Filthy Willy Goes Hollywood … Until Hollywood Kicks Him Out

Recently I was killing some time playing in an Omaha high-low game at Big Denny’s Barstow Card Casino. As usual the game was rigged, but since the stakes were only 25 and 50 cents, it was worth the small change for the amusement value of seeing the local farmers go berserk each time their nut highs were outdrawn or their nut lows counterfeited on the river in a capped pot.

About an hour after I sat down I was interrupted by a hesitant tap on the shoulder. Turning around, I found myself gazing upon just about the last person I ever wanted to see. It was Filthy Willy, the late Dirty Wally’s ancient and loopy grandfather, the Confederate Army veteran who had to be at least 150 years old, give or take a few weeks. There he stood, slumped over in his raggedy Civil War togs, as unkempt and disheveled as any homeless bum.

“Kin ah talk ta y’all, young fella,” he muttered, in a drawl even more pronounced than that of Oklahoma Johnny Hale.

I thought for a moment before answering him as politely as I could:

“No.”

Hearing my dismissal, Willy threw himself to the ground, crying and wailing and banging his feet on the floor in a tantrum that would have made Phil Hellmuth envious.

“Okay, okay,” I surrendered. Tossing my last 15 cents to the dealer, I lifted the old coot to his feet and walked him into the dingy shed that passed for the casino’s coffee shop. “What do you want to tell me, Willy – did you finally strike gold prospecting out in the desert?”

“Cain’t do that no more, young fella. Not since that there Denny killed mah mule Samson an’ made him inta burgers. Gotta find another way ta make a livin’ now.”

I tried not to laugh. Willy had made a living from prospecting? In a lifetime of digging, the only things he ever found were two restroom tokens. “Didn’t Wally help you out at all when he was alive?” I asked.

“Sorta. He promised ta give me half of whatever he won in them poker tournaments he usta play in ev’ry day. ‘Course, in about 70 years, that only came ta $42.”

“Well didn’t he leave you anything in his will?”

Willy shrugged. “He said you was his best friend an’ he was gonna leave ya everythin’.
“Oh, right. He left me his car, which turned out to leased, and two torn poker jackets. Just what I needed, since I already have at least 200 in the closet. “Anyway, Willy,” I said, “if you’re looking to have me stake you in a game, I can’t do it. They only play poker here and nobody’s dealt faro anywhere for a hundred years now.”

“Oh, ah knows how ta play poker, boy. Matter a’ fact ah was playin’ with Wild Bill Hickok the night he was shot. They was actual aimin’ fer me but missed. But what ah really wanted was fer you ta talk ta Mr. Denny about gettin’ me a job here.”

“Don’t know about that either, Willy. There isn’t any opening for a cleaning lady because they never clean anything here. They might need a bellman at the hotel, but seeing as you can’t lift anything heavier than a shoe box…”

“No, no, boy.” what ah really had in mind was doin’ some security work here.”

This time I couldn’t help laughing. “You a security guard? Give me a break.”

Wally wasn’t amused. “Ya don’t believe me, do ya?” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an enormous single-shot horse pistol. Unfortunately, his hand was shaking so much that he accidentally fired it. The small cannon went off with an enormous roar, and the slug blew a big hole in the ceiling…fortunately not in my head. I expected the casino guards to come rushing in and beat us to death, but gunshots were so common in the Barstow Card Casino that nobody paid any attention.

Suddenly I had an inspiration. Barbara and I live a few blocks from Graumann’s Chinese Theater, the number one stop for tourists in Hollywood. The front of the theater is always crowded with costumed street people impersonating show biz and cartoon characters, everyone from Superman to Elvis to Mickey Mouse, and they invite tourists to take their pictures for a dollar.

Actually, a lot of poker people could be doing this too. Big Denny would make a right-on King Kong, Aunt Sophie could easily play the Wicked Witch of the West, and Sam Grizzle would make a believably menacing Darth Vader. In fact, I once thought of giving the stunt a try myself. “Who do you think I could be,” I asked Barbara – “Cary Grant?”

She stared down at my pants and shook her head. “How about Pee Wee Herman?”

Anyway, Filthy Willy would be a first – a cartoon character impersonating himself!
I explained the idea to him, and after some thought he agreed to give it a try.

The next day we drove to Hollywood. Reaching the theater, Willy began striking a pose in his Civil War get-up. The mob of cartoon characters, unhappy at seeing this intruder into their territory, glared hostilely and began surrounding him. “Hello, love,” the Marilyn Monroe imitator greeted Willy. “Where’d you find your adorable outfit – in a dumpster?” Spiderman thrust out his hand and cast a web over his face. Elvis banged his guitar against Willy’s backside and barked “Beat it, you’re nothin’ but a hound dog.” Darth Vader waved his ray gun, threatening to vaporize him, while Shrek the ogre started to pounce.

Filthy Willy Gets a Friendly Reception

Willy only laughed at their insults and threats, but finally lost his composure when Abe Lincoln, his arch-enemy from the Civil War, shook a finger at him.

“That does it, ya varmints!” he yelled, pulling out his trusty horse pistol. This time it accidentally went off pointing down, narrowly missing his foot but blowing away a cement slab bearing the signature and handprints of Charlie Chaplin.

Well, that was the end of Filthy Willy’s Hollywood gig. Right now he’s spending time in a prison mental ward, but I think I have another job for him when he gets out. There’s a Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum right next door to Graumann’s, and since Willy is almost as life-like as most of their wax dummies, they’re interested in putting him on exhibit inside a glass case.

Providing, of course, that he leaves his shootin’ iron at home. ♠

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched more than 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read ’em and Laugh.