One morning, after seeing the rushes of Anything Goes, Don Hartman asked, “How would you like to write another picture for Dean and Jerry?”
“Sounds great, Don.” I had enjoyed working with them.
“We just bought a western for them, called Pardners. I think you’ll like it.”
I hesitated a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to bring someone in to work with me.”
He was surprised. “Who?”
“Jerry Davis.” Jerry had not worked in a while and this was a chance to help him.
“I know Jerry. If you want to bring him in, that’s fine.”
“Thank you.”
Jerry was delighted with the news, and I was happy to have him around. He was always upbeat and amusing. He was very attractive to women, and when he broke up with someone, they always remained friends.
One time, an ex-girlfriend named Diane called Jerry to tell him she was getting married. Jerry, who was very protective, said, “Tell me about him.”
“Well, he’s a writer. He lives in New York.”
“Diane, successful writers don’t live in New York. All the action is in Hollywood. He has to be a loser. What’s his name?”
“Neil Simon.”
Jerry and I began work on the screenplay and everything went well. What no one knew was that this was going to be one of Lewis and Martin’s final pictures as a team. There were many reasons given for their breakup, but the truth was that their personalities were too disparate.
Both men were besieged with invitations for them to host charity events all over the country, and Lewis, who was very gregarious, always said yes. When he told Dean they were going to do it, Dean was upset. He preferred playing golf. Finally their different temperaments led to a permanent break, but first they agreed to do Pardners.
Pardners was a western comedy, and Dean and Jerry were ideal for it. Paul Jones, one of the nicest men in the business, produced the picture.
The reviews were excellent and the picture was a box office hit.
On October 14, 1955, our daughter, Mary Rowane Sheldon, came into the world. Because of me, Jorja almost did not get to the hospital on time. I inadvertently turned the big event into a situation comedy.
It had started years earlier, when I had called Information and asked for the address of the Beverly Hills Public Library.
“I’m sorry,” the operator told me, “we do not give out addresses.”
I thought she was joking. “It’s not CIA headquarters, it’s the public library.”
“I’m sorry, we do not give out addresses.”
I could not believe it. That was too big a challenge to ignore. I was determined that they were going to give me that address.
I waited a moment, then dialed Information again.
“I’d like the telephone number of the public library in Beverly Hills,” I said. “It’s on Beverly Drive.”
The operator came back on the line. “We don’t have a public library on Beverly Drive. There’s one on North Crescent Drive.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” I said. “What address on North Crescent Drive?”
“At City Hall, 450 North Crescent Drive.”
“Thank you.” I had been given the information I needed.
From that time on, whenever I wanted the address of a place, I would always use that technique and outwit the telephone company’s stupid rule.
On the night of October 14, my brilliant ploy backfired. I heard Jorja cry out, and I rushed into the bedroom.
“It’s happening,” she said. “Hurry!”
Her bag was packed and waiting at the door. I had made arrangements to take her to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica. The problem was that I was not sure what street it was on. I called Information.
“I would like the telephone number of St. John’s Hospital, on Main Street.” I had chosen a street at random, so that she would give me the correct street.
The operator returned a moment later, with the telephone number.
“And it’s on Main Street?”
“Yes,” she said.
I had happened to guess right. I put Jorja in the car and started racing into Santa Monica, where the hospital was. She was groaning in pain.
“We’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” I assured her. “Hang on.”
I reached Main Street and turned on to it. I went up and down the street. There was no St. John’s Hospital. I began to panic. It was late at night and the streets were deserted. The gas stations were closed. I had no idea where I was going. I started racing up and down every street until I finally stumbled onto the hospital—at Twenty-second and Santa Monica Boulevard, over twenty blocks away from Main Street.
Two hours later, Mary was born.
We had a healthy, beautiful baby. It was an incredible joy. Shortly after Mary was born, Jorja and I asked Groucho if he would be her godfather. When he agreed, we were delighted. We could not think of anyone more perfect.
When we brought Mary home from the hospital three days later, Laura, our maid, took her from Jorja’s arms.
“I’ll take care of her,” she said.
From that point on, everyone took care of the baby. Mary would cry in the middle of the night and Jorja would rush into the room, only to find me, sitting in a chair, holding Mary. Or I would hear the baby cry and I would hurry into her room to find Jorja sitting there, rocking her. We all raced to pick her up at the first sign of her crying, day or night. The minute we picked Mary up, she would stop crying.
Finally, I said to Jorja, “Honey, I think we’re spoiling her. We’re giving her too much love. We should cut out half of it.”