Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [1]
It was an eerie and uncertain feeling out there. I wasn’t sure myself if the powerful vibrations in the Copa were good or bad. We had to do that first show to find out a lot of things.
So Dean strolled out, as he always did . . . cool, relaxed-looking—but I knew my partner. His eyes told me he was feeling the same pain and uncertainty that I was.
We shook hands, as we always did, but this time a murmur swept through the audience. “Maybe there is a chance?”
It vibrated through the entire building.
Dean did his three songs, uneventfully, pretty much the way he’d always done them, and out I came to go into our routine. “It’s nice that you cut down your songs to only eleven numbers. I thought I’d have to shower again! It don’t say outside, ‘Dean Martin,’ period . . . it says ‘Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis’! Did you forget, or are you anxious to be out of work?”
All of that was what we always did, only on this night every joke had too much significance. We forged ahead, knowing that soon we would be finished: Only two more shows to go, and it would be over.
We barreled through what we had to do and came to the last song in the act, “Pardners.”
You and me, we’ll always be pardners,
You and me, we’ll always be friends.
Now, singing that number could have been a mistake, because once we got into it, that audience changed from uncertain to sure; it was over, and they were watching everything but the burial. We finished the song, and the applause was deafening.
We finished the second show, and the third went on at 2:30 A.M. sharp. This time Dean and I both knew: This is it! The last time . . . never again . . . all over . . .
It felt like being choked without hands on your throat. But here it is. It’s 2:25, and Dean is standing at his place at the foot of the stairs, stage right . . . and I’m standing at the foot of the stairs, stage left. The Copa Girls go by us as they finish the opening production number, and as they pass, they too are teary-eyed. Rather than rush to their dressing rooms, they stand along the staircases on both sides of the stage to watch. They all felt the death knell, and they wanted to be a part of it.
So we went on and killed them, and killed ourselves as well. We were both shattered by the time we got to “Pardners,” and we didn’t even do it too terribly well, but we got through it, and as that audience rose to celebrate all we had ever done, they knew it was over. There were shouts, tears, applause. It was midnight on New Year’s Eve all over again—and in July, yet.
Dean and I both headed for the elevator, waving off all comers. When the door closed, we put our arms around each other, just letting go the floodgates. We arrived at our floor and got out, and thank God, no one was around. We went to our suites and closed the doors. I grabbed the phone and dialed Dean.
“Hey, pally,” he said. “How’re you holdin’ up?”
“I don’t know yet. I just want to say—we had some good times, didn’t we, Paul?”
“There’ll be more.”
“Yeah, well, take care of yourself.”
“You too, pardner.”
We hung up and closed the book on ten great years—with the exception of the last ten months. They were horrific. Ten months of pain and anger and uncertainty and sorrow.
Now it was time to pick up the pieces. Not so easy. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
IN THE AGE OF TRUMAN, EISENHOWER, AND JOE MCCARTHY, we freed America. For ten years after World War II, Dean and I were not only the most successful show-business act in history—we were history.
You have to remember: Postwar America was a very buttoned-up nation. Radio shows were run by censors, Presidents wore hats, ladies wore girdles. We came straight out of the blue—nobody was expecting anything like Martin and Lewis.