second date if he just hadn’t been so damned handsome.
H arry Bernsen was born and raised in Chicago, one of four very competitive brothers. Their father was a successful real estate investor who owned several properties on the Loop until he lost everything in the 1929 stock market crash. Their mother would hang a framed portrait on the wall of whichever son had given her the most money that week. It was usually Harry, who lived with her well into his twenties. (Red flag: a mama’s boy who should have been out of the house and on his own long before then. The euphemism: how sweet that he gets along so well with and takes such good care of his mother.) He served in the armed forces as a marine before moving to Los Angeles, drawn to show business like a moth to a flame.
His mother had converted from Catholicism to Christian Science, some of which Harry adhered to with remarkable commitment—he didn’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol, he didn’t smoke, he didn’t gamble, and he couldn’t have been less interested in drugs. (Red flag: a long list of principles that fails to include anything resembling a faith-based moral compass. The euphemism: what a clean-living, disciplined man!)
He spent a lot of time traveling as a kind of road manager and merchandiser for such popular acts as Martin and Lewis (starring Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis), Guy Lombardo, and Burl Ives before becoming an incredibly gifted agent with the Jaffe Agency. I so admired his talent and found his gift of gab so addictively stimulating that I bragged to anyone who would listen that Harry Bernsen could sell ice to an Eskimo. It took me longer than it should have to realize that I was one of the Eskimos.
He was charming, he was funny, and he had an audacious self-confidence that I found wildly attractive until the novelty wore off and I discovered that “audacious self-confidence” was my euphemism for “massive ego.”
From the very beginning, my family disliked him. My predictable take on that: “They just don’t know him like I do.” Besides, his mother and I couldn’t stand the sight of each other, so how much did family opinions really count anyway? (There were actually family members of Harry’s whom I adored, but we’ll get around to them later.)
The bottom line is, I’m the first to admit that I fell into a trap to which we women are vulnerable much too often: I found (or imagined) enough good qualities in him that I was convinced I could nurture them into the spotlight and drive the less admirable ones into the darkness forever and ever. I’ll never understand why it seemed like such a good idea at the time, but it was my choice and my responsibility. Or, as one of my favorite wise women, Judge Judy, puts it so inarguably, “You picked him.”
I did mention that he was incredibly handsome, though, right?
I t was a wild, exciting ride at the beginning. My career was going beautifully, I had a loyal and gifted group of friends, and there was a new man in my life who not only seemed to respect but also even to understand and encourage what I did for a living. And when his love of gamesmanship revealed itself very early on, I didn’t think that much of it. I’d been around the block a time or two myself by then, so I’d learned how to play my part in a few of those games myself.
“Call me,” he whispered as we ended our first night of passion at my apartment.
“I will,” I promised as I kissed him one more time and watched him walk away, already looking forward to seeing him again.
I waited a day or two before I called—never a good idea to look too eager or too available, after all. Finally I picked up the phone and dialed.
A woman answered. His mother, it turned out. Harry wasn’t in, she told me, as terse and unfriendly as she could be. She wasn’t sure when he’d be back, and yes (with a thoroughly inconvenienced sigh), she would tell him I called.
Twenty-four hours later, when I hadn’t heard from him, I called
H arry Bernsen was born and raised in Chicago, one of four very competitive brothers. Their father was a successful real estate investor who owned several properties on the Loop until he lost everything in the 1929 stock market crash. Their mother would hang a framed portrait on the wall of whichever son had given her the most money that week. It was usually Harry, who lived with her well into his twenties. (Red flag: a mama’s boy who should have been out of the house and on his own long before then. The euphemism: how sweet that he gets along so well with and takes such good care of his mother.) He served in the armed forces as a marine before moving to Los Angeles, drawn to show business like a moth to a flame.
His mother had converted from Catholicism to Christian Science, some of which Harry adhered to with remarkable commitment—he didn’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol, he didn’t smoke, he didn’t gamble, and he couldn’t have been less interested in drugs. (Red flag: a long list of principles that fails to include anything resembling a faith-based moral compass. The euphemism: what a clean-living, disciplined man!)
He spent a lot of time traveling as a kind of road manager and merchandiser for such popular acts as Martin and Lewis (starring Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis), Guy Lombardo, and Burl Ives before becoming an incredibly gifted agent with the Jaffe Agency. I so admired his talent and found his gift of gab so addictively stimulating that I bragged to anyone who would listen that Harry Bernsen could sell ice to an Eskimo. It took me longer than it should have to realize that I was one of the Eskimos.
He was charming, he was funny, and he had an audacious self-confidence that I found wildly attractive until the novelty wore off and I discovered that “audacious self-confidence” was my euphemism for “massive ego.”
From the very beginning, my family disliked him. My predictable take on that: “They just don’t know him like I do.” Besides, his mother and I couldn’t stand the sight of each other, so how much did family opinions really count anyway? (There were actually family members of Harry’s whom I adored, but we’ll get around to them later.)
The bottom line is, I’m the first to admit that I fell into a trap to which we women are vulnerable much too often: I found (or imagined) enough good qualities in him that I was convinced I could nurture them into the spotlight and drive the less admirable ones into the darkness forever and ever. I’ll never understand why it seemed like such a good idea at the time, but it was my choice and my responsibility. Or, as one of my favorite wise women, Judge Judy, puts it so inarguably, “You picked him.”
I did mention that he was incredibly handsome, though, right?
I t was a wild, exciting ride at the beginning. My career was going beautifully, I had a loyal and gifted group of friends, and there was a new man in my life who not only seemed to respect but also even to understand and encourage what I did for a living. And when his love of gamesmanship revealed itself very early on, I didn’t think that much of it. I’d been around the block a time or two myself by then, so I’d learned how to play my part in a few of those games myself.
“Call me,” he whispered as we ended our first night of passion at my apartment.
“I will,” I promised as I kissed him one more time and watched him walk away, already looking forward to seeing him again.
I waited a day or two before I called—never a good idea to look too eager or too available, after all. Finally I picked up the phone and dialed.
A woman answered. His mother, it turned out. Harry wasn’t in, she told me, as terse and unfriendly as she could be. She wasn’t sure when he’d be back, and yes (with a thoroughly inconvenienced sigh), she would tell him I called.
Twenty-four hours later, when I hadn’t heard from him, I called
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