Atlantic City Weekly

Share this Story:

Tony Bennett's Pajamas

A safety deposit box clerk's sleepwear caper

By Molly Golubcow CAP: Exhibit A: Silk Neiman Marcus pajamas. --> OCTOBER, 1980 in Atlantic City, New Jersey. It was my last night working as a safety deposit box clerk at Resorts International when I became an accomplice to the crime. By the title of the job, you can probably guess that there was a distinct lack of glamour, excitement, or need for much of a brain to accomplish that job. As a courtesy, hotel guests could check-in valuables while staying and playing at Resorts. It was dull and routine — ask the guest for their hotel key, fill out the safety deposit box card, unlock the box, and hand it to the guest.

When the guest was finished, you put the box back, lock up, smile, and give the key back to the guest. The only saving grace to the job was that the office was shared by the security manager as well as several hotel managers. The office was small, but drunks, prostitutes, card counters, and assorted riff-raff were constantly escorted in and out by security guards and/or ACPD. When your evening promises nothing more than issuing safety deposit boxes, vicariously playing cops and robbers helps pass the time.

One of the hotel managers that shared the office with security, Mr. Landis, was in charge of catering to the every need and whim of the headliners performing at Resorts. From stretching Joan Rivers' new Gucci pumps to delivering specific types of bottled water to Natalie Cole's dressing room to arranging for Sinatra to have a drink, alone, in a public lounge, Mr. Landis, would fawn and cheat and lie to please these "special" guests.

My interview with Mr. Landis was unique. It began as we rushed into the elevator in the lobby of Resorts and headed up to the 14th floor. Mr. Landis never bothered to tell me where we were going and why. He never asked crucial interview questions like "Where do you see yourself in five years?" On the contrary, as we passed the 6th floor, Mr. Landis asked me why a nice Jewish girl wanted to be a safety deposit box clerk. I tried to explain that I had just graduated from college and was looking for a job until I could figure out what to do with my English degree. If he heard me, he did not acknowledge and continued scribbling notes on his clipboard. When the doors opened, we walked down a hallway to a set of double-doors. Mr. Landis unlocked the door and we went into the room.

Looking back, I don't recall worrying that my interview was being conducted in a hotel room with a man that I just met. The pompous Mr. Landis seemed more like a cartoon character than a threat to female innocence.

In any case, the interview began with, "Do you know whose suite you are in?" I looked around and noticed baskets of fruits and flowers all over the room. I replied with a "no" and Mr. Landis informed me that it was Bill Cosby's. My "So what?" reply slipped out of my mouth just like the devil had made me do it. At that point I assumed I had lost the job because of my curt response. But, Mr. Landis lit up like a jackpot slot machine.

"You're hired. I don't need any silly girls who are going to annoy my performers by giggling and asking for autographs. So, when can you start?"

And so my year as a safety deposit clerk began. Most evenings were fairly uneventful. On occasion, Mr. Landis would give me an "urgent" assignment that would call for "the utmost discretion." These top-secret duties included delivering flowers and escorting headliners from Point A to Point B.

One flower delivery sent me to Burt Lancaster's room. Lancaster was in town filming Atlantic City. When I knocked, I really didn't expect Lancaster to answer the door. But, he did — in his boxers — thanked me without a tip, and closed the door. On another occasion, Mr. Landis was double-booked and asked me to escort Danny Thomas to dinner — that means walk him from his room (Point A) to the restaurant (Point B). I picked up Mr. Thomas and headed off to the restaurant on the third floor. In the elevator, a man kept staring at Thomas and finally blurted out, "Hey, I know you. You're Tony Bennett!" I was horrified because I was sworn to protect headliners — what would Mr. Landis do? As the elevator door opened on our floor, Danny Thomas said to the gawking fan, "No, I am not Tony Bennett, but I do sing much better than he does."

On my last night as a safety deposit box clerk, my co-clerk that night discovered a box tucked away in the office closet. She opened it and discovered it was from the dry cleaners left over a year ago. She decided that it was lost and never would be found and, more importantly, that her boyfriend could use the sweaters. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I declined — it seemed wrong. But, she insisted that I take something from this goody-bag!

She shoved an article of clothing into my bag. I reluctantly agreed because, hey, it was my last night at Resorts and I was going to live a little. When I got home, I took out my souvenir. I now was the proud owner of a pair of men's blue and white, pinstripe pajamas. They were silk, Neiman Marcus, and monogrammed with a "B." The inside label clearly said — T. Bennett. Unimpressed, I folded them up and placed them in my underwear drawer. I considered returning them, but how and to whom and where?

So, the PJs were quickly forgotten until one morning several weeks after my pajama caper. I was living at home with my parents — having returned to the nest after college. My father walked by my room and I could have sworn his pajamas looked familiar. I jumped out of bed and found him in the kitchen making a cup of tea. I asked him where he got those pajamas and he informed me that my mother gave them to him. When I told him that he was wearing Tony Bennett's pajamas, he just looked down at them, tightened the drawstring on the pants and said, "Well, they're mine now."

There really wasn't much that I could do at this point even if I wanted to bring them back to Resorts. In addition to my father's newfound love for these PJs, my mother had altered them to fit my father's rather short physique. Sorry, Mr. Bennett, but your PJs would now be shorts on you!

My mother, who did not seem to think it was odd that her 21-year old daughter had a pair of men's pajamas in her underwear drawer, never asked me about them nor did she consult me about her sewing plans. The gig was up — Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, but he lost his pajamas in Atlantic City.