B000FC0RL0 EBOK
Authors: Jerry Stiller
SIMON & SCHUSTER
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Copyright © 2000 by Jerry Stiller
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ISBN: 0-7432-1146-4
eISBN: 978-0-7432-1146-8
special thanks to
Peter Matson, my literary agent, whose belief in my stories gave a first-time writer the courage to go forward.
Bob Bender, whose invaluable editorial insights turned my life into a book.
Dawn Eaton, whose dedication, support, and watchful eye helped make this book a reality.
Evangeline Morphos, who took the time to read my stories, then unlocked the door to the literary world.
Barbara Buloff, who explored my soul as if it were her own and gave me the insight to reinvent my life.
Jerry Tallmer, for his valiant work on the book.
Francy Falk Phelps, for permitting me to use Professor Sawyer Falk’s letters.
Greg Fletcher, Johanna Li, and Jim Rutman, for their tireless work on the book.
To Hazel and Edwin Hugh, for their loyalty and love of over thirty-five years.
To Judy, Gene, and the Collatz and Lendway families, for a seamless friendship.
To Christine Taylor, my daughter-in-law, and all the Taylor family.
To my family—the Stillers, the O’Neills, the Citrons, the Liebermans, the Sussmans, the Gartners, Aunt Nettie and the Carusos, the Raffes, the Escobars, the Abraskins, the Stollers, the Laskys, the Fidlers, the Mosses, Eleanor Dempsey Nadolski, the Greenbergs, the Kachkovskys, the Hollys, the Jungkvists, the Schwartzes, the Posners, the Zemels, the Rimers,
Joanie and Charlie Robinson, Ursula and Pat Campbell, Bobbie and Mark Gordon, the Wilenskys, Mary Ellyn Devery.
To Pearl Wexler, Scott Wilson, Michael Hartig, Paul Hilepo, Norman Reich, Lee and Alan Salomon, Steve Kessler, Mike Wilkins.
To Rodney Dangerfield, Carroll and Nancy O’Connor, Jason Alexander, F. Murray Abraham, Danny Aiello, David Amram, Jed Bernstein, Paul Crabtree, Madeline and Jack Gilford, Tom Fontana, Ken Greengrass, John Guare, Lila Garrett, Alan King, Jack Klugman, Tony Randall, Joan Micklin and Ray Silver, Rita Moreno and Lenny Gordon, Dick Moore and Jane Powell, Jules Munshin, Mark Murphy, John Mahoney, Charles Nelson Reilly, Bob Dishy, Jerry Adler, George Schlatter, Gerald Schoenfeld, Larry and Norma Storch, Vincent Sardi, James Brady, Richard Sandomir and Griffin Miller, George Shapiro, Howard West, Jerry Seinfeld, Michael Richards, David Stone, Mort and Natalie Lachman, Chris and Georgianne Walken, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Estelle Harris, Kevin James, Michael Weithorn, David Litt, Rob Schiller, Sheldon Silver, the Tarrents, and the Forsythes.
To George Lichter, Wilford Kilian, Steve Burn, Ron Carey, Olympia Lee Falk Yamayoshi, Pat and Jack Morris, Nat Adler, the Hittmans, the Ogourlians, Sylvia and Milton Yarensky, Bob and Marion Geller, Fielder Cook, the Paltrows, Faith Stewart Gordon, Sam Greenberger, Marvin and Sukie Gutin, Enid and Bill Hairston, Maggie and Bill Dwyer, Dione and Will Holt, Larry Holofcener, Ed Katz, David and Esther Lane, Jan Morgan, Amram Nowak and Manya Starr, John and Geraldine O’Connor, Mary Anne Page, Richard and Francy Phelps, Harold Schoenberg, Rabbi Saul Wohlberg, Morty West, Barry Zevan, Rabbi Ed and Ruth Klein, Henry Ziegler, Lewis James Rose, Norman Wallace, Ginger Andrews, and the Burns family.
To Marvin and Paul Belsky, Larry Chinitz, Billy Bob Bernstein, Frank Weiser, Steven Stuchin, Gary Solomon, Michael Uris, Morton Brenner, Lester and Andrew Lutzker, Duane McKay, Louis Angioletti, Gillian Seuradge, Andrew Drexler, Jed Kaminetsky, Lou Lapid.
To my Syracuse classmates who never stopped being my friends—Earl Simmons, Allan Shalleck, the Reidenbaughs, Peggy Menefee, Helen Buchta Gustafson, Rex Partington, Leo Mitchell Bloom.
To Anne Meara, my wife, comedy partner and mother of Amy and Ben, who loves me still, for reasons known only to her.
To Amy and Ben, who with Anne are the most important people in my life.
To my mother, who taught me the lessons of life, but never made opening night.
To my father, never a faker.
To Arnie and Lynda, Doreen and Maxine, who enrich my life and make me proud to be their brother.
To Jack, Mickey, and all the Gartners, who made Anne, myself, Amy, and Ben a part of their family.
I was blessed by God with uncles, aunts, and cousins who opened their hearts to my dreams. Their loving feelings gave me strength when I needed it. Without that love, I could never have turned my dreams into reality.
I love you all.
4
. Syracuse, Sawyer Falk, and Theater
I
t was my fifty-seventh birthday, June 8, 1984. I was on Nantucket’s Polpis Road. It was a hot and sunny day. I’d passed the lifesaving station on my left; to the right were the moors. Endless reaches of briar in budding earth colors disappeared into nothingness, creating an island eeriness that often seemed breathtaking.
My blue Motobecane bicycle was performing smoothly on this oddly windless afternoon. Did I dare let the bike do the work? I could see the heat rippling off the newly paved asphalt. Not a car in sight. Dare I let go? Allow myself to ride no hands? I had seen this deed performed hundreds of times by others but never had had the guts to do it myself.
I felt I had never earned the rite of passage into manhood by riding no hands. I equated this failure with cowardice. The need to ride no hands had been festering in me since childhood.
Pedaling on toward Siasconset, I saw nothing coming toward me, no cars, no bikers, just a few gulls soaring lazily in the sky above. I challenged myself to lift both hands off the handlebars. Immediately I imagined the bike veering out of control and myself hurled face-forward onto the pavement.
I assured myself that this could not happen on my fifty-seventh birthday, so I timidly lifted my right hand a few inches into space. My legs pumped a little harder. So did my heart. I tried to maintain a constant speed while building up my nerve. The more I pumped, the braver I tried to feel. I raised my right hand a little higher. I was riding one hand. Big deal. Now could I lift the other hand? Would a bump or a pebble do me in? What about a sudden gust of wind?
I stared at the handlebars. Were they trustworthy? Was the world trustworthy? Suddenly it hit me: They’re a rudder. The handlebars are a rudder. As long as I stay centered and keep pumping, nothing can go wrong. You don’t have to be Einstein. Kids in Minneapolis and Denver and Brooklyn are doing this right now.
Do it before fear overcomes logic. Before a tortoise crossing the road makes me a coward.
I did a quick
sh’ma,
the Hebrew prayer said at times of peril, lifted both hands, sat back, and let the bike do the rest. I could feel my entire being released. It was like a weight I was no longer carrying. I was feeling nothing. I’d never before experienced feeling nothing. I felt free of the need to judge myself.
The bike now had a life of its own. It didn’t need me. I was a mere passenger. Everything around me was now in Technicolor. I could see flowers blooming everywhere. Judy Garland was alive.
A car was approaching. Would I panic? Would
he
panic? I waved my arms high above my head, like a cyclist I’d seen on
The Ed Sullivan Show
. “Look, Ma, no hands!” I shouted. The car passed. I was no longer afraid of being afraid.
I didn’t want this to end. More cars passed, some coming from behind me. I was past Quidnet. I’d cycled more than a mile. Then it hit me. Balance. It was balance, not courage.
What next? Could I do no hands with my eyes closed? As I breezed past the lighthouse, I looked at my watch. Eight minutes. No hands. I’d done it. Leo would have been proud of me.
It was my cousin Leo who had given me my first ride down Snake Hill in East New York on his handlebars. He arrived on his two-wheeler like a shining knight out of Canarsie. He lived on Farragut Road, four stops by subway from Livonia Avenue and Hinsdale. To me, it seemed as if he’d navigated oceans to come that distance. He was fourteen and I was nine.
Leo was tall for his age. He had that smile that guys in the movies flashed to show courage when they faced danger. I loved it that someone in our family could laugh at danger.
Riding on the handlebars was a very unnatural act, I thought. How does anyone sit on a pipe while another person keeps balance? What if I shift my weight? Won’t the whole thing fall over and land us on the street?
“Climb on,” Leo said, with no hint of any concern that we might spill over and break our necks.
“Okay,” I said like some puppy dog, acting on faith.
In seconds, we were moving. Leo’s body was off the seat, his head jutting over mine like a sprinter. He was pumping steadily up toward Dumont, past Blake, past Belmont, almost to Pitkin, the wind hitting us square on. Leo was alive, seemingly out of body. I wanted to be him, but I was only a passenger and he the pilot. We spun past pushcarts, sideswiped automobiles, wove our way through kids playing ring-a-levio and kick-the-can. We had wheels and were moving, while everyone else was standing still. I had no control over what was happening. It was Leo’s trip, and his spidery arms held me prisoner. It felt great.
Minutes later we were back in front of the house on Livonia Avenue at Hinsdale.