The Man Who Died Laughing

by David Handler

  Hoag: You’re kidding.

  Morgan: It’s true. I swear. He said, “So’s we drew straws.” I said, “And you won?” And he said, “No, I lost!” If it had been anybody else, I’d have slugged him. But Arthur … it was his way of saying I think you’re pretty terrific and I wish I had the nerve to ask you out.

  Hoag: You went out with him.

  Morgan: I hadn’t met too many nice guys. One doesn’t here. And I wouldn’t go to the parties. He took me to Ocean Park. We went on the rides. We ate cotton candy. I felt as if I were back in high school. He was so nervous he never stopped talking. He talked about how much money he was going to make. He talked about how he was going to bring his mother out. He talked about—

  Hoag: His father?

  Morgan: No. Not for months. Not until he was absolutely positive I loved him. At the end of our first evening together he fell to his knees and proposed to me. He did that every single time we saw each other, which got to be more and more often. I finally said yes about six months later, when he and Gabe were on the road. Gabe was his best man.

  Hoag: Were you happy together?

  Morgan: At first, yes. He adored me. I thought he was the sweetest man in the world. Plus, life was more fun when Sonny Day was around. The problem got to be that he wasn’t around enough. He and Gabe were either shooting a movie fourteen hours a day or they were on the road. And Arthur was very old-fashioned. Once Wanda was born, he insisted I quit the business and stay home to raise her. So I was stuck at home with his mother, who moved in with us when we bought our first house in Pacific Palisades.

  Hoag: Did you get along with her?

  Morgan: As well as anyone could. She was a nasty, horrible woman. I hate to say it, but it’s the truth.

  Hoag: I didn’t get that impression from him.

  Morgan: One wouldn’t. But she never stopped picking on him, belittling him, telling him what a bum his father had been and how he was no better.

  Hoag: When did the two of you start having problems?

  Morgan: Pretty early on. I wanted more from him. I wanted a relationship. But I was little more than a trophy for Arthur. He preferred to spend his free time with his boys—playing cards, going to the racetrack. And when he was in Vegas with Gabe, they … they slept with women. Many women. I caught him once when he came back. He left a package of condoms out on his dresser. Maybe so I’d catch him. I was furious. He started crying. He said he didn’t deserve me, that he was born in the gutter and belonged there. He offered to move out. He even started to pack. He made me beg him to stay. And I did, even though I was the injured party.

  Hoag: The other women—you were jealous?

  Morgan: Of course, though he insisted most of the time he didn’t even want them, that they wanted him, and that he couldn’t get over that. He’s very insecure about his appearance. Gabe was the one who was conquest-minded. If he saw a pretty girl walk by in a restaurant—Lorraine sitting right there with him, mind you—he’d excuse himself, intercept her in the lounge, and get her phone number. Arthur would never do something like that. Lorraine didn’t take it for very long. She divorced Gabe after two years.

  Hoag: Did you consider divorcing Sonny back then?

  Morgan: I was brought up to believe that if there were problems with a marriage, they were the woman’s fault. It took me a lot of years to get past that. And then there was Wanda to consider. Do you know what he wanted to name her? Stormy. Stormy Day. I had to put my foot down. She was a happy baby. A beautiful baby. You’ve never seen a man love a child as much as he loved Wanda. When she began to walk, we moved down to Malibu so he could take her for walks on the beach in the morning before he left for the studio. He’d go down there at dawn and sprinkle shells along the sand for her to find—just so he could see the look of delight on her face. I think she was the only real joy in his life. He was devastated when she began to have problems.

  Hoag: Which was when?

  Morgan: After we moved back from New York. She was about eight. She became sullen and withdrawn. Cried a lot. The doctors thought it was from having such an unstable home life moving back and forth cross-country, her father gone so often, and such an up-and-down presence when he was around. Arthur was convinced it was his fault, that he was somehow getting what he deserved. Totally self-centered response, of course.

  Hoag: Tell me about the move to New York.

  Morgan: I was for it. I thought if he did the series he’d be home more. At least it meant thirty-nine weeks out of the year he wouldn’t be on the road. Becoming a big TV star in New York was more a fulfillment of Arthur’s fantasies than anything he ever did. He lived in the Waldorf. He got the best tables at the best nightclubs. He got his name in the newspaper columns right next to Caesar, to Berle, to Gleason. He was in heaven.

  Hoag: And you?

  Morgan: I didn’t like living in a hotel. He suggested we get a place in Connecticut, where we could unwind. I found us a lovely little cottage on a few acres. The idea was he’d come out on weekends. Only there were no weekends. We owned the place for three years and he never saw it. Not once. Wanda and I lived there by ourselves. She started school there. He stayed in the city, working eighteen hours a day, nightclubbing the other six. And then when he and Gabe had their thirteen weeks off in the summer, it was back to L.A. to do a movie. I’d say to him, why don’t you let up, why do you drive yourself so hard? He’d say, “I gotta grab it while I can, baby.”

  Hoag: So you hardly ever saw him.

  Morgan: Or talked to him. When he called me at the farm, it was to ask about Wanda or kvetch about Gabe. They fought over money, over billing, over everything. Arthur never understood that Gabe had feelings. After four seasons, Gabe couldn’t take doing the series anymore. Arthur couldn’t keep up the pace either. He pushed himself so hard he put himself in the hospital. So they quit the show. We all moved back to Malibu. That’s when things really started to turn bad.

  Hoag: How so?

  Morgan: Wanda, as I mentioned. And Arthur’s mother died. That seemed to set Arthur loose. He started running with a rougher crowd. He became big pals with Frank Sinatra, who is not a positive influence on any man. And he had his first serious affair. It was with a young bombshell-slash-actress named Jayne Mansfield. He met her in New York. One thing led to another. This was different than what had gone on before. This was a steady thing that went on for several months. I read about their affair in a gossip column. He didn’t deny it. We went through the ritual of his packing his bags again, only this time I didn’t beg him to stay. He moved into a hotel for a while. Until they broke up. Then I took him back. For Wanda’s sake. But by then our marriage was a complete travesty. We went more than two years without having sex.

  Hoag: He told me.

  Morgan: You’re referring to the talk you two had in Vegas about your sexual dysfunction. He’s very excited and proud that you confided in him. He hasn’t many close friends anymore.

  Hoag: He said you had become more of a mother to him.

  Morgan: He rebelled against me. Began to run around with the trampiest girls in town. For a long time I put up with it. So many other things kept us together. There was Wanda’s condition. There was his breakup with Gabe. He worked even harder after that—writing, directing. Then he took up with Tracy. She was that year’s hot sex kitten—1965, I think it was. He flaunted it. He had his picture taken in the newspaper, nibbling on her ear in some nightclub. He took her to Vegas with him. That was it for me. I wasn’t going to pick up the pieces for him anymore. I moved out. I offered a home to Wanda, but we’d lost control of her by then. She moved in with that French director and began to support herself as a model. She was all of eighteen. I went back to work. It was a frightening, difficult time for me, but I survived. I enjoy my work. I guess it’s my life now. People magazine voted me America’s favorite mom last year, did you know that? It’s silly, I suppose, but it’s the biggest honor I’ve ever gotten.

  Hoag: About Sonny and Gabe. Can we talk about t
heir breakup?

  Morgan: What about it?

  Hoag: The fight in Chasen’s, to be specific.

  Morgan: (silence) I’ve given that a lot of thought.

  Hoag: And?

  Morgan: My feeling is if Arthur wants to put it in his book, it’s his decision. But he’ll have to be the one to reveal it. I’m not going to talk to you about it.

  Hoag: Why?

  Morgan: Because I’d rather it never come out.

  Hoag: Harmon Wright said it was nothing more than the fact they were sick of each other.

  Morgan: Harmon Wright is paid to say things like that.

  (end tape)

  (Tape #6 with Sonny Day. Recorded in his study, February 27.)

  Day: Vic keeps bugging me about the time he clocked that guy in the Daisy Club. Whattaya think, should it go in the book?

  Hoag: Not if it will hurt him. Why? Do you have a strong feeling?

  Day: I wanna use it. I got a lot of bad press over that. I don’t wanna hurt him, neither. He knows that. Just gotta know how to handle him. So what’d Heshie and Connie say about me?

  Hoag: Want to hear the tapes?

  Day: No, I’ll wait for the paperback.

  Hoag: I got the impression you were pretty crazed.

  Day: Not pretty crazed. Crazed. Work. Booze. Pills. Girls. I’ll tell you something though—know what drove me the most in those days? Fear. Fear that it would disappear and I’d be right back where I was before the war. So I pushed, pushed, pushed. Everybody started calling me Little Hitler. Cussing me out behind my back. Sure, I started getting involved in the writing. Why not? It was my ass on the line. Sure, I wanted credit for it. Who wouldn’t? Sure, I wanted more money than Gabe. Why not? I was there all day, knocking heads with the writers, trying to make it work. He was playing golf. Or recording an album behind my back. They said I kept a lot of my boys on the payroll. Bullshit. I was giving some young writers a break. Three of ’em have gone on to win Emmys so far. They said I needed to be surrounded by stooges. Bullshit. Who says I can’t pick my own friends? Give some putz a newspaper column and he thinks it gives him the right to psychoanalyze ya. Judge ya. I was living out the American dream. What’s wrong with that? Okay, I built this huge place. I owned twelve cars. A few extra pairs of shoes. So what? I earned ’em. I didn’t hurt nobody. I didn’t judge nobody. But they judged me. They said I was ego mad. They said I was a fucking nut. They said I couldn’t get along with Gabe. Sure, Gabe and I fought. Who doesn’t? Abbott and Costello fought. The Ritz brothers fought. Martin and fucking Lewis fought. Anytime you care, anytime you got something at stake, you fight. It’s easy to get along when you’re both going nowhere. It’s a breeze. Ya can sit around together broke and agree about everything. Every single fucking … (silence) Sorry, Hoagy. Whew, all I need is the two metal balls, huh?

  Hoag: Next birthday.

  Day: Plant looks great out there. Love sitting here and looking at it.

  Hoag: I’m glad.

  Day: Besides, me and Gabe didn’t fight all the time. Especially early on. That first public appearance tour, after BMOC came out. The kids went crazy. They’d rush the stage. They’d hang around outside the hotel, waiting for us to come out. We’d put on disguises and slip right by ’em. One time I dressed up like Marlene Dietrich. Some salesman tried to pick me up in the elevator. I clobbered him with my purse. Knocked him right on his keister. Gabe, he’d dress up like an old man. White wig. Cane. It was fun. But the real fun was Vegas. Vegas was always laughs. No wives. Gambling. Booze. Broads. We’d go up to the rooms and have horror shows like you wouldn’t believe. You name it, we did it. And on stage, we was dynamite. We came up with some new routines—about our childhoods, about being young fathers. Whatever we tried, it worked. And the movies just kept pulling ’em in. Jerks. Then Hayride. Ship to Shore. We couldn’t miss. Except at home. Lorraine dumped Gabe. Connie kept complaining I wasn’t around enough, that she felt stifled and ignored. And I didn’t get to see enough of Wanda. She was such a joy to me, a little blond bundle of joy. She was so lovely, in such a fragile kinda way. I was afraid she’d crack if I squeezed her too tight. I wished I could be around her more.

  Hoag: That’s partly why you did the TV show in New York?

  Day: That was for blood money. I owed the IRS. What the hell—I had it, I spent it. Gabe got socked by Lorraine for an alimony you wouldn’t believe. They gave us a fortune to do that show. We never saw a dime of it, neither of us. But I had this thing in my mind you wasn’t a real success until you licked New York. And the guys who were big in TV there—Caesar, Berle—they was taken a lot more seriously by critics than me and Gabe. Us, we was considered lowbrow. Anyway, we was approached in—I guess it was ’51—about doing this comedy-variety thing for Lucky Strikes on CBS. It was a helluva deal, so we went back East and we licked New York. Did great stuff on that show. Better than Broadway, and a new one every week. Got great ratings, too. Only problem was the critics still hated us.

  Hoag: It was done live?

  Day: No retakes. You wanna talk pressure? Hoo, boy. Know where we did it? The same theater on West Fifty-third where the army sent us when we joined You’re in the Army. That was home for the next four years. We had suites at the Waldorf where we’d pass out for a couple of hours, but we lived at that theater. I’m still proud of that show. We had top people. Goody Ace was our head writer. We hired him away from Berle. Later on, we brought in John Grant when he split up with Abbott and Costello. We had Selma Diamond writing for us, god rest her soul. I bought the first sketch Woody Allen ever sold to TV—about a guy with a mother complex who’s in love with his lady analyst. Peggy Cass played both parts. Fucking hysterical. What a troupe we had. Me, Gabe, Peggy, Dick Van Dyke—who was practically still in diapers—Freddy Gwynn, Morty Gunty, god rest his soul. And guest stars like you wouldn’t believe. Basil Rathbone. Ronald Colman. I remember one time we had Charles Laughton and Elsa Lanchester on, and we made ’em do a nursery-school sketch with us where we all crawled around on our hands and knees. We’d have a musical guest, too. Ethel Merman, Patti Page. Gabe’d do a couple of numbers with ’em. We’d work ’em into the sketches if we could. It was wild. We’d have a format, but this was live. Halfway into the hour the format went right out the window. A couple of times we ran out of time right in the middle of something. Mitch Miller, our bandleader, he’d go into our theme song and that was it—off the air we went, still talking. I’d want to collapse, but I was too wired. So I’d hit Lindy’s. Every time I walked in I’d spritz Gleason with a seltzer bottle. Pretty soon it got so he’s carrying a water pistol so he’d be ready for it. We’d go at it right there in the restaurant, like kids. Then Silvers got one. We were like gunslingers. The three of us even talked about doing a western picture together—Last Stand at Lindy’s. After Lindy’s we’d all hit the Copa, the Trocadero, the Stork, finish off with a steak at Danny’s at about five a.m. I’d pass out for two hours, show up Tuesday morning—exhausted, hung over—and guess what? We got a whole new show to do, and nothing but blank pages staring at us.

  Hoag: Your relationship with Gabe deteriorated?

  Day: We didn’t talk. It bothered both of us, but we couldn’t seem to live any other way. Then he met Vicki, his second wife. Suddenly, he don’t want to work so hard. We did fight about that. The staff and the crew took Gabe’s side, even though I was the one putting food in their mouths while he was off making records. This happened—let’s see—this was the third season. I was seriously crazed by then. Drinking a bottle a night. Taking pills to sleep, to wake up. Eating like a horse. I was totally excessive. In everything. It finally broke me in the fourth season. I collapsed right on the air. People laughed. They thought it was a gag. I was dying. Had to be taken to the hospital. I was in bed for a month with double pneumonia. Gabe went on every week with a pinch-hit costar-Jimmy Durante did one, Red Skelton. When I came back, I swore I’d take better care of myself, but right away I was back to my old habits. And me and Gabe, we’d had it wit
h the grind. We just couldn’t keep it up anymore. That was the only thing we could agree on. So we went out with our heads high. Moved back to California.

  Hoag: According to Connie, that’s when your life …

  Day: My life turned to shit.

  (end tape)

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WANDA SAID SHE WAS up for having some fun. I said that would be fine with me as long as I didn’t have to wear roller skates.

  We started out at that years favored celebrity eatery, Spago. The chef was a fellow named Puck, and you had to know him, or know someone who knew him, to get a table. Ours was right by the windows, which looked down on the traffic and billboards on Sunset Boulevard, and on the city beyond. The sun was setting soft and pink in the smoggy sky. It made everything out there look fuzzy, as if the whole city were made of Necco Wafers.

  We ordered champagne—our drink. Brooke Hayward and Peter Duchin stopped by for a hug and a hello while we waited for it to arrive. So did a former wife of Richard Harris, who was with a guy with nineteen-inch hips who spoke only German and couldn’t take his eyes off his own reflection in the window.

  Lee Radziwill was eating there that night, too. So was a former U.S. senator, who was not with his wife. None of those people stopped by.

  Wanda wore skintight black leather pants, high heels, and a little red silk camisole that could very well have qualified as underwear in many parts of the country. Her face was made up and she was acting very up, very gay. A little too gay. I wore a starched tuxedo shirt with a bib front, mallard suspenders, and gray pleated flannels. I also had a little something greasy in my hair. It was fun to be out again.

  The waiter popped our cork and poured.

  “To exes,” Wanda said, raising her glass.

  “To exes,” I agreed.

  She drained hers and leaned over the table toward me, showing me most of what was there under her camisole. “I think I should warn you,” she said, her voice husky and intimate. “I’m not as tough as I look.”