The Other Side of Me

"It must be as modern as possible," the director said, "but we must not lose its period flavor."

"Entertaining and amusing," Balanchine said.

"Lighthearted," Robert Stolz commented.

Right. Modern, but keeping the period flavor, entertaining and amusing, lighthearted. "No problem."

Ben and I had figured out a way to collaborate. Since he was stationed at Fort Dix in New Jersey all day, working on training films, he would come into New York at night, where we would have dinner and work together until one or two in the morning.

My fears about writing a Broadway play had evaporated. Working with Ben made everything seem easy. He was incredibly creative and he gave me a confidence I lacked.

When we finished writing the first act, I took it to our producer, Yolanda Mero-Irion. I watched eagerly while she read the pages.

She looked up at me. "This is terrible. Dreadful," she spat out.

I was stunned. "But we did everything that - "

"You've written a flop for me! A flop! You hear me?" Her tone was vicious.

"I'm sorry. Tell me what you don't like and Ben and I will rewrite it and - "

She got up, glared at me, and walked out.

I was back to my first opinion. What made me ever think I was capable of writing a Broadway show?

As I sat there, contemplating the disaster that was about to happen, George Balanchine and Felix Brentano came into the office.

"I hear you have a first act."

I nodded glumly. "Yes."

"Let's look at it."

I was tempted not to show it to them. "Sure."

They started reading it and I wished I were somewhere else, anywhere.

I heard a chuckle. It was Felix Brentano. And then a laugh. It was George Balanchine. They were both grinning as they read it.

They liked it!

When they finished, Felix Brentano said to me, "This is wonderful, Sidney. Exactly what we were hoping for."

George Balanchine said, "If the second act is as good as this . . ."

I couldn't wait to give the news to Ben.

At the hotel, I stayed close to the telephone, expecting the call from the Army Air Corps at any moment, and when I was out of the hotel, I always left instructions as to where I could be reached.

For singles, New York can be a lonely town. I had had some casual conversations with our prima ballerina, Milada Mladova, and we had gotten along well. One Sunday, when there was no rehearsal, I invited her to dinner and she accepted.

I wanted to impress her, so I took her to Sardi's, the favorite restaurant of show people. I was still in uniform.

During dinner, Milada and I discussed the show and she told me how excited she was to be in it.

And finally dinner was over. I asked for the check. It came to thirty-five dollars. Very reasonable. Except that I did not have thirty-five dollars. I stared at the check for a long time. Credit cards were not yet in existence.

"Is anything wrong?" Milada asked.

"No," I said, hastily. I made a decision. "I'll be right back."

I got up and walked over to the entrance, where Vincent Sardi, the owner, was standing.

"Mr. Sardi . . ."

"Yes?"

This was going to be difficult. Vincent Sardi had not built up his business by catering to deadbeats.

"It's about my check," I said nervously.

He was studying me. He knows a deadbeat when he sees one.

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"No. It's fine. I - I just don't have - I don't have - you know - the money." I wondered if Milada was watching. I quickly went on. "Mr. Sardi, I wrote the play that's opening at the Majestic Theatre, across the street. But it hasn't opened yet. And at the moment, I - I don't have enough to - I wonder if you could trust me until the play opens."

He nodded. "Of course. It's no problem. And I want you to know you are welcome to come here at any time."

My spirits lifted. "Thank you so much."

"Not at all." He shook my hand. There was a fifty-dollar bill in it.

Our producer, Yolanda, hated everything that Ben and I wrote. I had the feeling she hated it even before she read it.

"The show's going to be a flop," she kept saying. "It's going to be a flop."

I desperately hoped that she was not psychic.

George Balanchine, on the other hand, along with Felix Brentano and Robert Stolz, loved what Ben and I were writing.

During rehearsals, Yolanda leaped around the stage like an overgrown grasshopper, barking orders at everyone. The professionals were too busy to be bothered.

One day, during a break mid-rehearsal, Balanchine came to me and said, "I would like to talk to you."

"Certainly. Is anything wrong, George?"

"No. A friend of mine, Vinton Freedley, is producing a new play. He's looking for a writer. I told him about you and he would like to meet you."

"Thanks," I said gratefully. "I'd love to meet him."

Balanchine looked at his watch. "As a matter of fact, you have an appointment to see him at one o'clock."

Two Broadway plays on at the same time? Unbelievable.

Vinton Freedley was one of the most important producers on Broadway. Among his credits were Funny Face, Girl Crazy, and at least half a dozen more hits. Freedley was an efficient, down-to-business producer who got right to the point.

"George tells me you're good."

"I try."

"I'm doing a show called Jackpot. It's about a girl who raffles herself off to raise money for the war effort and the winning ticket is won by three soldiers."

"It sounds like fun," I said.

"I already have a writer, Guy Bolton, but he's English and I think he needs an American to work with him. Would you like the job?"