I’ve always been fortunate to have a lot of friends, but sometime around my sophomore year in high school I developed a close
friendship with another kid that was different from anything I had ever experienced.
We were about the same age, but he seemed older, more sophisticated. He was the one who had his own car—a red convertible.
He was the one who was first to have sex with his girlfriend, something just about unheard of in high school in the fifties
in Pittsburgh.
He was also devoted to me. When I kept getting elected president of the class, he identified with me so much, he said he felt
he
was getting elected. Some other buddies and I all looked up to him. He exuded confidence. Some of us even called him “Chief.”
I went to the University of Miami in Florida because he suggested it. I don’t know if Miami had a better drama department
than the University of Pittsburgh. I never inquired about Carnegie Mellon (Carnegie Tech, as it was then called), even though
it had the reputation of having one of the best drama departments in the country. It was in Pittsburgh, but I never even considered
it. I can only assume that, having just lost my dad, I wanted to be around my best friend.
He graduated six months ahead of me and told me there was a dean from Pittsburgh at the University of Miami, and after a semester
he felt I would be given a scholarship. I didn’t even question how that would happen. I just applied, got in, and went in
September 1953.
Even though I wasn’t really aware of it, after my dad’s passing everything changed. I should have realized things were different,
because I began to mess up in ways I never had before. I had graduated in February and wasn’t starting college for about six
months, so I got a job at a local Buick dealership. I was a car jockey, which meant I was to drive new Buicks into different
empty spaces in the huge showroom. I had never driven a car that went forward just by putting it in drive without touching
the accelerator, so after denting a few new Buicks, I was told they wouldn’t need me on Friday. This was on a Thursday, so
I asked, “Should I come in on Monday?” The answer was a simple no. Looking back, it was a very kind firing. A while later
I was fired from a Mary Jane shoe store in Miami because I couldn’t find the shoes my female customer was wearing when she
walked in! Talk about being preoccupied.
Ironically, my relationship with my friend began to unravel because I was no longer willing to look up to anyone. I guess
I felt I had to take charge of everything in my life. I never looked down on anyone, but now I no longer looked up to anyone,
either.
We were driving to the University of Miami in September. A third fella from another high school in Pittsburgh whom we had
just met and who was to be a roommate was with us. My friend and I got into what began as a slight disagreement about, of
all things, the color of the car in front of us. One of us felt it was dark green and the other black.
If we’d had disagreements in the past, and frankly I don’t remember any, I would concede the point, because, after all, he
was the chief, but this time I didn’t. The dynamic of the friendship shifted right there over a meaningless disagreement about
the color of a car. We drove the rest of the way to Florida pretty much in silence. The other kid looked on, I’m sure, baffled.
The three of us moved into an off-campus apartment. The other guy and I became buddies, and my former closest friend and I
barely spoke. Quite simply, I no longer saw him as in charge, and we had lost what he must have seen as that essential condition.
I now know I was in a depression after my dad died, but I didn’t realize it then. I should have found it unusual that I, who
had always been a happy kid, was suddenly staring into space for long periods of time. Worse, on more than one occasion I
remember swimming far out in the Atlantic Ocean alone, with no one around. Unconsciously, I was being self-destructive. I
mean, that’s where the sharks are.
I had one date at this so-called playboy school, the University of Miami, and I still had yet to kiss a girl, at least as
far as I remember. Because of my depression, I had no interest in anything, including girls. Ellen Burstyn writes in her memoir
that the first time I kissed her onstage in
Same Time, Next Year
… well, let’s just say she found it memorable. I had no idea I had so much to offer.
Three things happened at the university that were good signs for my future show-business endeavors.
All incoming freshman were given information about the university—kind of an orientation test. There was no grade, but they
did announce that out of around a thousand students, only one got a perfect score. Young Chuck Grodin was now working hard
at everything, and that’s obviously essential if you want to be successful, whatever your job.
I was taking a course in semantics. At one point the teacher announced that someone from the class would be asked to get up
in front of a large assembly and give a speech. He said we would be given plenty of notice. One day, without any warning,
he announced that we were going to a hall filled with hundreds of students, and one of us would volunteer to give a speech.
The class nervously went into the assembly hall. No one wanted to get up there, so I did, following my pattern of jumping
in if no one else did.
In front of at least five hundred people, I told a story about going on a hunting trip in Pennsylvania with my girlfriend.
When the girl and I drifted in different directions, I went looking for her. In the distance I saw a bear dragging her lifeless
body into the woods. I chased the bear, but never found it or my girlfriend.
Nobody said the story had to be true, but from that time on, I would often be pointed out on campus as the kid who lost his
girlfriend to a bear. Looking back on my six months at the University of Miami, I realize I never factored in until recently
that my unusual ability at eighteen to tell a story in front of five hundred people was definitely a good sign.
I had gone to the university to be a drama major so was very surprised to learn that, as an incoming freshman, I was not allowed
to take an acting class. Somehow, I suppose because of the craziness of that concept, I was able to persuade an administrator
to allow me into one. I’ve found common sense often will prevail.
Fortunately the class was taught by the head of the department, Professor Howard Koch. I remember going onstage only once.
I did a monologue from
Julius Caesar
. On the way to the class I was so nervous I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. After all, my only other time
on a stage was in
Getting Gracie Graduated
in eighth grade.
I couldn’t really understand
Julius Caesar
, but I was able to connect with the monologue, which I thought was about injustice. Later I realized it was a lot more complicated
than that, but happily I didn’t know it at the time. At eighteen, I could identify with injustice, and as I began to shout
out “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” it seemed my body stopped shaking to hear what I had to say.
As my inspirational actor Montgomery Clift once said, “The body doesn’t know you’re acting.” After I was finished, a very
pretty girl in the first row stared at me with a look I had never seen on a girl’s face, at least on a girl’s face looking
at
me
. More importantly, Professor Koch said to me, “If you work hard, there’s no limit to how far you can go.”
I didn’t know at the time that those would be the last words of real encouragement I would hear for years from someone in
authority.
At the Christmas break, I went home and auditioned for a scholarship at the Pittsburgh Playhouse. The monologue from
Julius Caesar
got me one. When I was in Pittsburgh during the break I suddenly realized there were no African Americans at the University
of Miami. Racism was so taken for granted as the American way of life then. Unfortunately, I believe it still overwhelmingly
is.
Only recently has it occurred to me that my place so soon after my father’s passing should have been with my mother. My brother
had married, and my mom was alone. I’m stunned and embarrassed that I never thought of that.
I left Miami after six months and went to the Playhouse. I had no contact with my former friend, who remained in Florida and
went into business there. Almost twenty years later, I was in Miami promoting a movie I had done, and I looked him up. We
got together, and the evening was cordial, but that was it.
He came to see me a few years later in a Broadway show with my name on the marquee. He came to my dressing room afterward,
sat on a sofa, and suddenly began to sob. I had no idea why. Eventually, he said, “No one could imagine you would be so successful,
but I did.” I would be guessing as to why that provoked this man of forty to sob, and your guess would be as good as mine.
In any case, after that night we never saw or spoke to each other again. Many relationships of all kinds just can’t survive
a change in the dynamic.
I
n 1953, I enlisted in the Naval Reserve in Pittsburgh. We weren’t at war, but we still had a draft, and I assumed at some
point I would be drafted by the Army, and I would lose two years of pursuing my profession.
The enlistment was for eight years and required me to go to meetings once a week, go to boot camp, and be out at sea two weeks
a year. I started reporting to the weekly meetings. My main memory is how much the uniform itched, and how hard it was for
me to concentrate on how torpedoes work.
There was something very wrong with my enlistment, although it wasn’t until years later that I realized it. Someone at the
recruiting office should have told me that this was not a good idea for me because I couldn’t possibly go to weekly meetings,
since I knew I’d be traveling to pursue the acting profession.
Eventually, I got a letter notifying me I was now in the active status pool. I had no idea what that meant and didn’t even
ask. I was extremely naïve. When I was around twenty-three, I received my draft notice from the Army. I reported and passed
the physical. While I was waiting for the actual notice to be inducted, I realized I could still join a reserve unit, so I
began to call around, but there were no openings. Then I called the Naval Reserve. They had no openings, either. I said, “I
used to be with you people.” There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Finally, the man said, “Were you discharged?”
I said, “No.” He said, “Then you’re still in the Naval Reserve.”
It had been around five years since I joined, so I had three more years of meetings, and then I’d be discharged. Up until
then I might have gone to a meeting once a week for a couple of months. But when I was settled in New York, I went to the
Brooklyn Navy Yard, joined a reserve unit, and reported every week for three years. It was only then that I came to understand
that being in the active status pool meant that if there was a call-up of troops, I’d be on the front lines. I was playing
Russian roulette without knowing it.
I went to boot camp where a drill instructor found it necessary to scream obscenities at us. Every year I would be out at
sea for two weeks on a large warship, often off the coast of North Carolina, at Cape Hatteras.
I progressed from seaman recruit to seaman apprentice to seaman to quartermaster third class, which is another name for navigator.
That’s really ironic, since I have an unusually poor sense of direction.
One extremely foggy night at sea, they assigned me the forward watch. From four a.m. to eight a.m., I was to stand at the
very front of the ship for a possible visual sighting of another ship, which I guess our radar could miss. Having a very active
imagination, within five minutes I spotted more than one large ship heading our way and alerted the bridge. Our large warship
came to an abrupt stop and began to reverse engines. Soon they realized there was nothing out there and told me to go back
to bed.
Once I picked up a microphone that allowed me to speak to the entire ship. There was a Jerry Lewis–type kid who was kind of
my sidekick. I said on the ship’s PA system, “Foreman, that is Foreman, report to the top deck, on the double! That is
Foreman
!” The poor kid raced up to the top deck and arrived in a minute out of breath to see me standing there smiling at him. I
still can’t believe I actually did that.
I enjoyed my three years in the Naval Reserve. The best moment was when an African American sailor and I listened on the radio
to Floyd Patterson regaining his heavyweight championship by knocking out Ingmar Johansson. We leapt in the air and hugged
each other.
The lesson of my enlistment as a teenager is that the military has to fully divulge what the deal is. Obviously, it wasn’t
explained to me what would happen if I didn’t show up. Of course, this
really
becomes important during times of war when recruiters put such a stress on bonuses and opportunities and rarely mention possible
death.
I know to this day wildly inappropriate things are going on in the military. There are stories about the Army asking some
veterans for part of their enlistment bonus back. To get out of paying benefits, they sometimes claim psychological problems
are caused by “prior personality disorder.” That’s not official policy, but it has been happening. The head of a veterans’
organization in Washington told me there are some twenty-five thousand cases of this. President Bush signed a bill to look
into it.
There are also at this writing two hundred thousand homeless veterans in America. Support the troops? What exactly does that
mean?
Many years later, I was on Larry King’s television show. He asked me if I had been in the military. I openly dodged the question.
He waited a moment and asked me again. I openly ducked the question once more. Eventually, he asked again. This time I said,
“I was in the Naval Reserve.” He then asked, “Why were you so reluctant to answer the question?” I said “Well… I wasn’t on
our side.”