An Open Letter to Jerry Lewis
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Posted by Barry M. Grey Jun 15, 2009 |
Dear Jerry,
I’ve been thinking about writing this letter since last year when I read Dean and Me. I loved the book, and knew instantly how much I identified with you in it, for a particular reason.
Last week, my excuse for writing became a whole lot more urgent.
The way you wrote about Dean -- the nature of your relationship, the way he drew you (and many others) in yet kept you at a distance -- I recognized from my own experience.
For most of my life, I had my own Dean. Like yours, mine was the proverbial tall, dark, handsome. And charismatic, funny as hell, charming beyond all reason.
He was the big brother I never had. The effortlessly fun, funny guy I could never top. The guy I wanted to be.
Sound familiar?
I loved him so deeply that it was embarrassing. It wasn’t a gay thing. As you might say, it was a love thing.
He was My Own Private Dean.
But like Dean, Dominic marched to his own drummer. We grew up together in suburban
Our families became extremely tight. My family represented the Jews in the friendship – the Levitches, if you will, although our name back then was really Goldberg. And the Lonardos were of full-blooded Sicilian ancestry – the Crocettis of Cleveland, to complete the analogy.
We lived two blocks apart, and had frequent Sunday night dinners together – authentic Italian feasts Dominic’s mother built from scratch.
The ties went much deeper than dinners. My dad and Dom’s dad were pals. Kathy and my mom Gert were close. My sister’s first boyfriend was Dominic’s older brother. Later, she fell hopelessly, madly, insanely, stupidly in love with Dom’s first cousin, Angelo. It was a melodramatic, star-crossed relationship which my father put an end to for a number of reasons I won’t go into here.
We left
That summer, Dominic came to visit for a couple weeks. The next summer, I stayed with him in
I saw him occasionally after graduating high school. The friendship was intact, but we were growing apart. While this made me sad, I still thought of him as my best friend and thought we’d always be pals. (Pallies, as Dean would say.)
Dominic was busted on a questionable charge in 1976, and did 18 months in a youth detention center in
In the decades that followed, our contacts became more sporadic. He never responded to my birthday cards or notes. Wouldn’t return phone calls. He became a phantom. My own private phantom. I felt like an idiot, chasing a ghost who I hadn’t actually spent time with since visiting him in 1981 and then in 1992.
He claimed he was never the same after the 18 months in
It hurt like hell. Why didn’t he love me like I loved him? What was so fucking hard about keeping in touch? Would a phone call be too much to ask?
In recent years, I’d leave messages on his voicemail. Funny, every single time I’d call, I’d get the machine. I knew he was probably monitoring the calls. “Oh,” I imagined him thinking, “it’s Barry again. Fuck. Why won’t he leave me alone?”
In about 2002, I actually reached him by phone, and we talked about everything. It was a great conversation. I could have felt encouraged that our friendship was back on track. But I wasn’t naïve anymore – I’d been burned too many times to really believe he really wanted to keep in touch.
Sure enough, every subsequent time I tried reaching him, I struck out. My wife would say, “Why do you still care?”
I had no answer.
A couple years ago, I gave up trying, deciding enough was enough. I’d never try to reach Dominic again. It was just too much hurt, and clearly he didn’t care; at least, not enough to make an effort.
At 52, I moved on. Mazel-tov, right?
Then a few weeks ago, guess who contacted me via Facebook, asking to be my friend?
I couldn’t believe it.
I had known Dom was on Facebook, because people with FB accounts are instantly notified when their electronic pals have mutual friends. And several of my FB friends were pallies with Dom.
So Dom clearly had seen my name and little photo, and he approached me!
I didn’t rejoice – I was way too wary for that. (Who the hell knew how he felt?) But I knew, deep inside, that I would always love him, that the feelings developed in childhood wouldn’t go away, no matter how much I tried to shrug them off.
We exchanged a series of private messages on Facebook – filled with in-jokes only he and I understood. It was hilarious, warm -- everything I could ask for.
During this dance, I learned from mutual friends that the long estrangement wasn’t due to anything I’d done. It turns out Dominic held everyone at arm’s length. Flaked periodically with pretty much everybody in his life.
He’d disappear for long stretches. Just drop out of sight.
So after all these years, I finally knew the vanishing act was neither about me nor limited to me. It was just the way Dominic coped with a world in which he could never quite feel comfortable.
About two weeks ago, we exchanged phone numbers, and eventually, we connected.
It was a marathon conversation. We covered everything – careers, family, gossip, the works. He’d just returned from a long vacation to
Maybe, just maybe, it could be some kind of new beginning.
Last week, I was noodling around on Facebook when a mutual friend of ours opened an instant message to me with the phrase, “I have some horrible news for you…”
My heart stopped.
“It’s about Dominic,” she wrote.
What, I asked.
“He died.”
The words burned into my soul.
How could that be? I’d just spoken with him. Everything was fine. Sure, he was out of work and disenchanted with his latest money chase, the insurance business. But -- ?
I immediately called Dom’s brother John in
It was true.
His apartment manager had found Dominic sitting at his computer, looking serene. He’d died right there, in front of the screen. Probably had been noodling around on Facebook.
The cause of death remains unclear.
Everyone says I’m lucky to have reconnected with him. I am. I know that. But the emptiness doesn’t seem to go away. I find myself thinking things like, “I’m now living in a world without Dominic Lonardo.” That thought alone is almost too much to bear.
One reason it hurts so much:
My nine-year-old loves a little game we play called “Heart Attack!” I pretend to be stricken, clutch my chest and fall atop her, pinning her beneath me. She wriggles, trying to escape, but she’s just trapped. And she laughs hysterically.
I slowly begin to rise and she's relieved. But she knows what’s coming. She's nearly free when I clutch my chest again. “Relapse!” I gurgle, and fall top her again. The laughter returns.
Dominic invented that game when we were little. He was twice my size, so naturally I was the one pinned and helpless. I laughed uncontrollably, just like my daughter.
The other night, as I was reading her a bedtime story, I just lost it. It occurred to me she’d never get the chance to meet the inventor of our favorite game.
She silently put her arms around me. Held me for a long time, until I could stop sobbing. Who says autistic kids don’t have empathy?
I’m flying to
Jerry, I think I know how you feel.
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