Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER THIRTY

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1951

Ages: 34 and 25

Dean wraps his trench coat tighter around himself, disappointed that even inside the cab he can't escape the oddly wintry air this morning. Jerry must notice it's cold, too, because with a huff he looks away from the window and says, more to himself than anything, "It's July. What the hell's winter still doing here?"

Dean's about to chuckle—bitterly, at that—when he spots the crowd spilling into the street. He hopes for a second that maybe they're not waiting for them, but of course he's wrong as he sees they're at the Paramount Theater, and his heart sinks as he realizes there's no clean way out of this. They've got to go through the crowds to get to the backstage door.

As their cab begins to nose its way through the crowd to get to the curb, no directions have to be given as Dean and Jerry slouch in their seats, either pulling down a hat or raising the collar of a coat to conceal their identity. It's no use, though, for even before they reach the curb, they begin to hear muffled shouts outside and see people pointing.

"It's them!"

"We'd better hurry the hell up when we reach the curb." Jerry says anxiously to Dean, face still turned away from any of the windows as if eye contact with one of the fans would be just as bad as being out there.

Finally it's time, and Dean and Jerry share a pale glance before making the mad scramble out of the cab. The curb's on the right side of the cab, and so Jerry gets to make the dash first. When Dean finally emerges from the car, there's so many fans around him, pressing on each side. The biting chill of the air abruptly feels heavier and warmer, and the thought passes through Dean's mind that if he tripped or fell, he wouldn't be able to get up again . . . fear courses through his veins, sending him surging forward, but something jerks him back.

Shooting a desperate look behind him, he realizes the people around him shut the door on the tail of his trench coat. Tugging on it as if his life depends on it—which he thinks it does—he hears Jerry shout over the fray, "Leave the coat, for goodness' sake!" One more tug and he realizes Jerry's right. Damn it, that was his favorite coat.

Shrugging it off into the hands of a happy fan, Dean bolts through the crowd closely after Jerry, a primal desire to live fueling him.

They don't stop until they're in the elevator, and for once Dean doesn't mind it, for even this seems exponentially more bearable than the chaos back there. The elevator doors slide closed, shutting out the frenzied cries from outside, and an abrupt, uneasy silence descends upon them except for their short, ragged breaths.

Not a word is ever spoken about that between them.

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Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1951

Ages: 34 and 25

"No, no, I'll come with." Dean says shortly, stepping up onto the first ledge of the ambulance, grabbing a hold of one of the doors to fully hoist himself inside, but Dick grabs him by the sleeve. Dick's eyes are narrowed, and with a meaty hand bigger even than Dean's, he keeps grasp of him.

"Are you sure, Dean? We don't need Martin and Lewis in the hospital." A hint of brevity for the sake of keeping calm, but the concern is apparent. The thought of the cramped, hectic space in the back of the ambulance makes Dean's teeth clench, but he nods nevertheless. He's got to be there for Jerry.

Dick nods grimly, and pats him comfortingly on the back. "You're doin' the right thing, Dino."

Dean then turns to the ambulance and climbs inside to the back between EMTs and others unknown to him. Finally he forces himself to look at Jerry lying on the stretcher.

Strapped down and stripped of his jacket and bowtie, with shirt unbuttoned just enough so Dean can see the rapid rise and fall of his skinny chest, Jerry doesn't really seem to notice Dean's there. His face is ashen, and every few moments he'll shut his eyes with an expression twisted in pain.

Dean's stomach churns as the fall passes through his mind . . . the terrible moment he and Jerry locked eyes in the air, knowing it was going to happen . . . then the sickening thud and the collective, sudden gasp of horror from the audience.

Abruptly aware the ambulance is moving as a little bump on the road jolts him from his thoughts, it takes him a second to wonder if the drive'll hurt Jerry more. He hates that he's right when the ambulance jolts once more, and a low groan kind of falteringly leaves Jerry's lips.

Dean grimaces, heart racing in his chest . . . he doesn't want to see this. "Hey, doc!" Turning to one of the EMTs, Dean asks in an unusually desperate tone, "Can'cha give the kid something for the pain?" The EMTs a young guy, not much older than Dean, and he seems torn, glancing from Dean to Jerry, and then finally nodding.

After a few minutes Jerry relaxes and looks to Dean through heavy-lidded eyes glazed over from the drugs. Dean squeezes his hand reassuringly, and the edges of Jerry's lips curve upwards.

Finally the ambulances comes to a stop, and to Dean's dismay they end up filing into this elevator the size of a shoe box. Dean only has room to turn his head; Jerry and two other medical assistants take up all the room, and Dean's starting to struggle a little for breath.

Loosening his tie, Dean can't help envisioning the mad push to leave the elevator if need be—how he just wouldn't be able to leave . . . could he pull the doors open if he had to? And if he could, would he just see wall? Concrete that can't be torn through?

Dean gasps out, sweat popping out from his temple. When his wild eyes meet Jerry's, the Kid somehow reads his expression even in the midst of the haze of drugs and pain—he always does— and speaks for the first time since the fall: "You'll do anything, won't you, fellow?"

Dean takes a deep breath and offers him a smile. Apparently so, Kid . . . apparently so.