The day arrived when I had no money to make the mortgage payment.
“We’ve lost the house,” I told Jorja.
She could see my pain. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll be fine. You’ve written hits before, you’ll write them again.”
She did not understand. “Not anymore,” I said. “It’s over.”
I remembered the first house my family had ever rented, on Marion Street, in Denver. I’m going to get married here and my children will grow up here . . . By now, counting houses, apartments, and hotels, I had moved thirteen times.
The following week we gave up the house with the swimming pool and the beautiful gardens, and I rented an apartment for us. I was living Otto’s life, on a roller coaster that took me from prosperity to poverty in a seemingly never-ending cycle. I was suicidal again. I had kept up payments on a life insurance policy that would take care of Jorja and Mary. They’re better off without me, I decided. And I began to pursue that thought.
I knew I would never have the life I once had. There would be no more Europe, no more wonderful parties, no more successes. I would miss all that, and I wondered whether it was better to have been a success and lost it all or never to have tasted success, so it would not be missed. I was in a deep depression and suicide was the only way I could think of to escape it. You’re suffering from manic depression . . . Approximately one in five people who are manic-depressive eventually commit suicide.
I was living through a nightmare that I felt would never end. Was I serious about committing suicide?
I tried to think of all the successes I had had, instead of the failures, but it was no use. The mysterious, dark chemistry in my brain would not allow it. I was unable to control my emotions.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could not bear to leave Jorja and Mary. I have to create something, I thought. The motion picture studios obviously did not want me. What about television?
My favorite show was I Love Lucy, which was a brilliantly done comedy that Lucille Ball and her producer husband, Desi Arnaz, put on every week. It was the most popular comedy on television. Maybe I could write something that Desi would be interested in. I thought of a title and an idea, Adventures of a Model. It would be a romantic comedy with all the situations that a beautiful model would get involved in.
It took me one week to write the pilot script. I made an appointment to see Desi Arnaz.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I’ve heard about you.”
“I have an idea for a pilot, Mr. Arnaz.” I took out the script and handed it to him.
He looked at the title and his face lit up. “Adventures of a Model. That sounds great.”
I stood up. “When you have a chance to read it, I would appreciate it if you would call me.”
“No, no. Sit down,” he said. “I’m going to read it now.”
I watched his face as he read it. He kept smiling. That’s a good sign, I thought. I was holding my breath.
He read the last page and looked up at me. “I love it,” he said. “We’re going to do it.”
I could breathe again. It felt as though a giant weight had been lifted from my heart. “You mean it?”
“It’s going to be a smash. There’s been nothing like it on the air. We can still make this season,” he told me. “CBS has one time slot left. Let’s see if we can get it.”
CHAPTER 27
I did not need a car to take me home. I was walking on air. Jorja was waiting for me at the door when I got home. She looked at my face and said, “Good news?”
“Great news. Desi Arnaz is going to produce Adventures of a Model.”
She hugged me. “That’s wonderful.”
“Do you know what it means to get a successful show on television? It could go on for years.”
“When will you know?”
“In the next day or two.”
Two days later I got a call from Desi. “We’re in,” he said. “CBS has given us their last time slot.”
“We’re going out to celebrate tonight,” I told Jorja.
Laura was listening, her face beaming. “You two have a good time,” she said, and she handed me twenty dollars. “It’s on me.”
“I can’t. You’ve already been—”
“Yes, you can.”
I hugged her. “Thank you.”
“I knew you could do it all the time.”
Jorja and I went to an Italian restaurant and had a wonderful dinner.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “We’re on CBS. I’m going to produce the show and write the scripts.”
On the way home, Jorja said, “I’m so proud of you, honey. I know what you’ve been through and how hard it’s been, but that’s all over now.”
Desi called me the next morning. “Can you come to the office?”
I grinned. “Certainly.” I was there thirty minutes later.
“Sit down,” Desi said.
“Right. When do we start?”
He studied me a moment. “Sidney, CBS had one opening left and we got it. They canceled The Dick Van Dyke Show and put us in that time period. Danny Thomas, who owns The Dick Van Dyke Show and a few other shows on CBS, put pressure on them and insisted they give The Dick Van Dyke Show another year. The network finally agreed. They put them back in the time slot. We’re out.”
I sat there, not moving, unable to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Desi said. “Maybe next season.”
I was faced with the same choice: Give up or try again. I was damned if I was going to give up.