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I tiptoed across the room to her dresser and opened the jewelry box. As soon as I lifted the lid, it started to play music, “The Blue Danube.” I slammed it shut and gave her a look. Why had she put the bullets in her jewelry box? How was I going to get them out without the burglar hearing Johann Strauss’s famous waltz? What was I going to do?

I stood there, waiting for something to happen, and when nothing did, I picked up my unloaded rifle, pretended it was in fact ready for business, and went to see what was what. In the end, I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Margie and I were sure we had heard a noise outside, but the rest must have been our imaginations running scared.

My father had a difficult time reconciling my success. “Never in my wildest imagination,” he used to say. I was on the phone with him one Saturday, telling him about everything that was happening to me, and his amazement nearly matched mine. He made a surprising confession: He never thought I would amount to much of anything.

“Do you remember the summer you sold shoes in my brother’s store?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I was paid on commission.”

“How many shoes did you sell?” he asked.

“I don’t remember exactly,” I said. “But pretty close to none.”

“Son, I have to tell you, I feared everything you touched was going to work out like that,” he said, laughing. “Your grandmother is here and we’re all proud of what you’re doing.”

Having given up his life as a bon vivant jazz musician and baseball player when I came along, my father not only marveled that I was making a living from my passion for having fun, but he also appreciated it as much as I did. I had a five-picture deal with Columbia, and I had a separate production company with my manager, Byron, who was negotiating for several projects, including one with my idol Stan Laurel for a film on Laurel and Hardy.

I also had a two-album recording deal, an invitation to headline at the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, and as soon as the second season of The Dick Van Dyke Show wrapped I began work on the movie What a Way to Go.

The comedy, written by the multitalented Broadway legend Betty Comden, told the story of a wealthy woman marrying one man after another, and getting wealthier with each one, all of whom happened to die prematurely as they struggled to make more and more money. Shirley MacLaine starred along with Paul Newman, Robert Mitchum, Dean Martin, Robert Cummings, and me, in the role of her first husband, meaning I had a small part and died early.

But I had fun. Shirley was a rascal. We were on location one day and she didn’t want her makeup man to touch her up, so she took off across a field, running at full speed. I watched in puzzled amusement as her makeup man sprinted after her, caught up, and tackled her as if they were two football players in the open field. Pinning her down, he applied makeup. Both of them returned to the set laughing.

Before I departed, I had one scene with Dean Martin, an easygoing, friendly man who referred to me as Dickie. Anybody from the nightclub circuit, especially comics, has a diminutive name like Dean-o, Jackie, Billy, Sammy, or in my case, Dickie. Dean played a guy who stole Shirley from me. His dad owned the big department store in town. As we worked, I thought, There is no way they can use this footage. The man is smashed.

True to form, Dean had been drinking on the set while entertaining various beautiful women who had come to visit him. One day it was Ursula Andress, the next day it was some other babe. He seemed to treat every hour as if it were happy hour. But when I saw him on screen, I couldn’t tell he was drunk—and neither could anyone else. He was just Dean being Dean. That’s what he did, and it obviously worked for him.

After making the movie, I found myself thinking about what worked for me, and also what I wanted to do for work, what was important to me, and what I wanted my work to say about me.

13

A JOLLY HOLIDAY

Following What a Way to Go, I determined to be more