He's the Air I Breathe

1954-1956

          Dean Martin wants nothing more than to scream.

He can usually negotiate the relentless lows if there are intervening highs to keep things steady.

The production of Pardners, oddly enough, has neither. Pain is his constant companion – or perhaps it is the only entity he knows how to decipher. Either way, it drowns out all feelings he once felt with Jerry. A year prior, Dean could feel every angst his partner experienced. They had been companions for eight years, only taking sporadic breaks from one another for the birth of a child or film shoot. Any shared discomfort could be chalked up to sympathy pains – uncommon, but not unheard of.
Now, though, the only pain he can discern is the throbbing sensation that is gradually permeating through his skull. To his right, a crewman hardly a year older than Craig ties a horse's reins to a post. The animal nickers and nestles into Dean's neck.

"You been busy, pallie?" Dean asks.

The boy shrugs. "The horses have been."

"Well, you're doin' an excellent job with them."

It's a simplistic compliment, but the smile the crewman gives him lights the entire set – eyes tearing over, the ethereal notion of being acknowledged. It's a gift Dean can seemingly bestow upon anyone. The singer rubs his temporal bones and crumples inward.

"Are you all right, Mister Martin?"

Dean blinks. "' Fine, pal."

        **********

          Jerry Lewis cannot concentrate on film rushes, publicity campaign photoshoots, or Tashlin's directions. Every time he shuts his eyes, visions of success from independent artistry overmasters him: plaques, countless suits, arms around infirm children. The pinnacle of box-office glory. At certain moments, he sees himself as the epitome of crowned success to which other eyes have turned. However, at other intervals, flickering before him, is his debut with Dean at the 500 club – how his ashen face flushed at his partner's smile, how his heart rate steadied with his voice.
He wakes before dawn and finds Dean sleeping in his trailer. His arms are wrapped around his head, and a quilt is entangled around his midsection. Golf clubs lay beside him. Even in his sleep, he is the personification of friction.

"Dean?"

The singer entwines himself tighter into the blankets.

"Can I come to golf with you?"

Dean's shoulders relent. "Sure, pal. Give me ten '"

          Thistles bite their trousers. The sun pierces a hole through the sky. Dean leads his partner through three consecutive holes without speaking as Jerry pencils in their comparative scores. A collection of people gather at the fourth course.

"Busier than usual," Dean mutters.

The kid glances over. "They'll be gone soon."

An overhead plane resonates a smearing note. The crowd grazes forward. Dean takes position, swings his club, and stalks the ball over a hill.

Jerry speaks to the scoresheet. "I'm not annoyed with you, Dean, even if the time in which you and I used to speak a lot has since changed. My friendship never turns to hate and resentment," Jerry looks at Dean – to his partner, to the closest person he's ever had to a brother. "I pray for your happiness and wellbeing every day, and I have never been disappointed in you."

Dean flippantly nudges his ball and gazes as it dissipates into a hole. His eyes are hazel. His hair is snarled and perhaps darker than Jerry's. "I'm just tired of the feeling I thought you knew me more than anyone else. I thought you could differentiate between who I am and who I am not."