Even This I Get to Experience

by Norman Lear

  As soon as the door opened someone yelled, “Hey, Simmons and Lear got him a television!” We brought it in and set it on the large coffee table where Jerry and Patti were opening the last of the gifts. It was Patti Lewis who got to ours, removed the top, and peeked in. She gasped and her eyes popped in horror. I looked quickly into the box to see Popeye’s eyes closed and his face contorted in an effort to hold back a laugh. I yelled at him, “It’s okay, you can smile now!” Thinking that this was part of the game and determined not to blow his hundred-dollar fee, the little guy paid me no mind and held. At which point, positioned at the perimeter of the crowd around the gift table, the aforementioned Dr. Marvin “Miv” Levy stepped up on a chair so as to see over their heads. Viewing what Patti had gasped at, and reminded of his days as a frat boy and med student, the only MD in the room shouted, “Simmons and Lear gave him a cadaver!”

  In the long history of human screams, could there ever have been heard a shriek like the one that issued from Patti Lewis, followed by a flurry of supportive outrage and contempt on all sides? If looks could kill, Eddie and I would have been dead and buried, and this birthday party our wake. The only people who appeared more delighted than upset, I suppose because their relationship with Jerry gave them the license, were the producer of the Martin and Lewis films at Paramount Pictures, Hal Wallis, and his wife, Louise Fazenda, the star of some three hundred silent comedy films and shorts. Dean, who held an even more exclusive license, didn’t feel the need to be in attendance at all.

  Plied with drinks and treated like “that poor thing” by guests who believed he’d been in the box for hours on a cold March night, the Popeye of all cadavers had the time of his life. He was still partying when Ed and I left, so we never got to take him home. Sammy Davis Jr. did that honor.

  • • •

  DEAN AND JERRY led separate and distinct lives, and held very separate and distinct views of their relationship. For Dean there was no love lost, it was a business. Not that Jerry didn’t see that, too, but he couldn’t live with it. Despite the polarization and simmering unease, for Jerry there had to be a love there, an affection between two strong men. Paraphrasing Jerry now on a rare intimate occasion, it was a love “so deep and so profound that Dean and I can’t talk about it so we don’t, but you see it there in our work, and it wouldn’t work without it, not at the heights Dean and I reach, it’s us and the audience, that bond, that three-way bond, is all about love, and it all starts with our love, Dean’s and mine, it couldn’t happen any other way, not without that unbreakable, shatterproof love between us, and that is what makes us Dean and Jerry.”

  What made this so memorable was the absence of tears. The words and the moment called for tears. I know that not just as a professional but as a human being. But Jerry was dry-eyed. I believe he meant every word of his story. But it was only one of the stories he needed to sustain him, one he could lean into in the telling, and rub and polish to a high gloss, a gloss in which he might find himself.

  I wonder, as I focus here on Dean, how well I knew him. My friend the writer Nick Pileggi worked for nearly two years with director Martin Scorsese to develop a film based on Nick Tosches’s biography of him. Fascinated by what Tosches had to say about Dean’s life and the world he lived in, Pileggi felt they had a story, but not the man. To learn more about Dean from the inside, Nick started interviewing just about everyone who knew and worked with him, me among them.

  “Dino” everyone called him growing up in Steubenville, Ohio, and again after he’d become, with Frank Sinatra, a founding member of the Rat Pack, which grew to include Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop. Dean was the guy who seemed to have wandered in, seemed to not give a shit about anything, but seemed to like everything—especially, it seemed to all, the drink in his hand. The operative words here are “seemed to.” All everyone knew about Dean was who and what he seemed to be. So what Nick Pileggi and Martin Scorsese saw from afar was pretty much what those who knew him best saw up close. How to explain that?

  We all loved Dean. Like his every performance, Dean was easy, light and easy. It cost nothing to be his friend—not your time, your concern, or your affection. He was the ultimate loner. And inscrutable. You could be with him at the height of some happy occasion, enjoying him, his friendship, the closeness, in a way that occurs only when you are partnered in those feelings. Then suddenly, where’d that partner go? Dean was still there. But the close friend, where was he?

  Better make that good friend. On second thought, what do you mean by “good”? Nothing had changed in Dean. He remained exactly who he was. What had changed was how you saw the relationship. So “inscrutable” is not about the inscrutable one, it’s about the one who sees him that way. At one point we suddenly realize we don’t really know who this person—this new friend, old friend, good friend—is. He’s not really a person then. He’s not even a pronoun. He’s an adjective. Inscrutable.

  Hanging with Dean and Jerry was my first encounter with the power of celebrity. As hot as they had become in films and on TV, they were instantly recognizable by the multitudes, magnetic draws to everyone who could hold a camera. Fans, mostly women, waited endlessly in the hope they’d emerge from wherever, squealed with delight at the sight of them, rushed everywhere after them, and were driven silly by a moment’s conversation with them. And more.

  NBC held a yearly weekend convention at a hotel in Boca Raton, Florida, for its top executives and affiliate station honchos across the country, and in 1952 Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were the main attraction at the Saturday night dinner where I was witness to “more” at the extreme. Of course the convention included meetings to discuss the next season, to review schedules, to exchange ideas and address problems, with a few speakers discussing the general state of media, etc. But the desire to attend the business of the convention had strong competition from an array of other needs of its participants, i.e., to “get the fuck away,” “let my hair down,” “drink as much as I fucking want,” and, with a wink, “who knows what else?”

  A pair of well-known agents at the time decided to suck up to the network by helping to satisfy the “who knows what else?” part of those needs. From Miami, some forty-five miles away, there arrived a busload of attractive young women, showgirl types dressed to kill. About ten P.M., as dinner and the M&L performance were ending and many of the execs were deciding to have one more drink, a nightcap, these women waltzed in. Before you could sing a chorus of “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” there were parties in the lounge and bar, followed by couples here and there wandering off, almost all winding up later at two or three swinging parties in upstairs suites.

  I participated in none of that. Not that my loveless marriage was in the way, but I was concentrating on one specific girl. I remember her only as Esther, because the instant I saw her I thought that, whoever she was, wherever she’d grown up, she had to have played Esther in the Purim play. It turned out she never played the role and didn’t even know that Purim was a Jewish holiday, though she was Jewish. I thought she looked like an angel. To me at that time an angel was a very pretty girl who had no problem letting me know early on that she desired me. I was sure that was true of my Esther. And that was even before she spent an hour with me radiating charm, all of it directed at recognizing the miracle of our meeting and how clearly we were meant for each other. At about twelve-thirty it was clear she was hot to trot, so I slipped her my room number and, heart high, went upstairs to shower.

  By one-thirty, I had torn orchid petals from a large bouquet and spread them everywhere she might sit and look, including the toilet bowl and bidet; lightly dabbed myself here and there, especially there, with Aphrodisia by Fabergé (the cologne Jerry used); and had a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and some canapés at the ready. I, too, was ready. The room, the moment, the mood, and the man, all ready. At about two-thirty I lay down to wait, fell asleep quickly for a man about t
o have his hard (no typo) broken, and was awakened by the doorbell at four-thirty A.M. It was my angel, my Esther, still exquisite, but looking like she’d been through hell. She was crying. And as if she’d never met me, not to mention having been wooed by me, she gushed this story.

  She’d agreed to make the bus trip all the way to Boca Raton to meet Jerry Lewis, who is so special to her that her pulse starts going crazy when she merely reads about him. And then, finally, she met him here for the first time and knew right away she was meant for him. Then I came along and she sat with me, never taking her eyes off Jerry. She was sure I saw that, and it made her feel so safe, me sitting with her all that time knowing that in her heart she was all Jerry’s—and remind her later to kiss me for that—but right now, do I know what room Jerry is in? The desk wouldn’t tell her and no one else is around, and she can’t believe she came all this way, and has been with so many of the others, but not Jerry. She knows how late it is and he’s probably sleeping, but if she only had Jerry Lewis’s room number, she just knows he wouldn’t mind letting her, at the least, blow him.

  That’s right. That’s what she said, my little angel, my sweet Esther. This was my biggest encounter until then with the power of celebrity.

  • • •

  FRED ALLEN— comedian, writer,and most sardonic of wits—was possibly the single biggest influence on my own writing and sense of the comedic. I was twelve when I first heard him on the radio, and I followed him so faithfully that I hear his voice in my head to this day. It was a pinched nasal sound perfectly suited to the droll, biting humor that issued from him. Typical of Fred was his attitude toward television. “It is called a medium,” he said, “because it is neither rare nor well-done.” As to “the minds that control it,” he said, “you could put them in the navel of a flea and still have room enough beside them for the heart of a network vice president.”

  Fred had been asked to join the rotation of Colgate comics, and Ed and I had a meeting with him to discuss our producing his show. As it happened the show never came together, but we were determined to maintain contact with him. At Christmas we sent him holiday greetings. In January he wrote us in response.

  “You can enjoy a tidy feeling after the Xmas holiday,” he said, “if you receive a card from every person to whom you have sent a card.” And if they had not sent a card, the least they can do, he went on, “is to mail you a receipt for the card you sent them. I am all even now,” he concluded.

  We wrote again to say, “Just as you like to feel you’ve come out even, we like to stay ahead.” To that note we added, from out of nowhere, this postscript: “P.S. Ran into Harry Saminow the other day. Flo is fine but she hasn’t gotten the crib yet. Sol is due in next Tuesday for a week and will let you know about the andirons.”

  Within days we heard back from Fred Allen, who wrote only in lowercase. Addressed to ed simmons—norman lear, he wrote: “if you run into harry saminow again will you ask him to tell sol not to bother about the andirons. we had three andirons in the old house, one at each side of the fireplace and to balance the room. mrs. saminow suggested the third andiron be placed in the fireplace. the winter was unusually cold that year. when we moved to the duplex we had two andirons and a large ingot. if sol can match the ingot we will be ready to give him the andirons. regards—fred allen.”

  And thus began a two-year correspondence between Fred Allen, Simmons and Lear, and Harry Saminow, who wrote and invoiced on his own stationery, of course. It read: “HARRY SAMINOW—ANDIRONS AND INGOTS. My Bell If You Ring It, I’ll Sell You an Ingot.”

  When Ed and I were in New York we held dinners to discuss what was happening. They became known as Saminow Seminars. For a good deal of the time at each seminar, no one broke character and the conversation went everywhere our crafty minds could take us in the continuing saga of Harry and Moe Saminow and their ANDIRONS and INGOTS, not to mention their BALLED WINCHES, REAMED BRAZIERS, AND BRASS COUPLINGS.

  The recollection here all but brings a tear to my eye, not for the specifics of the fun we had but for that time, when life seemed to hum rather than chase, and such sweet playfulness was accommodated.

  3

  WE WERE OUT OF WORK just a few short weeks toward the end of 1953 when an offer arrived for us to replace writer-producer Nat Hiken on The Martha Raye Show. Martha was the Carol Burnett of her moment, and Hiken—in my opinion the cream of our crop of writers—had worked wonders, creating an original book-musical format for TV. The book (script), with roles for guest stars and a dance chorus, was original, but the songs were standards woven into the story line. That first year Hiken and Martha had done six of them, with the boxer and middleweight champ Rocky Graziano as her “goombah,” her friend and protector.

  Simmons and I loved Martha, were crazy about the book-musical format, and felt challenged by the idea of replacing Nat Hiken. The offer was sweetened for me when whoever they’d asked to direct the show stepped aside and I was asked to replace him. I was over the moon, but with one big problem. Though my wife and daughter had joined me in New York when I started working for Dean and Jerry, now Charlotte did not want to leave Los Angeles. With four days to go before I had to give NBC a decision, I flew back to L.A. to talk it over with her.

  At stake for me was the question of separating from Ellen. At stake for Charlotte, I learned, was separation from her psychiatrist, Dr. Henry Luster, and their five-times-weekly visits. I met with him at Charlotte’s suggestion and in our forty-five-minute acquaintance he seemed a pleasant and reasonable fellow. He understood when I explained that, from a long-range career standpoint, I had to take the job in New York, but he didn’t accept that I had to take my family with me. Shouldn’t we think of Ellen first, I asked, and wouldn’t she fare better with both rather than one of us? In a perfect world, yes, he replied. But (a) if I agreed that her mother’s emotional health was important to Ellen, this was no time to pull her out of therapy, and (b) because at Ellen’s age girls require their mothers more than ever, he recommended that I let well enough alone for now, a proposition I didn’t feel up to challenging.

  I did just that, and there is much to tell regarding the year that followed. But while we’re in his office, let me skip ahead to the second and final meeting with Henry Luster. It took place almost a year to the day after the first one. In the intervening year I talked with Ellen daily, flew out to L.A. to be with her every other weekend, and talked with Charlotte regularly about our being together in New York the following year, should The Martha Raye Show be picked up and our contract renewed. Charlotte never gave me the satisfaction of directly accepting that supposition, but neither did she directly reject it—until the day she told me she’d set an appointment for me to see Dr. Luster again.

  I’d arrived in L.A. the evening before, and in the morning was excitedly describing the perfect apartment I’d located, within walking distance of a good private school for Ellen, when I noticed something in Charlotte’s expression. Nothing. I could have been telling her the taxi driver found her scarf in the backseat. Was she trying to tell me I faced another year of cross-country separation from my daughter? She was. Why? Her therapy was critical. Still? Yes. More critical than her marriage? “You need to hear it from Dr. Luster.” Dr. Luster again? I went bat shit.

  Meeting for the second time, Henry Luster seemed a little more distant, bordering on cold. As I entered his office and moved to assume a chair opposite him, he motioned me to look at something on his side of the desk first. As I came around to do that, he said in a cautionary tone that he didn’t know my mood, but he wasn’t a stranger to enraged husbands. This office had seen its share of them, and perhaps we should start with my knowing this, he said, opening a drawer and nodding for me to take a look. In it there lay a pistol. Nothing else. He closed the drawer quickly. Mad fucking man.

  Well into a third year of five visits per week, Henry Luster was still advising Charlotte that she would do herself g
reat harm by stopping therapy at this point. I asked him if he would still feel that way knowing that her staying in L.A. could result in a divorce. But how could he know that? “Only the decision maker could know that,” he replied, smiling at me with what I read as pity. Now I was enraged, and imagined picking up that pistol! And divorce proceedings followed.

  • • •

  THE APARTMENT I’D FOUND in vain for our family was lovely. But the apartment Eddie and I had been living in that first year working on The Martha Raye Show was spectacular. It was a three-story penthouse at 25 Tudor City Place at the end of Forty-first Street, overlooking the East River. The living room was three stories high, with a ground-floor bedroom off it, and a winding staircase that led to another bedroom on the second floor, and past that to a door on what would be the third floor, but that opened instead onto a large roof garden.

  It was a showplace, fit more for a sheikh than for a pair of comedy writers, and it was also rent-controlled, which made it a palace and a steal at the same time. I saw an ad for it late one Saturday afternoon in the next morning’s New York Times, but as fast as I was to call the woman renting it, someone else had gotten there first. The woman had just shown the apartment for the first time to someone who grabbed at it, and she was still there in a pleasant state of shock with a check in hand for the first and last months’ rent. I had no idea, really, that I could get her to tear up the check, but I told her that before I killed myself I just had to see the apartment I’d lost by a whisker. But that would only make me feel worse, she said, so coming over to see the apartment made no sense at all. Just the opposite, I returned, when you consider that a man should at least see what he’s about to take his life over. I knew I had her when she laughed.