Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1947

Ages: 29 and 20

"Dean, they just don't get it. They just don't watch closely enough. Otherwise they would know that it only works if you have just the right timing—I mean, part of the time, you're the comic and I'm the straight man! There's no Martin and Lewis without Martin!" The words sort of tumble out of Jerry's mouth in a torrent, and he's half sorry he let them all out.

Dean crosses his legs and throws an arm behind Jerry on the park bench wordlessly, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. Jerry waits breathlessly for his reply, and finally Dean says dispassionately, "They don't know what they're talking about, Kid. They don't watch."

"Yeah, but—"

"Who are ya tryna convince? There's no one here except you and me. I know it's crap and you know it's crap. End of story." Dean interrupts sternly, meeting Jerry's eyes with an unreadable expression.

Me. The word almost escapes Jerry's lips as he crosses his arms and lets his gaze return to the article. In reading their praises of him—his name was mentioned a ridiculous 12 times, and Dean's only ended up on the pages once—he felt a swell of pride, and it seemed as if he would never feel sad again, but he knows it isn't right. Dean's his partner, he should stick up for him. After all, Dean really was a vital part to the equation! You couldn't have just the putz. You needed the playboy and the putz, or the humor just wasn't there.

He sneaks a glance back up to Dean and frowns. How can Dean be so unaffected by this? If they did the same thing to him, well, let's just say they would never hear the end of it. A part of Jerry is jealous that Dean doesn't care—doesn't feel the sting of rejection—but another part of him doesn't understand how someone couldn't care! It was human nature.

Dean flicks away his cigarette as his stomach twists. He refuses to even think it could be from that stupid article; it's probably just that he's been smoking on an empty stomach. People were idiots who didn't care enough to actually watch closely and think. Newspeople just got paid to do it. Whatever. It doesn't matter at the end of the day; he knows what the truth is. With an inaudible sigh Dean squares his shoulders and shakes his head at himself, moving on to what he and Jerry would have for breakfast.

###

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1947

Ages: 29 and 21

"Two very dry martinis, please." Dean tells the barkeeper, who does so while telling Dean and Jerry what a good job they did tonight. They say thank you politely and then sip their drinks in silence. That is, before the hairs on the back of Jerry's neck stand up on end and a big, meaty hand grabs him by the jacket. Jerry doesn't move as whoever is standing behind him turns him slowly, very slowly around as he sits on his revolving bar stool.

At first Jerry glimpses the green, pyramid-shaped fez, the swaying yellow tassel, and he swallows. Oh, geez. This is the guy he made a joke about during the last show—he wished he had seen that this guy really wasn't one to mess with. But he just gets so focused in a show, he doesn't really think. His biggest vice.

With dark eyes flashing, the man says slowly but menacingly nonetheless, "If I don't get an apology, I might knock you into next week." Jerry's mind races as he tries to come up with a good joke, or some way to get out of this without having to throw a punch. Because he would be the one coming away with a bloody nose. Or worse.

Blinking in surprise, Jerry watches dumbly as Dean rises silently from his seat, lips pinched together into one thin white line. As if in slow motion, Dean takes the man's hand from Jerry's jacket, puts a hand between the man's leg, and grabs his neck with the other hand. Then, with the strength of ten men, he throws the man into the shelf of glasses behind the bar. The ear-splitting crash and shattering of glass draw gasps from everyone around them, and for a moment the Lebanese man remains motionless on the floor in the midst of pools of liquor.

Jerry glances to Dean, breaking from his trance, and notes the heaving of his chest and the clenched fists. His own heart is thrumming like a hummingbird's wings . . . in fear . . . maybe in awe. He wants to thank Dean, wants to tell him how impressive that was, but he doesn't think he could form words—besides, he knows Dean would be embarrassed if Jerry mentioned it.

If he has to learn anything from this, it would be to not make Dean too mad at him.

A Month Later

Dean reads a line from his comic book. Forgets what he just read. Reads it again. Forgets it again. Throwing it aside, Dean takes a frustrated drag of his cigarette. He can't stop replaying the argument he just had with Jerry in his mind, anger boiling up inside of him as he does.

Who does Jerry think he is, talking to him like that? Dean's almost a decade older than him, for goodness' sake! A dull pain begins to throb in the back of Dean's head just as the phone starts ringing.

It's only been fifteen minutes since the argument; it better not be Jerry trying to yell some more at him.

"Hello?"

"I forgot to tell you . . . " It is Jerry. Dean prays Jerry won't say anything else to make him hate him. "I love you." With that, Jerry hangs up.

After the initial shock subsides, Dean puts the phone back with an incredulous shake of his head. This kid. Dean still wonders how on Earth Jerry's twenty years old. For Pete's sake, he's like a nine-year-old.

Dean wouldn't exactly describe himself as an 'I love you' type of guy. God knows he's only said that to his mom, Betty, Jeanne, and his kids. The same goes for other people saying that to him. But the Kid somehow gets away with it every time . . . Dean's been surprised countless times by him doing what Dean's other friends can sense they shouldn't do. But yet Dean lets him.