Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1958)

is over. It’s time for action, I say! “I’ve nothing against Jerry Lee Lewis personally. Hi?, life is his own and he’s entitled to lead it just like he wants to — as long as he doesn’t hurt anybody else. But my family is being hurt by all this. “What I want to know: Is Jerry Lee Lewis really Jerry Lee Lewis? In other words, is that his right name? If he was born something else, and changed his name to Jerry Lee Lewis, I’ll take legal action to make him use another name. If Jerry Lee Lewis turns out to be his right name, well . . . We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. “Let’s find out if Jerry Lee is in town. If he is, we’ll go over and talk to him. But first,” Jerry said, “I got to go for my special trench coat.” W hile Jerry was out of the room, a couple of his pals talked about the “Jerry Lee Lewis business.” “I’ve never seen Jerry so upset,” one of them said. “That London story, for instance. Jer happened to be there a short time before Jerry Lee was, and he made the biggest hit of his career. And it’s not just that some fans are threatening to boycott his pictures and TV shows. That’s bad enough. But worse than this to him, much worse, is the fact that he’s so proud of his family and so much in love with his wife that when anything threatens this happiness, he almost flips.” Jerry came back into the room, wearing his trench coat. He picked up the phone, asked the hotel operator for a number, and waited. “Hi,” he said into the phone, “I’d. like to talk to Jerry Lee Lewis. . . . Left town. When? . . . No, he couldn’t call me back — I’ll be leaving tomorrow for the Coast. Just tell him Mike Hammer called. Thanks. “It figures,” Jerry announced after he’d hung up. “Knew I was on his trail.” He took a magnifying glass out of his pocket and slunk over to a mirror. “We gotta have clues! Come clean — who’s Jerry Lee Lewis?” He addressed his own reflection grimly. “We gotta find out who he is to make sure who you are.” A long black car was waiting in front of the hotel. Jerry settled down in the back seat and hollered at the driver, an old friend who always chauffeurs him around when he’s in New York. “Who am I?” Jerry asked. “Come again, chief?” “You heard me, Joe. Who am I?” The driver swiveled around with a grin. “You’re Mister Lewis.” “See,” said Jerry, “he’s playing it close. He’s not sure. Not Jerry Lewis. Not Jerry Lee Lewis. Just Mister Lewis. Clever. But I’ll fix him. Before the day is over, he’ll talk. But what’ll I do if he finally says, ‘You’re Jerry Lee Lewis’? I’ll be through!” The car pulled up in front of a big luggage store and Jerry got out to buy a traveling bag and picture frames. When he asked the already flustered salesclerk to charge them and deliver them to his hotel, he added: “Got it straight? The name is Jerry Lewis. Plain old Jerry Lewis. No middle name. No Lee. Is that clear?” In complete bewilderment, the saleswoman just nodded. “See, she’s confused,” Jerry whispered to me. “Trying to cover up for Jerry Lee. He’s paid her off.” He stopped the manager and asked him whether he carried any Sherlock Holmes hats. “I’m sorry, Mister Lewis,” the manager answered, “we don’t carry hats.” Jerry walked towards the door and stopped in front of a female dummy. “Did p you catch that, Babe?” he asked the mannequin, talking out of the side of his mouth. “ ‘Mister Lewis’ again. They don’t think I’m Jerry Lewis. They think I’m Jerry Lee. So they’re playing it cool. Keep your eyes open, Babe, and report everything to me. And if they give you the third degree, don’t talk. Dummy up.” Across the aisle, he addressed a male dummy. “Hello, Bruce, what’s new? Look, keep an eye on Babe. I don’t trust her. Think she’s sold out to Jerry Lee. And that manager. Watch him. He’s destroyed all the Sherlock Holmes hats in the city. He’s part of the plot. They’re all part of the plot.” Back in the car, Jerry slumped in the seat and was quiet. Crosstown traffic was heavy. Suddenly Jerry started talking again, but he was still slumped down in his seat and it was as if he were speaking to himself. “You know I really have nothing against this guy, this Jerry Lee Lewis. All I know about him is what I’ve read in the papers, or learned from fans who confuse him with me. I’ve never heard his records, never seen him perform, never met him. It’s just that my life’s so different from his. Not better — I’d never say that, just different. “Take the way Jerry Lee proposed to his cousin. According to the papers, he was driving Myra to Memphis to see a picture he’d made. Suddenly he said, ‘Let’s get married,’ and she answered, ‘Let’s go.’ Quick. Just like that. “Well, that got me to thinking about how I courted Patti. She was a singer in Jimmy Dorsey’s band and I was a young comic. In Detroit we played on the same bill and that’s where we met. We met again after that in New Haven, Boston and New York. We went out together and had fun. I was crazy in love with her. But I didn’t have the nerve to ask her to marry me. Onstage, nothing bothered me. Offstage, I was loud and brash — except when I was with Patti. Then I was like jelly. “So one day I went to a kids’ store and bought a tiny pair of baby shoes. While Patti was onstage, I sneaked into her dressing room, hung the shoes on the mirror, and wrote on it with lipstick, ‘WHAT DO YOU SAY WE GET MARRIED AND FILL THESE?’ And then it was time for me to do my number. “In the middle of my routine I suddenly realized I had forgotten to sign my name to the message I had written on her mirror. What if she didn’t know I wrote it? I’d never have the nerve to ask her again, either out loud or in writing. So I stumbled through my act and sneaked back to my dressing room. I just sat there a while in the dark, feeling the world had come to an end. “Finally I got up to take off my costume. I switched on the light and turned to the mirror. There, in big letters, was written, ‘WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? PATTI.’ “Now we’ve been married for fourteen years and we’ve filled four pairs of baby shoes!” Jerry sat up straight and crowed at the driver, “Listen to me — the comedian trying to play Hamlet. Or worse yet, Romeo. “Joe,” he said. “I want to stop at Tiffany’s.” Inside New York’s swankiest jewelry store, Jerry headed for a showcase filled with religious medallions. He selected two golden St. Anthony medals and asked the salesman to wrap them in separate boxes. “St. Anthony is Patti’s patron saint,” he explained to us. “I want them put in different boxes so we’ll have the fun of opening our individual packages together.” “What’s the occasion, Jerry?” we asked. “Nothing special,” he answered quietly. “I just love her.” Just then someone who looked like a store manager is supposed to look came rushing over, with two assistants. “You can’t do that, Mr. Lewis!” “Part of the Jerry Lee mob,” Jerry whispered. Then, to the manager, “What can’t I do?” “Take pictures in Tiffany’s,” he replied, pointing to Photoplay’s photographer, who had his camera aimed at Jerry. “Okay,” said Jerry, “so Jerry Lee wants to play rough, huh? Tell him I’ll get him for this.” “What?” asked the manager. “What?” echoed his assistants. But Jerry Lewis was on his way out the door. Outs;de the bank on the opposite corner, Jerry loitered, watched the crowd hurrying past. “Any one of those people may be Jerry Lee in disguise. Maybe the manager at Tiffany’s is really Jerry Lee. Maybe Joe’s Jerry Lee. Maybe I’m Jerry Lee.” He rapped on the night-deposit box and snarled, “I know you’re in there. Come on out or I’ll come in after you. Or if the two of us won’t fit, I’ll hold up the bank to smoke you out.” He walked across the street to the car. “Step on it. I’m going it alone — to the club.” On the way to the Cafe de Paris, where he was to do two special shows that night, Jerry dropped into a Western Union office to send a wire. He signed it “The original Jerry Lewis (not doing business under any other name).” Then he came to a record store. “Let’s go in,” he said. “What’s your latest record by Jerry Lee Lewis?” he asked the clerk. “ ‘Dormi, Dormi’ ” was the answer. And out came the waxing of the lullaby from “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” Jerry Lewis’ latest movie. “Ah-hah!” Jerry chortled. “The tide is beginning to turn. Now they’re blaming Jerry Lee for the things I’ve done. I can see it now, Jerry Lee being bombarded with letters from his fans, all asking: ‘How could you jilt your thirteen-year-old cousin and run off with the mother of four children?’ Let him try to explain!” “Here’s another one, sir.” The clerk gave Jerry a copy of Jerry Lee Lewis’ recording of the theme song of “High School Confidential!” “Well, this isn’t mine. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Jerry took the record into one of the little booths, put it on the player and closed the door. Through the glass he could be seen listening. Abruptly, he came bursting out. “I’ve heard that before! At home. Hundreds of times until I thought I was going out of my mind. Gary plays it. He loves rock ’n’ roll. I never knew who was singing it. But now I know. Gary, my own son, he’s gone over to the enemy! He’s a Jerry Lee Lewis fan! “Who did I sound like before when I was talking about Patti in the car? Hamlet? Romeo? Well, call me King Lear! My own child, Gary, my firstborn, has betrayed me. Curses!” “How did you like the record?” the clerk asked. “The guy’s good,” Jerry said. “Sings loud, good beat, really belts it out. What? What am I saving? Don’t listen to me. I’m not myself. Who am I?” On the street, Jerry took a look at his watch and hailed a cab. “Cafe de Paris,” he said to the driver, “and fast. I’m late.” “Going to pick up your money, Jerry?” the cab driver asked. “What did you say?” Jerry found the man’s name on the identification card that faces the passengers. “What did you say, Sam?” “Just inquired whether you’re on your way to pick up your money,” the driver replied. “What money, Sam?”