Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1946

Ages: 28 and 19

Cheers. Louder than either the Organ Grinder or the Monkey had ever heard in their lives. It's all Jerry can hear, all he can think about, and his heart races madly in his chest to keep up with the applause until he opens his eyes and the curtains coming down to the stage envelop them in darkness.

The sun is just beginning to peek over the ocean horizon, casting a pinkish gold glow on them as they stand side by side at the edge of the Boardwalk. Dean's big hands are curled around the railing as he watches the steady rise and fall of the tide in disbelief. Only the cool metal beneath his hands lets him know this is real. That everything that just happened was real.

Jerry can barely catch his breath as his mind works furiously to understand what happened. They had made it? Them? Him? Sure, Dean was always going to make it, it was just who he was, but Jerry? As much as he had wanted it, needed it, thirsted for it, there was always a part of him that doubted it was ever going to happen. But it did.

Only the rhythmic flapping of wings above them, the faint sizzling of the sand as the salty water creeps in and back, and the strong scent of the seashore stops Jerry from exploding. He feels like running, jumping, screaming. But he doesn't. He keeps it all inside. He just stands there alongside Dean, in silent acknowledgement of what has been and what is to come.

###

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1946

Ages: 29 and 19

Over the mouthful of hot dog and mustard that drips messily from his lips, Jerry asks Dean, "Have ya seen our poster from 500?"

"No." Is Dean's soft answer as he struggles to peel back the paper from his sandwich, tongue resting between his teeth in concentration.

"Well, I don't think the name is right. Lewis and Martin just isn't—it isn't any 'Abbott and Costello' or 'Laurel and Hardy', let's just say that." Jerry says while he racks his brain for a suitable alternative. He almost laughs out loud as he realizes what a pleasant problem it is to have. Just a little over a month ago he was wondering if he could afford his next meal without his wife sending him money. Now he was trying to find the right name for he and his partner's act. That's right. He has a partner now in an act that's getting him $750 a week.

"What about alphabetical order?" Dean finally asks, a satisfied expression on his face as he finally manages to peel back the paper—how he does anything like that with those paws of his, Jerry's not sure.

"Then we're back to Lewis and Martin."

"Not if you go by first names."

"Just 'Dean and Jerry?'" Jerry supposes that could work. It was a little unconventional perhaps, but it could work. Dean glances up from his sandwich just long enough to flash an annoyed look Jerry's way as he says, "No, idiot—'Martin and Lewis', but we use the first names, too, so it's 'Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis', and we make that contractual. We demand that it can't ever appear otherwise.'"

"Well, I guess—wait, but it was never 'Bud Abbott and Lou Costello', just 'Abbott and Costello', and for good reason, too."

"But they had alphabetical working both ways!" Dean retorts, and Jerry replies matter—of—factly, "Yeah, and L is before M."

"You wanna call this act 'Dean Lewis and Jerry Martin'?" Caught off guard, Jerry bursts out laughing.

When he finally catches his breath, Jerry says, "Yeah, I guess you're right. 'Martin and Lewis' it is, then...I like it." Dean nods and goes back to eating, but Jerry gazes in contemplation at his partner. There was always something new to surprise Jerry about Dean . . . Every day his belief deepened that Dean wasn't who he tried to make himself out to be. That underneath that quick smile and even quicker fist is a heart bursting with feelings—sorrow, happiness, love, anger, confusion . . . Jerry just has to find a way to catch a glimpse into that heart.