Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1956

Ages: 38 and 30

"I don't think you should do the scene this way. It's just not funny!" Jerry exclaims, waving the script that's in his hand for everyone to see. Frank Tashlin runs a hand over his mouth and squints at Jerry for a moment before shouting out, "STOP! EVERYONE STOP WHAT THEY'RE DOING! COME OVER HERE!"

From camera man to errand boy, everyone obeys and circles around Frank and Jerry with bewildered glances and muted whispers. "I want you off the set."

"You what?" Jerry says indignantly, masking his panic with outrage.

"I mean it, Jerry. Off! You're a discourteous, obnoxious prick—an embarrassment to me and a disgrace to the profession." Every word feels like a blow to the stomach, and Jerry tries to ignore the astonished stares of the crew that bring back memories he didn't even know he had.

"Hey, Tish, whoa—calm down. When did you get the right—" He's interrupted quickly and coldly by Frank, "Jerry, as director of this picture, I order you to leave. Go. Get your ass out of here and don't come back."

###

Kicked off the set. Jerry was actually kicked off the set. His cheeks burn as he recalls the stares and the murmurs behind his back as he had to leave in shame. For some reason he recalls third grade. Being held back, and having the new kids file in one by one. He remembers the dejection he felt. The embarrassment.

As he lays on his couch in the dark of the den, gazing up at the ceiling through blurred vision, he feels like Joey Levitch again.

He must be so naive for thinking he'd never have to feel the sting of rejection again; being a nobody again. What was he doing? Jerry doesn't want to be an obnoxious prick. He doesn't want everyone to hate him—he might just die if everyone hates him . . . So, what's wrong with him? Jerry knows, but he doesn't want to even think it, because then it's real. Then it's true.

His eyes sting as tears rise, and he pounds a fist against the couch in frustration. The worst part of it all is that Dean probably won't bat an eyelash—he'll probably be happy about it, now that Jerry's come to think of it.

###

Please pick up. Oh, Tish, please..."Yes, what is it?" After more than five failed calls, Tish's exasperated voice is music to Jerry's ears.

"Tish, I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I was wrong. All I ask is, please, let me come back." Jerry says with choked words, trying to push back his pride just this once. There's a terrible silence on the other end, and then, "Will you behave?"

"Gosh, yes! I'll keep my trap shut like my life depends on it!" It kinda does.

"Okay. Report to work in the morning. The shoot is at seven o'clock." Jerry thinks he's never been happier.

"I'll be there at six. And Tish . . . thanks."

"For what?"

"I don't know, maybe for saving my life."

###

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1956

Ages: 38 and 30

Crinkling of plastic. Slow, heavy footsteps approaching. Finally a voice Jerry recognizes even through the muddle of drugs and pain: "Jerry I've come to see you." Dad? Jerry wants to respond, tries to respond, but his mouth won't form words at first. He cracks open his eyes and takes a moment to focus on his dad standing over him.

His dad's head is tilted, eyes narrowed darkly with a slight frown tugging down on his lips. "What happened to you?" Jerry's heart drops.

"Not a thing." He somehow manages, meeting that unfeeling gaze through misty eyes. "I'm taking a vacation . . . "

His dad leans in closer, glaring at him. Then: "Do you know what you're doing to your mother?" Jerry wants to cry. He wants to do anything rather than be here. His eyes drift closed—hoping to succumb to sleep. He doesn't know why he keeps hoping for something different every time. It's not naivete. It's not compassion or forgiveness. It's just pure stupidity.

###

A stress-induced arrhythmia. These past ten days, Jerry hasn't stopped marvelling at how close he had been to death. That could've been a heart attack. He almost died. All because of the way Dean's treating him; Jerry can't take it anymore.

Jerry swallows and fumbles with his tie. It's time to confront the inevitable, or he might just literally die. Finally he catches sight of Dean across the lot, and his breath hitches in his throat as he forces himself to walk right up to Dean.

"I've got to talk to you."

"Talk." Dean mutters impatiently. That's all?

Jerry begins, "Well, I think it's a hell of a thing . . . all I can think of is that what we do is not very important. Any two guys could have done it. But even the best of them wouldn't have had what made us as big as we are."

"Yeah? What's that?"

Jerry's heart quickens, and he says in a small voice, hoping: "Well, I think it's the love that we had—that we still have— for each other."

Dean glances down at his shoes. Hating what Jerry has just done. Hating what Jerry is forcing him to say. Hating himself for what he has to say.

Dean looks into Jerry's eyes; bright emerald eyes lit by the afternoon sun . . . full of hope, full of fear . . . a child's eyes.

"You can talk about love all you want," Dean begins with a voice purposely distant. He knows what he must say. He knows that this is the only option left for him—for them. So why can't the Kid see it? How can he still gaze at Dean with those hopeful eyes? How can he hope to fix something that's so broken? The edges aren't just chipped and worn—can't he see the pieces just can't fit back together? But no . . . he can't. That's why Dean has to break his heart. Take his hope. Make him leave, because Dean's no good for him. Look what he's about to do! After all the gifts, all the tears, all the love Jerry's given him—more love surely than Dean thought possible for another man to give—he's going to say this lie . . . "To me, you're nothing but a f***ing dollar sign."