Johnny Carson was a loner. This was understood. Perhaps nowhere more so than in the city he chose to make his home.
Los Angeles, as every transplant will be quick to perceive, is a very small town. It is a burg in which those six degrees of separation are pared to three, and the fundamental lesson learned by the up-and-comer is that bridges will be burned - most frequently by those in charge, and for the most practical reason of all: to keep the table settings to a minimum. Manhattan likes to lay claim to the culture's shark-infested waters. Los Angeles, if it bothered to respond, would slyly offer up late night's king in his bespoke suit, his Malibu tan and his innocently arched eyebrow. No one held more power in this cutthroat industry - no actor, no director, no studio head - than did Mr. Carson in his ascendancy. Careers were made on the offer of a seat at his side, and broken by its denial. Such influence, while hungered after, doesn't lend itself to creating a wide circle of friends. Which was, intriguingly enough, just fine with him.
There are two points here to consider. The first will be the paucity of first-hand accounts on life with Johnny Carson. Few possessed the privilege, and even fewer hold the urge to write about it. Second, allowances should be made for the type of individual who did. Because it stands to reason that the person who obtained admittance to this rarefied arena, and was permitted to remain within it over time, would own certain qualities or traits that set him apart from other men.
Henry Bushkin was Carson's lawyer, and a good deal more besides. But nothing shocked him quite so much as reading in an interview that Johnny considered him his best friend. Forty-three years after they met, eight years after Carson's death, amidst the writing of this book, Bushkin is still obsessed with his client's declaration. He returns to it over and over again, mystified by Carson's perception; unwilling to find it troublesome or tragic or by any means informative. It's simply strange to him - due largely, of course, to Bushkin's own social dysfunction. A dysfunction illustrated (rather unwittingly) in the recollection of an early meeting:
"The more Johnny talked, the weirder this moment seemed. People I'd known all my life, my best friends, none of them would ever unburden themselves to me. But here's a man I'd known for two days baring his soul, and I had nothing to say? Maybe that's why I was here."
This memoir can best be appreciated, and perhaps only be appreciated, through the recognition of its being written by an unreliable narrator. Pull back far enough and you'll find the fascinations abound.
Bushkin seems to me a man, and there are many of them, whose identity grafted on to the alpha force of the most powerful figure in his vicinity. Carson caught him at twenty-seven in New York, fresh to entertainment law and dazzled by the plucking. He doesn't give a lot of thought to the "Why me?" element of the equation, but instead rolls with the 1970s celebrity flow. Legal and financial maneuvers are made, temperaments are tolerated, questionable moral choices overlooked; Bushkin is well on the way to becoming indispensable. And with this comes the magic carpet ride of fame, wealth and excess. He embraces the move to Hollywood, the trips to Vegas and London; tennis with Johnny, parties with Johnny, negotiations on Johnny's behalf. There are Friar's Roasts and Academy Awards and presidential inaugurations - and there are late nights, and last minutes, and unreasonable demands; and there are women, because there are always women, and this is always part of the code. (The Rat Pack misogyny gets a little irksome.) And somewhere in all of this he loses a wife and a life of his own, but he'll be damned if he gives a flip. He's "Bombastic Bushkin" after all, so knighted by the king on network television; part of the monologue patter now, right there in the swing.
The relationship begins to sour when the men enter into business together - a development Bushkin refuses, even today, to view with an eye toward conflict of interest. He tries to own the white hat as the union crumbles, but that's awfully hard to do when one's sharing the headboard with the black. Bitterness and its soulmate, a heated self-defense, bleed forth in the recounting of the crash and burn. You might expect some moment of clarity or hard-won insight, but Bushkin's not in that place yet and may never be. The closest he comes is a bizarre attempt to lay it all on Carson's mother, Ruth, and the legacy of her heartlessness toward this singularly-favored son. He can't blame Johnny, I suspect, because in some decidedly twisted way it would be too much like blaming himself.
That he titled the book Johnny Carson, in the absence of all but the most rudimentary biographical sketch, delivers proof enough for me of his difficulty in distinguishing the difference.