We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (12 page)

But my regard for Jerry began years before I knew of his technical creativity. Jerry came to Canada on the wings of cable television, a welcome addition to what had been our one-channel choice, the deadly earnest Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which specialized in unentertaining television. I don’t want to put you to sleep with tales of our deadly boring shows, but I cannot resist at least naming a few.
Fighting Words
featured a panel of guests who had to guess a famous quotation from history. If that wasn’t bad enough, after they identified it, they’d discuss it. The longest-running show was
Front Page Challenge
, where a panel had to guess the identity of someone associated with a famous Canadian headline. The “someone” always seemed to be a Russian spy who had defected to Canada. The same spy, shot in silhouette and speaking in an electronically altered voice, must have appeared on the show a dozen times.

Things picked up on the Canadian news front when Margaret Trudeau dated Ronnie Wood of the Stones. Canadians were also titillated that when Keith Richards was busted for
drug possession, it happened on our shores. He got off when a Canadian fan, a blind girl, testified in his behalf. The judge softened and ordered Keith to put on a benefit concert. When Keith and Ronnie, as the New Barbarians, played for the blind, a Canadian wag, obviously no rock and roll fan, said they should have been playing for the deaf.

Canadians, myself among them, were thrilled when cable TV finally arrived, meaning we’d get to see the big three American networks. I was fixated on ABC. Their shows seemed poorly lit and had a makeshift look to them.
Shindig
, my rock and roll bible, came on after school, but Jerry Lewis didn’t come on until 1 a.m. I had to prop my eyes open with toothpicks to stay up, but stay up I did. As host of his own talk show, Jerry had a hydraulic lift that rose up so he could work to the balcony. That’s the kind of showman he was.

Some might call Jerry unctuous, but I found his brand of unctuousness attractive rather than repellent. In fact, I found it downright wonderful. Jerry always dressed in a tux because, as he said, he owed his audience no less. Jerry was so tux-centric he’d wear one even on Carson. When Johnny asked him about it, Jerry loved explaining why: “A garbage man has his overalls. A lawyer has his Brooks Brothers suit. In our industry, we have our tuxedos. It’s our uniform.”

When I came of age and found myself wearing a tux at an event I was hosting, writer Tom Leopold, my friend and fellow telethon devotee, wrote this line for me: “As Jerry Lewis says, every profession has its uniform. A priest has his vestments, a surgeon his surgical greens. Hef has that leather-studded jockstrap that he wears in the grotto …”

The greatest expression of unadulterated show-biz schmaltz was undoubtedly Lewis’s fabulous telethon. I say fabulous
because in one long weekend blitz we were treated to a candor best expressed when Milton Berle, once Jerry’s opening guest, began by saying “Ladies and gentlemen, this telethon will give you an opportunity to see us as you do not normally see us. For this evening we intend to alleviate the mask.”

I believed Uncle Miltie. I was convinced that his alleviation of the mask would give me a behind-the-scenes look at the stars who so completely captured my imagination.

Jerry was a benevolent autocrat. When it came to this special show, Jerry was proprietary—and rightfully so. The recipients of this charity were, after all, “Jerry’s kids.” Jerry began hosting telethons to benefit the Muscular Dystrophy Association of America back in the early fifties. And to those who say his devotion to the cause came as a result of his guilt for portraying physically challenged people in his act, I say, “Keep your cynicism to yourself!”

In 1966, Jerry expanded the telethon into a nineteen-hour show featuring his famous tote—telethonese for “total”—board. When the amount raised reached one million dollars, America celebrated as Jerry himself wrote the number
1
on the board.

In the early years, Jerry hosted from start to finish. Part of the thrill was seeing a man work himself to the point where he nearly passed out but never did. In later years, Jerry recruited others to help him, a group he called his “Pussycats.” There was also the trio that Jerry dubbed the “Love Triangle”: Jerry himself, Ed McMahon, and Chad Everett, a show-biz personality best known for the TV show
Medical Center
. Of course among all the Pussycats, Ed was special. He had a unique contribution that always impressed Jerry: Ed could predict the final tote.

“You’re scaring me,” Jerry would tell Ed. “You’re a witch with these predictions.”

“I’m always right,” Ed would respond.

“If you’re even close to being right this year,” Jerry would say every year, “you got yourself a Jew houseboy for the next twelve months.”

Ed would laugh his jolly Ed laugh, and at the end of the weekend, Ed’s prediction would come uncannily close to the mark.

In telethon lore, no date looms larger than September 6, 1976, when, to the shock of the world, Frank Sinatra escorted Dean Martin to the stage, presenting him to his long-estranged partner and saying, “I think it’s about time.” Jerry and Dean embraced and shed tears before Jerry asked Dean, “So, are you working?” “Five weeks a year at the Megem,” said Dean. “The Megem,” repeated Jerry with a smile, and just like that, a new hip name for the MGM Grand Hotel in Vegas was coined. The Martin and Lewis rapprochement was realized.

There was a distinct dramatic arc to the telethons. They were, in fact, epics. To me, they had a Yom Kippur-esque feeling, with the tradition and the atonement and the suffering. It was all about the suffering. The kids suffer. Jerry suffers for them, even as he suffers to stay up hour after hour to bring in the money. All Jerry wants is a dollar more. Jerry might be in the middle of a speech about how this year he intends to “take off on” the press who have been accusing him of using charity for self-aggrandizement. Looking straight into the camera, Jerry adds, “And I’m enough of a showman to realize that if I tell you I’m going to take off on the press, you’re gonna keep watching until I do.”

With that, Ed breaks in. “Sorry, Jer,” he says, “but it’s time for a tote.”

“Show me! Do me! Yeah!” cries Jerry.

The camera pans to the big board; the numbers flip and … yes! The tote has gone over $500K! Now Ed has some boilerplate work to do. He thanks the unions who have allowed their members to perform free of charge on the show. Breaking from the acknowledgments, Ed braves new waters by singing special material: “Holiday for Strings” with lyrics written to thank the Theater Authority and its member unions.

“You pulled it off, Ed,” says Jerry, tireless, grateful, unafraid to move deeper into the day and use all his considerable charm to raise more money for his kids. All Jerry wants is a dollar more. Other Pussycats are there to help. Some, like Norm Crosby, can’t get prime-time slots and are glad to perform at 4 in the morning. I love staying up all night so I can catch some little-known Vegas lounge act. I’m especially charmed by the Treniers, who do their thing at 5 a.m. (I later learn that the Treniers cannot leave the Vegas lounges not simply because they love the ambience, but because, to put it politely, they have a special affinity for the game of Keno.) Meanwhile, Jerry is in the wings or perhaps in his dressing room catching forty winks on a couch. But Jerry always comes back. Jerry comes back every year. Frank never lets him down. And neither does Sammy. Sammy and his sui generis Sammy shtick are a huge presence on the telethon. Jerry’s son Gary Lewis and his Playboys are there to sing their new single “Too Big for Small Talk.” (I can still play it note for note.) There are split screens that thrill us with the cross-continental nature of the spectacle: Jerry in Vegas, Buddy Hackett in Atlantic City. Jerry calls the stations that carry his telethon his “Love Network.”

When I become an adult, I form my own “Love Network” with friends who share my affection for Jerry and his wondrous show. We indulge in a running commentary and analysis conducted
simultaneously over the phone. My fellow telethon pundits are Martin Short, Harry Shearer, and Tom Leopold. Harry not only tapes the show so we can later review our favorite sections, he also gets the satellite feed, which means he reports on the rehearsals.

Earlier in life, before the formation of our “Love Network,” I was proud to be a member of the Sammy Club, comprised of East Coast fans of Sammy Davis Jr. and, in particular, fans of his TV show
Sammy & Company
. In addition to Sammy simply being Sammy, the thing we enjoyed most about the show was Sammy’s announcer, William B. Williams. His function was to pay the first compliment. “Sammy,” Williams would say, “I hate to interrupt your conversation with the great Tony Curtis, but, if I could embarrass you for just a moment, on behalf of all of us who play your music, I must say that you, Sammy Davis Jr., you are the entertainer’s entertainer.” From then on, it was a frenetic compliment free-for-all—Sammy complimenting Williams, Williams complimenting Tony, Tony complimenting Sammy, and Sammy, the unrivaled king of compliments, complimenting the audience for their kind indulgence. (A year or two after the founding of our Sammy Club, I meet Tom Leopold for the first time. This happens in New York. He lives in L.A. and tells me there’s a West Coast Sammy Club. He is taken aback when I declare in no uncertain terms, “I want this clearly understood. There is but one authentic Sammy Club, and it functions here on the East Coast. Yours is nothing but a copy.” That statement cements my friendship with Tom.)

Back on Jerry’s telethon, the weekend draws to a conclusion, and the marathon winds down. It is 2 p.m. in Vegas and 5 p.m. in New York when Jerry introduces the last big celebrity. It’s the Desert Fox himself, the man fellow entertainers affectionately
call “the Indian” because of his part—Native American heritage. It’s none other than Mr. Wayne Newton, who has come to the studio with his own rhythm section.

“Wayne,” says Jerry. “I can count on you. My kids can count on you. And you’re one of the great Pussycats of the World.”

“No, Jerry,” says Wayne,
“you
are the all-time greatest Pussycat of the World.”

Wayne breaks into Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land,” singing about how he left his home in Norfolk, Virginia, and was taken to the promised land. Jerry is transported, but Jerry is exhausted. Jerry is also excited and grateful that the tote is well over a million. “This year was a close one,” he says, “but you people came through.” Now it’s time for Jerry to sit on a stool, pick up the mic, and sing the closing song, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Mr. Lou Brown, Jerry’s longtime bandleader, is getting on in years, but Jerry is loyal. Loyalty aside, though, Jerry is annoyed with Lou—and tells him so on camera—when Lou misses Jerry’s cue to start the song. “I sing it every year, Louie,” says Jerry. “By now you should know—that’s a cue.”

Earlier in the evening, Jerry referred to Lou by his Yiddish name, Lable. “Lable,” said Jerry in jest, “are you ready for Hesh?” Hesh is Yiddish for Harry. This was Jerry playfully introducing Harry James. From that moment on, Harry Shearer began his every phone call with “Are you ready for Hesh?”

But there is no kidding around when it comes to “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” On another night at another show, Jerry wanders into the audience to interview a kid who does a Jerry imitation.

“Do whatever you want, son,” says Jerry.

The kid starts mocking Jerry’s version of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Jerry stops him.

“No,” the comic says firmly. “We don’t joke around with that song.”

Nor will I.

There are endless variations to the drama of Jerry asking for a dollar more. To be sure, the telethon is one of the enduring institutions in American show business. And of course Jerry Lewis sits at the center of that institution. Surely he is the celebrities’ celebrity.

Decades later, I found myself in a place where I had met hundreds of celebrities. You might even say that I was suffering from celebrity burnout. And yet, when given the chance to have dinner with Mr. Jerry Lewis, I didn’t hesitate to run out to John F. Kennedy International Airport and jump on the first nonstop to Vegas.

A little background information: My dear friend Richard Belzer had been befriended by Jerry. Richard was the link between Jerry and myself.

I had first met Jerry when he came on Letterman. All had gone well. After the show, he came over to me and whispered with a wink, “They aren’t on to you yet, are they?” I took this remark as a compliment. Friends suggested he was actually saying that I was getting away with something—and that
he
was on to me. Whatever the interpretation of his cryptic remark, I was grateful for the attention.

That was in the eighties. Sometime in the new millennium Belzer told me, “You won’t believe who called.”

“Who?”

“Jerry Lewis!”

“For what reason?”

“He’s a fan. He loves
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit”—
the show on which Belzer plays Detective John Munch—“and he wanted to discuss the production techniques we use.”