftly and expertly express mild exasperation and move briskly on.

A very few experiences on the show were less than fun.

Memory just coughed this up. A woman I was teamed with got eliminated in the first round when I, seeing the easy clue “aspirin” and with just seconds left, apparently went nuts and said “acetylsalicylic acid.” Unforgivable. Was I showing off? Why not just say, in succession, “pill” and then “headache.” Anyone breathing would have replied “aspirin.” As she was led from the set, she turned for what was usually the inevitable moment of, Oh, well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Cavett.

Her version: “Thanks a lot! I needed the money.”

I can still ache from this. I owe her a check. I wish I could find her.

A job on that show that I would not have wanted at (almost) any price was the one held by the poor fellow who, watching from the control booth, had to make — under inhuman pressure — the instant on-air decisions about what answers and clues to accept or reject. (Was “calm” acceptable for “relaxed”? “Grasp” for “grab”? Etc.) All the while knowing that his snap decisions might please or infuriate his employer, and delight or break the heart of the civilian contestant. A job, I should think, that would make air-traffic-controlling look simple.

Yet he was a cordial fellow, pleasant of appearance and quite thin, probably from difficulty with keeping solid food down. I hope that in retirement he has found some degree of well-deserved tranquility, perhaps in a rest home in a pleasant setting by the sea. And without ever, ever again having to decide in a flash if “amble” and “stroll” are the same thing.

One of Dick’s and my running humor gambits was my joking questioning of some of those decisions. It was harmless, quick and fun, and caused no trouble. And nobody got hurt. Until one day.

First, a kind of secret was revealed in confidence to me by a staff member I’d become friendly with. I assume the statute of limitations is not a factor here, but I shall not identify him further.

Early on, after doing the show a few times, you noticed that the last subject as you climbed — the top square of the pyramid — was harder to convey than the rest. Considerably harder. It was more abstract, or something. Where the bottom rows might have been easy stuff like CHRISTMAS THINGS or BURT REYNOLDS MOVIES, a top square, just as things were going swimmingly, could suddenly bring your brain to a halt. It was like going from, say, U.S. PRESIDENTS to THINGS THAT CHANGE. Or THINGS THAT HAVE ENDS. What would you say to those, instantly and unambiguously with time running out? (Once I got THINGS THAT PENETRATE. I’d give a lot to know if I said the obvious one.)

It’s a triumphant memory, though one not without pain. A contestant and I — and I’d love to find her — were doing fine. We’d won the first round at the desk and thus were promoted to the big pyramid, where the big money lay.

We got through the two lower rows of subjects without much trouble, as I recall, and had plenty of time for the “M-n–y S-v-ng Clue.”

It turned around and the mind reeled.

THINGS YOU BIND.

“The nation’s wounds” didn’t occur until years later. Nothing occurred at all.

I’d recently held a fishing pole and noticed the lacquered “binding” on the handle, so I said “fishing pole handles.” And was immediately sorry.

“Things you hold,” ventured the contestant.

“Uhh, books,” I tried.

“Things you read. Things with paper. Rectangular things.”

Not surprisingly, my next clue, “magazines,” didn’t convey the bound sets in my mind.

I tried another: “A sprained ankle.”

“Things that hurt, painful things … ”

Time would be up in three seconds at most. I don’t actually remember thinking — in any sense of the word “thinking” — this, but my mouth, along with some unconscious recess of the brain, blurted out, “Chinese women’s feet.”

“Things you BIND?” (Pandemonium.)

Moments like that were glorious. The cheering, the jumping up and down. The jubilant, celebratory, spontaneous joy. The intimate, automatic close-body embrace with the contestant, of either sex, bordered on the erotic. One of life’s great moments; or at least so it seemed. Maybe that night, trying to get to sleep, you didn’t torture yourself by wishing that, in a blown game that day, you hadn’t said “handcuffs” instead of “cuff links.”

But, in its own category, there occurred the Fateful Day.

A female contestant and I were climbing smoothly toward the pinnacle and the big bread. And then it happened.

The deadly top box turned around, revealing: THINGS THAT HAVE PITS.

Me: Coal mines. Contestant: Things that are dark. Deep things. Me: Cherries … uh … plums … plums and peaches … Contestant: Fruits. Things that are round. Things that are sweet. Things with juice. Me (feebly): Peaches … cherries … Contestant: Juicy things …Things on trees.

I thought of, and rejected, “the human arm,” and suspected that “tooth-breaking fruits” might have too many words. Though probably, sadly, not.

Although I doubt that the phrase “think outside the box” had been born, it’s what I tried, in a panic. The gleaming “$25,000” sign glared at me: the amount that the woman was clearly not going to win in the remaining few seconds. Then, from where I know not, It Hit.

Me: Poe’s pendulum.

Contestant: Things that have PITS! (Crowd explodes.)

Joy all around. Then tragedy. Dick Clark looking pained and reluctant, announced that his earphones had just conveyed the news from the booth that the upright judge had rejected my clue. Hissing and booing filled the theater.

I blew. “What earthly reason could anyone with half a brain — and it would take half a brain — come up with for rejecting that clue?”

(Audience cheers.)

Clark (listening to earphones and a little sheepish): “They say that Poe’s pendulum doesn’t have a pit.”

Me: “What? Every school kid knows it’s ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ It’s not ‘The Pit and the Cabbage Leaf” or ‘The Pit and the Subway Token.’ It’s ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ Did you ever see Poe’s pendulum without its pit? What kind of reasoning? You get an intelligent audience here. Why don’t we let them decide this one? Is ‘Poe’s pendulum’ fair?”

(Massive roaring and approval out front.)

I like to think I was angry on the contestant’s behalf and not about the rejection of my clue.

I don’t remember at what point they had to stop tape. Since the shows were timed precisely to the second to avoid editing costs, which I had now incurred for them, plus overtime pay for crew, etc. for the one-after-the-other, five-shows-a-day schedule — you went half brain-dead somewhere in the fourth one — they weren’t happy. I was marginally less than persona grata.

Alas, they stuck with their wrongheaded decision. And saved money. It still gets to me as I type this. I wonder if I thought of paying the woman myself?

I’d love to see that show. I missed it on air, and I can’t imagine how much of it, with challenging editing, they managed to air to make it presentable. But there’s more.

About a year passed, and I was back on “Pyramid” again. In the parking lot, one of the show’s staff, looking cautiously both left and right, said, “We were wrong about ‘Poe’s pendulum.’”

I wondered, did they contact the contestant? His chuckle answered that question. If she’s reading this now, she has, at least, the dubious reward of knowing she won.

In spirit.

I still wish the show would come back.