Matchless comic

I have a very special memory of that latex-faced jester Buddy Hackett, with jokes coming out of one side of his mouth (“So We Hop In and Buddy Drives,” by Paul Brownfield, July 6). I can confirm that he took laughs wherever he could get them and that was anywhere.

When I heard about his death, I thought of one hot afternoon in Las Vegas when I had walked from the Sahara Hotel to Caesars Palace to attend the Alan King Tennis Classic and was told that the event was sold out. As I was leaving, I saw a couple of kids sneaking in by climbing over a wall, disappearing into the shrubbery. Not wanting to miss the matches, I decided to do the same. When I came out of the brush, I found myself amid some of Alan King’s special tennis guests, dining at tables underneath a green and white canopy. A waitress saw me and pointed to an empty chair. I discovered that I was sitting with Chad Everett, Lloyd Bridges, Arthur Ashe Jr., Howard Cosell and, at the head, Buddy Hackett. While I tried to nibble on my rib roast, I choked as Buddy told story after story, popping them out like a British Sten submachine gun. No one else at the table had a chance to get in one word. It seemed that Cosell’s head shook so hard at one of Hackett’s tales that he had to adjust his hairpiece.

Bill Smith

Palm Desert