Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1951

Ages: 34 and 25

"Please listen to me, oh Marie, 'we Marie!" Dean finishes his song quickly, with an almost unnoticeable shake of his head and self-deprecating smirk, and then he and Jerry march off the stage together, heading straight into the dressing room amidst anonymous pats on the back and 'Good show's.

Jerry wasn't going to say anything, he really didn't have any plans to mention it, but as Dean strips off his jacket and bowtie, cigarette already between his lips, Jerry bursts out, "Just once, would you sing a song straight?"

Dean's fingers falter on the bowtie for a moment, and he shoots Jerry an odd expression. "I do."

"No, you don't."

"I think I'd know if I didn't sing a song straight." Jerry doesn't get what Dean's kidding himself for. Well, Dean's obviously not gonna admit it, so Jerry knows he's going to have to come up with another solution.

"You know something? You're doing so good in your spot, maybe I'm coming on too early." Is Dean going to buy it? Nope.

"Screw you! Whattaya talkin' about? You're gonna spoil what we got. Forget it."

Two Weeks Later

Jerry's eyes narrow as they come to the end of the article he's reading. He glances back through it just to make sure he didn't miss something, but he comes back to the end with the same conclusion. The Chronicle had written a whole page about Martin and Lewis without mentioning Martin once!

He peeks out of the corner of his eyes to see if Dean notices the same thing, and his heart drops. Other than the newspaper clutched tightly in Dean's hands, there's no other indication of something being off except for the look in his eyes. It's like they've visibly darkened, and his eyebrows are knitted together slightly.

Clearing his throat, Jerry begins to say whatever he can to combat the article—for himself as much as for Dean. "You know something? They're always going to like the kid who makes the biggest noise." Although that's true, Jerry can't help the thrill of pride he felt reading the article—they always make him seem like some sort of comic genius. "They're always going to pay attention to the monkey. You're going to hear more about him than the straight man." That's because the monkey's funnier. "Nobody ever talked about George Burns. It was always Gracie. When Jack Benny and Mary Livingston worked in vaudeville, they didn't know who Jack Benny was."

Dean doesn't meet Jerry's pleading eyes, so Jerry continues, "You have to know that the straight man is never given the kudos that the comic gets. And I just need to know that you're okay with that."

A muscle jumps in Dean's jaw, and he finally turns to Jerry, saying, "Jerry, look. Your father told you once, be a hit. With the monkey act, with a couple of broads, with two balls and a watermelon. Whatever—just be a hit. We're a big hit. And you need to know that I know when our film is on that screen and I start to sing, the kids go for the popcorn."

"I don't think that's true." Jerry retorts, but he knows Dean's right—they come to watch the comic, not the crooner. But he feels like he has to keep arguing for Dean's sake—the look on his face makes Jerry's chest tighten. "I don't think little kids go for popcorn at any particular time."

Dean grabs his coat and jams a cigarette in his mouth.

"Look, Jer, I've just gotta get some air, okay?" He's not really asking, though, and stalks out of the dressing room. Heart racing, Jerry watches the door close behind him and falls back into a chair, defeated.