escape. As Frankie was reaching out to get his change, in a move Shelly once saw in a James Bond movie he jumped on the trunk lid of Frankie Levy's car. Then as he stood there, not sure what to do next, Frankie Levy peeled out onto Sunset, and Shelly's moment of heroism was marred dramatically by the fact that he was thrown crashing onto the cement.
At UCLA Emergency the wait is always interminable. Shelly sat in the big windowed room, bruised and aching and huddled close to Ruthie on the couch as they waited for his turn to be examined. It was past two in the morning and there were several other people waiting: a dark-haired heavyset man with a beard, who had his hand wrapped in a tourniquet; a woman who told Ruthieshe'd brought her husband in hours ago with extreme chest pain, and he'd only been called in to see the doctor moments before; and a family who were sitting together staring up at a television watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie.
"What happened to your hand?" the woman asked the bearded man.
"I was trying to slice some meat for my wife on the electric slicer, and my hand was in the way," he said.
"Just your way of trying to give her the finger?" Shelly asked. The man laughed.
"How about you?" the woman asked Shelly.
"You'd never believe it," Ruthie answered for him.
Then, almost as a healing process, the two of them told the story of how they came to Los Angeles, and about working on "Rudy the Poodle," and how they spent their nights writing and selling jokes, and about Frankie Levy. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the absurdity of the situation that gave them a freedom and a relaxation and a punchiness, but the story was coming out so funny that soon all the assembled patients were laughing loudly. Ruthie and Shelly had never had a more receptive audience.
In fact it was a rude interruption when a nurse opened the door to call the next patient.
"Mr. Lee?"
She was calling for the bearded man, who before he followed the nurse out managed, with his good hand, to pat Shelly on the back.
"My name is Bill Lee," he said. "I'm a producer at NBC. I think I might have a job for the two of you on a prime-time show I'm doing for John Davidson. Give me a call tomorrow at NBC."
On their first day of work they tried acting nonchalant, but it wasn't easy to fool anyone since they'd arrivedan hour early. Their assignment, before they even laid eyes on John Davidson, was to write a dialogue between John and this week's guest, George Burns. "We need it by four o'clock," Bill Lee told them.
"Great," they said, but when they closed the door of the little cubicle of an office they'd been assigned, upstairs from a sound studio at NBC, they stared at each other in terror.
"What are we doing here?" Shelly asked. "Some of the best writers in the world have written for George Burns." George Burns had recently been a big hit in
The Sunshine Boys
. It was his first movie since
Honolulu
, a movie he'd made with Gracie Allen in 1939.
"Let's not panic yet," Ruthie said. "You be George Burns, I'll be John Davidson, and we'll see what happens."
Shelly picked up his black pen and held it in his hand cradled between his thumb and first two fingers, the way George Burns holds a cigar.
"Okay, I'm George Burns."
"That's good," Ruthie said. "It's a good start." She felt sick. They weren't ready for this. Couldn't they have started with someone less famous? Less funny? Shelly looked down at the pen, rolling it in his hand the way George Burns always did with the cigar when he was thinking.
"John Davidson," Shelly said, sounding a little bit like George Burns. "You're a nice kid. Handsome kid, too. How old are you?"
"I'm thirty-four," Ruthie answered, playing the part of John Davidson.
"Thirty-four years?" Shelly asked, then with a twinkle in his eye, he added in his best George Burns, "
I
pause that long between pictures."
"That's good." Ruthie laughed. "But let's not get overconfident, let's keep going." They
At UCLA Emergency the wait is always interminable. Shelly sat in the big windowed room, bruised and aching and huddled close to Ruthie on the couch as they waited for his turn to be examined. It was past two in the morning and there were several other people waiting: a dark-haired heavyset man with a beard, who had his hand wrapped in a tourniquet; a woman who told Ruthieshe'd brought her husband in hours ago with extreme chest pain, and he'd only been called in to see the doctor moments before; and a family who were sitting together staring up at a television watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie.
"What happened to your hand?" the woman asked the bearded man.
"I was trying to slice some meat for my wife on the electric slicer, and my hand was in the way," he said.
"Just your way of trying to give her the finger?" Shelly asked. The man laughed.
"How about you?" the woman asked Shelly.
"You'd never believe it," Ruthie answered for him.
Then, almost as a healing process, the two of them told the story of how they came to Los Angeles, and about working on "Rudy the Poodle," and how they spent their nights writing and selling jokes, and about Frankie Levy. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the absurdity of the situation that gave them a freedom and a relaxation and a punchiness, but the story was coming out so funny that soon all the assembled patients were laughing loudly. Ruthie and Shelly had never had a more receptive audience.
In fact it was a rude interruption when a nurse opened the door to call the next patient.
"Mr. Lee?"
She was calling for the bearded man, who before he followed the nurse out managed, with his good hand, to pat Shelly on the back.
"My name is Bill Lee," he said. "I'm a producer at NBC. I think I might have a job for the two of you on a prime-time show I'm doing for John Davidson. Give me a call tomorrow at NBC."
On their first day of work they tried acting nonchalant, but it wasn't easy to fool anyone since they'd arrivedan hour early. Their assignment, before they even laid eyes on John Davidson, was to write a dialogue between John and this week's guest, George Burns. "We need it by four o'clock," Bill Lee told them.
"Great," they said, but when they closed the door of the little cubicle of an office they'd been assigned, upstairs from a sound studio at NBC, they stared at each other in terror.
"What are we doing here?" Shelly asked. "Some of the best writers in the world have written for George Burns." George Burns had recently been a big hit in
The Sunshine Boys
. It was his first movie since
Honolulu
, a movie he'd made with Gracie Allen in 1939.
"Let's not panic yet," Ruthie said. "You be George Burns, I'll be John Davidson, and we'll see what happens."
Shelly picked up his black pen and held it in his hand cradled between his thumb and first two fingers, the way George Burns holds a cigar.
"Okay, I'm George Burns."
"That's good," Ruthie said. "It's a good start." She felt sick. They weren't ready for this. Couldn't they have started with someone less famous? Less funny? Shelly looked down at the pen, rolling it in his hand the way George Burns always did with the cigar when he was thinking.
"John Davidson," Shelly said, sounding a little bit like George Burns. "You're a nice kid. Handsome kid, too. How old are you?"
"I'm thirty-four," Ruthie answered, playing the part of John Davidson.
"Thirty-four years?" Shelly asked, then with a twinkle in his eye, he added in his best George Burns, "
I
pause that long between pictures."
"That's good." Ruthie laughed. "But let's not get overconfident, let's keep going." They
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