Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1948

Ages: 30 and 21

"Paul, I hate you so much right now . . . we could have been up there five minutes ago, instead we have to climb fifteen flights of stairs." Jerry pants as they move slowly but surely up the stairwell, their uneven steps echoing like they're in a cave. Dean doesn't remember when Jerry started calling him Paul, matter of fact, he doesn't even remember telling him his middle name, but he doesn't mind. He suspects the Kid just wants a name that's his—everyone else calls Dean 'Dino', Betty calls him 'Dean'—so 'Paul' is his. The Kid was funny that way.

"I don't . . . like elevators, okay?" He manages, but is stopped by Jerry's hand flying out and grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. Jerry's hazel eyes are wide and his face paling as he stares up at the man and woman making their way down the stairs their direction.

"Shit! It's my parents! Sorry, Paul, we've got to go in the elevator." With that, Jerry jerks Dean into the empty elevator behind them that just opened, and Dean's heart drops into his stomach as he watches those two doors block more and more of the world out. Then it's just him and Jerry in this small, godforsaken box—geez, when did elevators get so small—and it's moving now. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, tugs at his collar as the temperature rises several degrees within a few seconds, but his mind keeps conjuring images of the walls closing in, tighter and tighter until they're against him, pushing him, crushing him—His eyes fly open and he gasps out, but he realizes the walls aren't touching him, it's just Jerry's hand on his shoulder.

The Kid's looking at him with murky eyes, wondering if he's okay, confused at seeing him panic when usually Dean's the strong one, and it takes Dean a second to realize the doors have slid open already. Without a word, Dean strides out of the elevator and into the hall of apartments, taking in a deep lungful of the stale air of the apartment hallway, just grateful he's out of there.

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Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1948

Ages: 30 and 21

This was it. This could be the ticket to the big times, or the final performance for 'Martin and Lewis'. You can do it. You're good enough. Funny enough. The words are empty, though, as they echo through Jerry's mind, and for a moment he doesn't recognize the ringing of the telephone that has mingled with those words.

Reaching across the bed, he grabs the receiver, not really thinking about who it could be.

"Jerry? Jerry? What are you doing? Why haven't you come back or called me . . . or anything?!" Patti is nearly hysterical on the other end of the phone, and Jerry abruptly slams it back onto its base as his heart goes haywire. Blood pounds in Jerry's ears. It's all too much to feel, too much to think about.

The room's spinning, so he shuts his eyes, but it only makes things that much more insufferable. Thinking about Patti and Gary makes his chest tighten, thinking about their Copa debut makes him feel like he's about to be sick, and there's no escaping them in this darkness. His eyes fly open and he finds himself surging off the bed, throwing open the balcony doors with desperation.

The air is cool against his face, and he didn't realize how hot it was in the room. He stares out at the New York skyline, focusing on one particularly thin building that seems to come up to a point above the others, disappearing amongst the pink-tinged clouds. He just feels so . . . helpless. Like he has all of these things he's just got to do that he can't do. In this moment more than usual, Jerry wishes he had Dean's ability to throw every worry to the wayside. He wishes he had Dean here.