Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [44]
He looked at me and laughed hysterically, which made me laugh hysterically—and the audience was still waiting for the joke! We recovered, Dean sang, and the “Woodhue” became history.
We loved the sheer nonsense of it all, having as much fun off the stage as we did on.
I don’t think, early on, that we really knew the difference.
A little while later, though, I came up with a scheme I thought might be foolproof. It was 1952, we had just completed two weeks at the Chicago Theater—seven shows a day, forty-nine a week—and we were as exhausted as a groom on his wedding night. Especially my partner. When we finished the last show of the engagement, I heard Dean say something I’d never heard from him before: “Jer, I’m outta gas. I’m really very tired.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel, order room service, catch a Western on TV, and hit the pad early,” I said. (Early for us was before three A.M.)
We got into the limo and rode back to the Ambassador Hotel. We were both so beat we didn’t speak for the whole twenty-five-minute drive, but I had time to think about a scenario I’d been developing for years. All I needed was for my partner to give me ten minutes in the suite before he came up. So I suggested we have a nightcap in the Pump Room, and to my delight, Dean accepted.
As soon as we ordered, I excused myself, telling Dean I had to go to the men’s room. Off I went—not to the men’s room, of course, but to the elevator and up to our suite. It took me no more than three minutes to short-sheet his bed, and when I was done, I just had to spend another moment or two admiring my work.
I rushed back down to the bar, and Dean gave me a look. “Did everything come out all right?” he asked.
“It must’ve been all the Cokes I had today,” I said.
We finished our drinks and headed up to the suite, both of us so fatigued that our feet were literally dragging. When we got inside, Dean went straight to his bedroom.
I stood just outside his door, pretending to be busy doing something, but really listening carefully. I heard his shoes falling, the bedcovers being pulled down, and finally his last sound—the sigh of a dead man. I waited, eager to hear the roar of laughter or the roar of the jungle beast. Nothing. It was as quiet as a zipper in the men’s room. I waited a little longer, completely stumped: What had happened?
Finally, I sneaked into his room to take a look. Dean was sleeping like a baby, snoring a little, his legs tucked into the fetal position. He was so exhausted that he’d never even felt the short sheets—he slept all through the night that way.
I sighed. Oh well, I thought. Maybe I’ll get him next time.
Some of the best times we had were hanging out with other performers. Both of us were crazy about Jackie Gleason, who in addition to being a comic genius was the greatest party animal alive. He loved teasing Dean about his wussy drinking. It finally got to be too much for Dean. “Let’s have a contest and see who’s standing at the finish!” he told Gleason.
It was February 1950, at Toots Shor’s restaurant on Fifty-second Street in Manhattan. The three of us were standing at the bar, and everyone heard the challenge. We now had at least forty people surrounding us, watching to see how this episode played out. Jackie ordered for both of them: “Let’s have two boilermakers!” Dean called out, “Give us both a Pink Lady!” This got a great laugh—ordering a Pink Lady at Toots’s would be like ordering a condom at a convent.
The drinks got served, and down they went. First Jackie, then Dean. Jackie said, “What a joy! Round One is completed.” He then remembered that no bet had been mentioned. Jackie said to Dean, “How much are we wagering on this little sojourn?” Dean, of course, had to play this out. “Make it easy on yourself,” he said.
Without a second thought, Jackie said, “How about a grand?”
Without taking a breath, Dean agreed. “You got it!” he said. I rolled my eyes, with visions of this all winding up in Hollywood Confidential (the National Enquirer’s