Adventures common on arm of a high roller

Working as a professional dancer is trivia wise, replete with over-the-top, impossibly romantic stories and legends such as "chorus dancer takes over for star, becomes star herself" or "millionaire falls in love with blonde chorus girl" or "girl in sweater discovered in drugstore, becomes a star."

Life upon the wicked stage seems very attractive to little nobodies from nowhere. Certainly, it did to me.

Of course, you are now waiting for me to add, "but it's very difficult, hard work." True, too, too, true. But, guess what, several of those legendary situations actually happened to me, I was just too dumb to take advantage of them.

The biggest agent in Hollywood tapped me on the shoulder while I was doing the twist in front of the Louie Prima band at Ciro's in Beverly Hills one night. He handed me his card and said, "Call me in the morning. I want you to do the twist with my client Ed "Kookie" Burnes on '77 Sunset Strip.' You'll have three lines, and you'll get your SAG card." I did call him. I did do the show and I did get the card, but I left Los Angeles for Las Vegas to do the Louie Prima Show at the Desert Inn and never called the agent again. That's dumb.

While at the Desert Inn, a millionaire fell in love with me and financed acting school back in Los Angeles after the show was over.

If you're thinking he must have been more than a friend, you'd be wrong. But, his pals at the Santa Anita racetrack thought I was his girlfriend and that's all he cared about.

He was a very sweet, white-haired gentleman who looked exactly like my grandfather. He gave me the creeps. He also gave me a full-length fur coat for the holidays. White sheared beaver. Shecky Greene called me "white coat" all winter at the Riviera.

I had another great adventure while dancing at the Riviera in 1963. I met a high roller who was introduced to me by Ross Miller, the casino manager. (That's Governor Bob Miller's father for you newbies.) The high roller, Hank, liked to take me to dinner in the Hickory Room. He came to the hotel to relax by shooting craps. He was a very high-powered, international sales manager for a Fortune 500 company. I could actually talk to him, a rare quality. He always asked what books I was reading, what films I'd seen and what I thought about them. Also, he was a big, tall guy about 50 years old.

For one special occasion, Hank called ahead and asked me to accompany him to a very important sales meeting/dinner with stockholders. The guest list turned out to be all men. He introduced me to each one by name. For one he added, "He's an English professor." I immediately said, "Oh, do you grade on the curve?" and got a nice laugh.

Then when we were seated, perusing the menu, two of the men said they would like a certain steak and the professor said, "Me, too. Let me not to the marriage of true mind..."

Of course, I added, "admit impediments. Love is not love which alters where it alteration finds."

I paused to let him add the next line, then he and I finished out the sonnet, alternating lines, all the way through 14 lines, including the couplet. I studied Shakespeare at the University of Texas. My dear high roller was about to split his face smiling he was so pleased with me. He told me later the meeting was a huge success thanks to me.

Within the next month or so, the Dick Humphries Dancers were informed we had a month off, that Harry Belafonte was coming in with a full show, dancers included, so we'd have three weeks off before returning for rehearsals for the next star, George Burns, I think it was.

This was a fabulous situation and very unusual. Usually, if we had time off, it was because we were out of work, and had to save money and look for a new job. I called my dear girlfriend and fellow dancer in Burbank, Calif., and she invited me to stay with her for a while.

I'd only been there a day when the phone rang and, of all things, it was Hank. I asked him how he found me, he said he'd asked Ross Miller, who called Milt the stage manager, who called Dick Humphries the choreographer, who called his vacationing dancers until he found one who knew my friend's phone number in Burbank.

Hank said he wanted me to have dinner with him the next night. I said, "Oh, are you coming to L.A.?"

He said, "No, I want you to fly to New York. I have another sales meeting there."

His home office was in Chicago. He went on to tell me what airline, what time, etc.

He then asked if I could finance the $300 round-trip ticket, mentioning that he would reimburse me as soon as I got there.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs on the tarmac in New York to give me a hug and then handed me four $100 bills. I said "No, the ticket was only $300."

He said, "But you'll need walking around money. You might want to buy a newspaper or something."

We taxied to the Essex House on Central Park, where he had a suite on the top floor. He had booked me a suite on another floor. A very classy fellow, which is why I liked him.

I don't remember where we had dinner. It was very fancy with violins and another table of men, and I was again, too, too charming. But it was really fun.

Back at the hotel, Hank said he had to fly to London the next morning, and added, "Why don't you stay on for a few days in your suite, it would be a shame for you not to see something of the city now that you're here. I'll arrange with the manager to bill me."

So, I did. What fun. I studied the newspaper and saw that a singer friend of mine from the last year at the Moulin Rouge in Hollywood, a tall, blond fullback from Tulsa, with the voice of an angel, was starring on Broadway in "No Strings."

I had long adored him, as had all the women in that show. I called for a ticket and enjoyed the show, then went backstage to see him. He arranged to meet me the next day at the Guggenheim, where we spent the afternoon. I will remember that long, curving ramp, which I ran up in my 4-inch heels. We stood and hugged and kissed forever in front of Roy Lichtenstein's "Alarm."

Of course I had an affair with him, don't be silly. He'd been so sweet, protective and supportive backstage at the Moulin Rouge when a certain evil queen was in love with my gay husband and was very mean to me and making my life miserable. Most of the company thought I didn't know about that. I did know. I just didn't know what to do about it. I loved my Marky.

We lived incredibly glamorous lives. I feel sorry for everybody who didn't get to be a dancer/showgirl on the Las Vegas Strip in the sixties. I appreciated and savored every moment, even the bad ones.

The problem is, those days are over now.

C'est la vie.

Betty Bunch is a former dancer who appeared in several Las Vegas production shows throughout the 1950s and '60s. Today, she works with the national Elderhostel Association. Contact her at betbun7@earthlink.net.