Free The Garner Files: A Memoir by James Garner

someone else’s ranch, people started calling them “mavericks.” In one of the shows, we defined a maverick as “a calf who’s lost his mother, and his father has run off with another cow.” I’ve always thought of it as a sort of freewheeling slick. In 1980, the name was used for a new NBA franchise—the Dallas Mavericks—and it’s the name of a chain of convenience stores in the Southwest, though they spell it “Maverik.”
    M
averick
’s competition on Sunday night—Ed Sullivan, Steve Allen, and Jack Benny—were each making $25,000 a week, and we were burying them in the ratings. Sullivan had been on top for years and nobody had ever beaten him before, yet I was making $500 a week for doing not only
Maverick
but also appearing in feature films (
Up Periscope
and
Cash McCall
in addition to
Darby’s Rangers
). I was also required to do publicity, including at least one interview a day at lunch, plus personal appearances on weekends. They also wanted me to go out at night and be seen around town, but I didn’t have the money. I couldn’t afford the clothes, and I couldn’t afford the car. I had to borrow Natalie Wood’s Cadillac to take Lois to the premiere of
West Side Story
because my car was an old clunker.
    I figured that since
Maverick
was a hit, the studio would do the right thing and tear up the old contract. I figured wrong.
    When
Maverick
was on hiatus, I hit the road at the rate of three cities a day. One weekend they sent me to Texas, and when we landed in San Antonio, there were five thousand people at the airport. Theyoverran the gates and came right up to the plane. I did local TV, rode in a float with Miss San Diego, and was Grand Marshal at the Illinois State Fair, for which I received $100 pocket money while the studio got $25,000.
    One time they put a bunch of VIPs on a Mississippi steamboat and pre-positioned me, costumed as Bret Maverick, on a small island in the middle of the river. When the boat came by the captain announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to pick up an extra passenger.” They took me aboard and I mingled with the customers until we docked.
    When I was asked to do
The Pat Boone Chevy Showroom
on ABC, I knew the usual fee was $7,500, but a Warner Bros. executive informed me I was expected to do it for nothing and I’d already been “committed” to appear.
    “Then uncommit me,” I said.
    When they threatened to fire me, I said, “Up to you.”
    When they threatened to sue me, I said, “Go ahead.”
    We finally compromised: I got $2,500 for the Boone show, plus a new (1959) Corvette, tax-free, with a full tank of gas and the key in the ignition. (Wish I had that car today!) Plus, no more bookings without my permission, and I’d get half of all future appearance fees.
    I f you bring your personality to roles, people get to know you. When you play someone you don’t understand, it doesn’t work. I understood Maverick right away because a maverick is a rebel and I’ve always been a rebel. Maverick doesn’t like to fight, but he’ll use his fists if pushed to the wall. Me, too. (There’s a line in
Murphy’s Romance
that I think fits us both: “When I’m pushed, I shove.”) Maverick is a drifter, and I was a drifter. He isn’t anti-Indian, and neither am I, being one quarter Cherokee.
    Maverick is quick-witted and quick on the draw, though he triesto avoid gunplay. But he’s not a coward . . . exactly. He just believes in self-preservation. His attitude is, why risk your life over something trivial, like money? Or “honor”? But Maverick has his own moral code, and he does have a conscience. Yes, he cheats at cards, but he only cheats cheaters. He doesn’t have to cheat anybody else because he’s a great poker player. (That’s one trait we
don’t
share.) Maverick is often described as an antihero, but I don’t think that’s true. I’d call him a
reluctant
hero. He’ll come to your aid if there’s an injustice involved, and he’ll