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But he was understanding and patient. He gave me space to be sick, then talked me through my jitters, assuring me in a soft, steady, confident voice that we were going to be fine, and then, before I had a chance to think, I was staring into a spotlight.

Our act was deceptively simple. We satirized the popular songs and singers of the day, like Bing Crosby, Mary Martin, and Spike Jones and the City Slickers. If a song was hot, we worked it into the act. The opening night audience at the Zephyr loved us, and so did audiences on subsequent nights. We were a hit. We were booked there for weeks, long enough that Phil moved his family to L.A.

Margie was still back in Danville. She regularly asked when I was going to send for her. We were engaged, so her hints became less subtle as time passed. I did not blame her. But I knew sending for her meant we would get married, and to be frank, I couldn’t afford it.

Phil and I were making $150 a week and he took a little more than a fifty-fifty split since he had a family. Even with all of us sharing a house, we were still barely getting by. I did not know what to do.

On the one hand, I wanted to settle down and get married one day. On the other hand, I worried whether I could afford that day anytime soon.

I was in a spot.

The solution presented itself in a most convenient fashion one day after Phil and I got to work. It was early, well before showtime, and I was wandering around the hotel when I began talking to this wonderful guy who produced a radio show called Bride and Groom. Broadcast from the hotel’s chapel, each show told the story of a couple’s courtship and then culminated with their wedding. As a gift, the couple received a free honeymoon.

I mentioned that I wanted to get married but couldn’t afford it, and the producer, who dropped in on our act all the time, invited me to get married on his show. They would pick up the whole tab, plus send us on a honeymoon.

It sounded like a deal to me. Margie was all for it, too.

Borrowing money, I sent her a one-way train ticket, and on February 12, 1948, we exchanged “I do”s in front of a minister and two radio microphones as an estimated 15 million people listened in. For our honeymoon, the show sent us on a ten-day skiing vacation to Mount Hood, in Oregon. I had never skied before, but we had a wonderful time. The best part was that it didn’t cost us a nickel. Which was perfect, since we didn’t have a nickel to spare. Back in L.A., Margie and I lived with Phil and his wife and their two kids. We had one small bedroom to ourselves, no car, and if we wanted to do something, we had to walk or hop on the trolley.

After a while, we finally rented our own apartment in Laurel Canyon. It was actually a guesthouse behind someone else’s home on Lookout Mountain Road. We had a room and a kitchenette—and privacy.

L.A. was gorgeous back then. There were no high-rise buildings, and the words traffic and smog were unheard of. In the morning, the canyon filled with fog that gradually gave way, as the sun rose, to breathtaking views, almost as if a curtain were being lifted on the day. Depending on the time of the year, the air was ripe with the fragrance of orange blossoms, honeysuckle, and other flowers, and the mostly undeveloped hills were still home to deer and other wildlife that made it seem as if you were far from the city.

One day I came home and Margie rushed out to meet me. She was as surprised as I’d ever seen her, and for good reason. She had been startled out of the house by a strange noise—our new car. I had driven home in a 1935 Ford Phaeton convertible that I’d bought for $125. After inspecting our new car, she gave me a puzzled look.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“What?” I said.

“The top.”

“That’s why I was able to afford it,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It doesn’t have a top,” I explained. “It’s long gone.”

It didn’t have a second gear, either. It only had first and third, making it difficult to get up the steep hill to our house. Getting down was only slightly easier. Every morning