Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [85]
“How do I know, Mr. Lewis, that I can depend on you and your partner to be there?” asked Y. Frank.
“Mr. Freeman, you can rest assured that Martin and Lewis will be at your benefit. Don’t worry about it, we’ll do your crappy little show.”
He laughed happily, but after we hung up, I started to get that feeling in the pit of my stomach again. It had only been four months since I’d agreed to something big without my partner’s say-so, and look how that had turned out. When was I going to learn?
I ran over to Dean’s dressing room on the Paramount lot. His smile when he opened the door was complicated: I could see affection, suspicion, and caution, all rolled into one expression. “Hey, pal,” I said, “I hate to okay this without your approval, but something important has come up.”
“Is it a contract?”
“Sort of.”
“Okay, then sign it. You’ll do it anyhow.” The TV in the dressing room was on, of course—with a Western on, of course—and Dean sat back down, watching the screen.
“No, this is a little different,” I said. “Y. Frank needs our help at the poor-children’s benefit on November tenth.”
“Sure, he’s got it.”
The answer had come too fast, too easily. His attention was divided. I sat in a chair next to his and spoke deliberately. “Dean, hold on, now,” I said. “This doesn’t involve money or contracts. This is Y. Frank, the guy who kept our cars from getting repossessed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
One eye was still on the TV screen. “Hey, man—I told you. It’s okay.”
“Well, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me so I can rest easy,” I said. “I want you to stick your big grubby Italian paw in mine and agree that you’ll do the benefit for Y. Frank.”
And Dean gave me that big hand, saying, “Jerry, for Chrissakes, I know how important this is. You got it.”
I let out a big breath. It felt like the first time I’d relaxed in months.
It was Thursday afternoon, November 10, and I was starting to get my usual preperformance butterflies, part excitement, part nerves, only today there were more butterflies than usual, because my partner was off the radar screen. He wasn’t in his dressing room, he wasn’t at home, he didn’t seem to be at the Lakeside Country Club. When we were on the road, I always knew exactly where Dean was, but when we were back in L.A., it was a very different story. He might have been anywhere at all— having a business meeting, driving in his car, engaging in a bit of hankypanky. It was a big city.
And so I did the best I could, writing him a note reminding him about the benefit, and having three copies made. The original went by messenger to his dressing room at Paramount; the copies went to Jeannie, to Mack Gray, and to Lakeside Country Club. I kept myself as busy as I could for the rest of the day, then drove down to the Shrine Auditorium.
There was no sign of Dean at the Auditorium, and it was looking like there wasn’t going to be any. I hoped he would show up at the last minute, with a big smile on his face, telling me he’d just been taking a nap—but I knew that was the old days. The backstage loudspeaker blared: “Martin and Lewis, you’re on next!”
I rushed to the wings, where I stood next to Bing Crosby and watched along with him as Red Skelton tore down the house.
“Where’s the sleepy one?” Bing asked.
I blinked and told a bald-faced lie. “He’s not well—he’s at home,” I said.
“I wish Hope would do that!” Bing said.
Then Red was off, to huge applause, and the announcer was saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis!”
I walked out from the wings. I’d always gone on first, but never alone. And tonight I was alone and scared. Just go on and do, my brain told me. Just go on and do.
As I entered the spotlight, excitement began to replace some of my fear. I opened my mouth, and this is what came out: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen—I’m so glad to be here, and I wish I could share that with my partner, but I can’t, because he isn’t here. It happened about six-thirty this