The day I was introduced to Miss Peggy Lee was defining. When we met, I cordially took her hand and said "hello." She responded, "thank you very much."

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A tentative disclaimer: My experience with Peggy Lee is not a biographical journey exposing the life and times of one of the legends of Twentieth Century American music. (For that, pick up James Gavin’s thorough biography, Is that All There Is? The Strange Life of Peggy Lee.) Our time together came late in her career and very early in mine. I am going to stay clear of discussing specifics pertaining to Peg's health, family and law suits.

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On the afternoon of our introduction, Miss Lee was wearing a pearl toned silk blouse, a platinum blonde wig styled a la pageboy (with bangs), pale pink lipstick, and big, round rhinestone-studded Elton John glasses in white. Recently while having had her hair bleached, the majority of it had broken off, thus the wig. Her health was not the best and her struggle with weight still being an issue, she preferred to be pushed around in a wheel chair while sitting in her six inch stiletto heels.

In the summer of 1983, Peggy Lee was in workshop in New York City preparing for the Broadway opening of her one woman show, appropriately titled, "Peg." Or as some of us eventually called it, "Peg, A Moose and Her Music."

Let me explain right away that this seemingly offensive “moose” comment was not a personal slight aimed at Miss Lee. It was a Broadway community insider’s joke of that generation, traditionally adding the word “moose” to the title of a play or musical that would be considered a critical and financial flop. Brilliantly coined by “Peg’s” General Manager's assistant, Suzanne Golden, it was derived from the Broadway disaster of February, 1983, “Moose Murders,” crowned by theater critic Frank Rich of The New York Times as “…the standard of awfulness against which all Broadway failures are judged.” I am proud to be among an elite group who actually witnessed a performance of “Moose Murders” as well as owning a small selection of show memorabilia, including a chair from the set.

I believe "Peg" set the record for having had the longest workshop period in Broadway history, at least up to that time. I was hired, after a number of months of rehearsals, by The Elizabeth Theater Group (a partnership between Elizabeth Taylor and Broadway producer, Zev Bufman) for whom I had previously been employed. The entire first book of “Peg,” co-scribed by Miss Lee and British writer, William Luce, had been discarded along with the show’s director and Miss Lee's second workshop assistant. It seems my name was floated because I had earned a reputation for getting along with "difficult personalities." The original concept for the show was Peg telling her life story through narration, character portrayals and new, original songs: music by Paul Horner and lyrics by Miss Lee. Shortly before I came on board the producers decided it was ill advised not to capitalize on the songs that had made her famous so an entirely new script was written by Miss Lee. No actors, Peg simply narrating her life story on stage integrating the new songs with her standards such as "Fever" and "Is that all there is?"—songs with which even I was familiar. In addition, it was decided to have the thirty piece orchestra and six back-up singers on stage, creating a big band setting. I think the serious decision to change the format of story-telling came on the heels of Lena Horne's successful Broadway bioshow. Maybe it would have been safer if Miss Lee had just performed a concert. But Peg had a story to tell and she was certain the whole world wanted to hear it.

Though hired as a production assistant (ostensibly I worked for the Production Stage Manager of “Peg”, the late and obnoxiously amusing Larry Forde), my responsibility was to take care of the Star. By this time, Peggy Lee was in her sixties and a cultural icon with a career spanning nearly five decades including an early credit as the vocalist for Benny Goodman’s orchestra. My father had been in love with her since he had been a young man. And though I owned none of her recordings, I was aware that her name and image were synonymous with Sarah Vaughn and Ella Fitzgerald. Of course Miss Lee was a lot paler. She made geishas look like they were wearing bronzer.

The beginning of my time with Peggy honestly was magical. Though I often refer to her as Miss Lee, I called her Peg from day one. No disrespect intended to Miss Ross (Diana) or Ms. Rashad (Phylicia), but if you call me by my first name, I'll be calling you by yours. If that seems arrogant or disrespectful, then please feel free to initially address me by my surname, and I shall show you the same courtesy.

The reason the first days were so special was the rehearsal process and the contagious, optimistic energy. Right about the time I was hired, it had been decided that we would interest as many jazz greats as possible to pen arrangements. The charts for the standards had been previously written and recorded, but none of the Lee/Horner work had orchestrations. Peggy would need to go into a recording studio and lay down tracks for her new pieces. So for a number of weeks we rehearsed with just the three workshop musicians. Then we recorded all the new compositions with Miss Lee and her trio and sent the selected individual tracks to different arrangers. Sounds complicated because it was. But it was a blast. A moment in the history of American music and I was there, wringing Miss Lee's tea bags and singing back-up with Peg’s granddaughter on one number. Don't ask, won't tell.

The workshop band consisted of Mike Renzi on piano, Jay Leonhart on bass and the late, great Grady Tate on drums. We would meet downtown at the Michael Bennett rehearsal studios, 890 Broadway at 19th Street and Broadway. I was there every day with Peg's granola. I usually sat on the floor beside her, holding her left hand and playing with her long, painted fingernails as she rehearsed from her wheelchair, holding a white microphone in her free hand. Surreal. And odd. And we were a very good fit at first. Me with my nearly manic energy and Miss Lee, one decibel above comatose.

My most daunting responsibility was script editing. I was typing Peg's re-writes every night or before I came to rehearsal in the mornings; as many as thirty pages a day. This was before office or home computers. No spell-check, just liquid white-out in a bottle. I was typing on one of those enormous IBM Selectric III typewriters—with the patented spiraling "typeball," rather than fanned, individual keys. At first the font was too light for Peg to read so I had to buy a different "ball." Then I tried typing everything in caps and bold letters. Eventually, I found the best solution was to highlight all of her lines in yellow, as is a common practice for actors. My editing would be the beginning of our problems. In my defense, I had no proof reader. Most of my typos weren't mis-spellings. I would print "here" instead of "there" or "clod" instead of "cloud". So when checking for my own errors, I often missed a word or three. She told Larry Forde that I was trying to sabotage the script. Still all in all, things remained exciting and fun during most of the workshop period. Meetings with Cy Coleman and Phil Ramone among others, at Peg’s apartment at 420 East 54th Street (rented for her by the producers, white Steinway grand piano included), invitations to jazz clubs by the guys in the trio and being present during the astonishing rehearsal process, by Miss Lee’s side.

I can't tell this without discussing the show’s director, Robert Drivas. Bobby, now deceased, was one of the funniest people I've known in my life. Also an actor, he was arguably recognized for starring in Edward Albee's Broadway flop, "The Man Who had Three Arms." Between Bobby and Larry Forde, all I did was laugh—when I wasn't panicking about getting Miss Lee the right kind of trail mix.

One day a production meeting was held at Zev Bufman's office at 1466 Broadway, to discuss the costuming for Miss Lee. The designer was Tony Award winner Florence (Flossy) Klotz, one of the costume designers for Broadway. She was not a particularly feminine woman, making her lavish creations practically the polar opposite of her demeanor. She was enormously talented, aggressive and a wonderful woman. In attendance in the conference room were: Zev Bufman, Victoria Lang (Mr. Bufman’s executive assistant), Marge and Irv Cowan (the show’s primary financial backers and owners of the Diplomat Hotel in Hollywood, Florida), Flossy Klotz and her assistant, also Larry Forde, Bobby Drivas and yours truly. I was seated between Larry Forde and Bobby. Flossy was showing her design sketches to Peg for the first time. She placed the drawings individually on a large easel, displayed like fine artwork. Gorgeous illustrations of long gowns, ornate and elegant, accessorized with turbans, beaded and fringed. Any drag queen worth his salt would have been in Heaven. All the costumes had long, matching “opera coats," for lack of a better term. Miss Lee was incensed. "I don't understand why I have to do this." Peg stood up. Bobby Drivas turned and looked at me. "I’ve lost over 40 pounds" Miss Lee continued, "and you're showing me these matronly costumes designed to hide my figure." Miss Lee may have successfully taken off some weight, but believe me when I cautiously say that she was by no means svelte. I apologize if that sounds insensitive but it is accurate. Miss Peggy Lee slowly, with exaggerated style, started to strut across the length of the conference room as if she were Naomi Campbell on a Seventh Avenue catwalk introducing the new fall collection. We all sat respectfully stone faced. Bobby Drivas picked up a pad and pen and wrote a note. He handed it to me. "She looks like Truman Capote in drag." I started to giggle like a kid in church. Bobby of course stared at me with a shocked, universal look meaning “be quiet, you disrespectful plebe," which only made my shoulders shudder even more. No one at the table could look at each other. All mouths were proverbially gaping as Miss Lee continued to model for us. Then Bobby pretended to have written another serious "wardrobe note." I prayed he would keep it to himself. He subtly slid the pad towards me. This is an exact quote. "She looks like an albino iguana." I had to excuse myself from the meeting before I wet my pants. The costume designs remained unchanged, sans the majority of the opera coats.

"Peg" was the second in a series of three shows being produced by The Elizabeth Theatre Group to be marketed together as a Broadway subscription package. All three shows would be mounted at the iconic Lunt Fontanne Theatre on West 46th Street. The production to follow “Peg” was Emlyn Williams’ “The Corn is Green,” starring Cicely Tyson. The first was a revival of "Private Lives" starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Or as we fondly called it, "The Liz and Dick Comedy Hour." Elizabeth had the star dressing room on the second floor, complete with a brand new bath tub fit for a diva. She'd had the walls painted her signature lavender palette. Not to be out done by Elizabeth, Peg insisted on taking the same space, despite the fact that she couldn’t walk up stairs. Understandably, Peg had the walls repainted “Peggy Lee pink,” which is an actual registered color. It’s a warm pink with a touch of coralorange, sort of (there is even a hybrid pink Peggy Lee rose). She then demanded the producers install an elevator. Putting a lift back stage at a theatre was no small feat. For structural reasons, it violates all sorts of building permits and codes. I’m guessing that someone greased several palms and the elevator was magically erected. After the show closed there would be no evidence that there had ever been a one hundred twenty-five thousand dollar elevator near the stage door of the Lunt Fontanne.

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Before a show opens on Broadway, there is a period called previews. Full performances, open to the public, but still a work-in-progress. This allows for making script, crew and cast changes before the show is set for opening night. Then, after opening night, the critics release their reviews. At her psychic’s advice, Peggy wanted to open on the second Monday in December. It seems that was the only date in December when the stars were correctly aligned. How helpful. The producers put their collective feet down and we opened on a Wednesday evening.

“Peg’s” first preview was on a Thursday, two weeks prior to the official opening date of December 14, 1983. The stage was set with two love-seat sized cushioned chairs on either side of the stage, with faux matching coffee tables. Everything in flannel gray. The band was impressively arranged on risers behind the set, in full view throughout the show. I can't remember if there was anything placed center stage.

The opening scene: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Peggy Lee". The audience goes crazy. Peggy would enter, walk to center stage, turn to the adoring fans, holding her right hand out in front of her, snapping to the beat set by a single upright bass -- the staccato introduction to "Fever" that everyone would immediately recognize. At Peggy's insistence, there would be a spot light on her hand to catch the sparkle of her enormous diamond ring while she snapped away.

As rehearsals moved to the Lunt Fontanne Theatre, it became clear to me that Peg couldn't remember her own script. I'm sure it didn't help that she was still re-writing her dialogue every day. I have no idea what the powers-that-should-have-been were thinking. And there was another sign of impending disaster. Peg wasn’t able to remember the words to “Mañana,” one of her hits for which, by the way, she wrote the lyrics. She had me type out and highlight the lyrics and tape them to the top of the coffee table downstage right. So she would stand over the table and perform the song. Not an uncommon practice, but a sure sign that something bigger was amiss.

I am not exaggerating when I say that the first preview was a calamity. Ten minutes into Act I, Peggy started to sing a number from the second act, a Capella. I can remember the conductor, Larry Fallon, calmly addressing his band in a loud whisper, saying something akin to "Act II charts: page 65, ‘Why Don’t You Do Right,’ A flat". And the orchestra tried to follow her. This fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, free association ruled the show for the remainder of the first performance. The audience was generous, possibly presuming it was technical problems that would be corrected during the preview process. I have no idea what was going on in Miss Lee’s mind but the rest of us were flabbergasted.

First thing the next morning, Bobby Drivas asked to see me. He informed me that from now on at each performance I was going to sit off stage with a script. If Peggy forgot a line I was going to throw it to her. I said, "Bobby, she'll kill me." He said "I don't give a rat’s ass. This is my show and my reputation. Just do it." So as of the next public performance, I sat down-stage left, under the sound board of the Lunt Fontanne Theatre. I swear to God the audience in the mezzanine could see me sitting on the floor with my legs crossed holding my opened copy of the script.

And the scenario would go like this: Peggy would forget where she was in the script and start to ramble off some speech from a different point in the play. I would have to yell a line to her from the sequentially correct scene. I’d say, "Peg—the line is 'and for eleven years there was at least one beating a day . . .'" Peg would stop, like a deer caught in the headlights, and try to catch my cue. I knew I was metaphorically on the bow of Titanic and there was an iceberg headed straight for my poop deck.

After a couple of performances with me shouting lines to her, Peggy asked for me to come to her dressing room. She was actually quite gentle. She asked me not to cue her because she found it very disorienting. I said okay. I went to see Bobby Drivas who told me he didn't give a fuck what she said. My place was under the sound board. But he promised to speak to her. I don't know if he ever did. After another performance where I at least tried to save the orchestra's collective sanity by getting her to the correct song at the correct place in the show, Peg asked to see me again. She tried another tack. She explained that she already employed a star dresser and a personal assistant as well as a press agent. Though she appreciated my efforts, she was going to let me go. Again I said okay. This time I went to Larry Forde and described my predicament. He told me he'd take care of it. He didn't.

At this point I was under a lot of pressure. I resented Miss Lee as well as both Bobby and Larry for keeping me in this untenable position. The show wasn't selling tickets; Peg was acting irrational both off and on stage, and I, a young, two hundred dollar a week salaried employee was caught in the middle of a potentially explosive situation.

Impending doom did eventually erupt. Toward the end of the second act, Peggy sang a series of songs, recreating a live performance recorded at Basin Street East in New York City. This was an easy and successful set for her: no scripted lines. Big hits, one after another and some ad-libbed banter. Prior to the Basin Street reenactment, Peg had a very quick costume change that took place just off stage. I helped out Peggy's dresser, Beverly, in any way I could. So, as planned, Peg exited stage left where her dresser and I were waiting. We helped prepare her for whatever changes were warranted. Miss Lee took her usual drink of water. I put my hand out to take the cup from her. But on this evening, Peg flinched and backed away from me, as if she thought I was going to punch her in the nose. And then—I will never forget this—her entire demeanor changed. Her expression relaxed. She got this smug, sadistic look on her face and from out of her pencil-thin lips she whispered to me, "You’re through." Then she turned, walked back on stage to applause and sang "I Love Being Here with You." I almost keeled over. I asked her dresser, "what was that about?" Beverly said, "you forgot to get Miss Lee her yogurt today."

I took my script, crawled back under the sound board of the theater and started sobbing convulsively. Thank God I didn't need to throw any lines to Peggy, because I couldn't even see the script. Larry Forde was on the other side of the stage calling the show, and saw me sitting there. I caught him sympathetically telling crew members about my crying by drawing imaginary tears down his face with his index fingers.

Well, the yogurt thing didn't hold up because I wasn't the one who would get Peg her daily dose of Danon. When that got back to her, the next excuse for firing me was that I handed her water in a plastic cup. I didn't hand her the water at all, so that didn't fly. So then it was reported that Peg said I jumped around back stage like I was spastic—the closest to the truth, I would imagine.

The next day Larry Forde went to see Peggy at her proxy dressing room on the first floor of the theater and asked her dresser to leave for a few minutes.

"Peg," Larry said. "What is going on with you and Andy?"

"I don't know." answered Peg. "I keep firing him but he keeps showing up."

Larry explained that it wasn't in her power to fire me; that I worked for the production company, not her.

So I stayed through the December 14th opening and until the show closed, just five performances later. Still sitting under the sound board of the Lunt Fontanne, script in hand. The show could not survive the non-caustic but less than supportive critics’ reviews.

The day the show closed the entire company had a champagne toast back-stage. Peg came up to me and thanked me for the flowers I had sent to her. I told her that I had not sent her anything. Truth be told, on opening night, my father sent her a dozen roses with best wishes. I told Dad she thanked him.

I did not see Miss Lee again. She would later release an autobiography which I didn’t read, though I understand it included an account of her time on Broadway, naming and blaming both Mr. Bufman and his Executive Assistant, Victoria Lang for its failure. I was not mentioned.

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In the Broadway vernacular, there is something called a gypsy robe (renamed the legacy robe by Actors Equity for political correctness). A Broadway Gypsy is a performer who makes a career on stage as a singer/dancer/actor. A gypsy (legacy) robe is long, like a dressing gown, built by a wardrobe person for their musical, with the show’s name and iconography stitched onto the fabric. Then when a new production opens, it’s passed on and their logo is added to the coat. After a number of years, the robe is covered with sentiments and memories from the Broadway community. History. When it is completely embellished, the coat is given to a lifelong Broadway performer upon retirement. Most robes are eventually donated to museums.

Peter Fitzgerald, the Wardrobe Master for "Peg," created a gypsy doll. It is of Miss Peggy Lee. She is dressed in satin with a matching turban and sequined glasses. Permanently embroidered on her cloud white gown are the memorable words, "you're through."

Andrew has written and published several short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com). He is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant. His play, Madame Andrèe (based on the life of Nancy Wake, The White Mouse) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.