My agent called. "I just talked to Don Hartman. The studio is not going to renew your contract."
I knew where the reporter from Variety could find me in April. In the unemployment line.
Reluctantly, I canceled our reservations to Europe. I called my agent once a week, and tried to sound cheerful.
"What's happening on the battlefront?"
"Not much," he said. "There aren't any assignments around, Sidney."
That was a kind lie. There were always assignments around, but none for me. Just as I had been prematurely judged for Dream Wife, I was now being judged for the failure of The Buster Keaton Story. Again I was traumatized by the thought that I might never work again. During the times I was out of work, friends came and went, but Groucho was always there with a cheery word.
I waited for the call that never came, weeks went by, then months, and soon I had a major money problem.
I enjoyed living well, but I had never been interested in money per se. My philosophy about money was a combination of Natalie's thrift and Otto's spendthrift ways. I found it difficult to spend any money on myself, but I had no problem helping others. The result was that I had never been able to save any money.
The Bel Air house had a mortgage on it and I was hard pressed to also pay the salaries of a gardener, a pool man, and Laura. Our financial situation was rapidly deteriorating.
Jorja was getting concerned. "What are we going to do?"
"We have to start economizing," I said. I took a deep breath and added, "We're going to have to let Laura go. We can't afford a maid anymore."
It was a terrible moment for both of us.
"You tell her," Jorja said. "I can't."
Laura had been wonderful. She was always cheerful and helpful. She adored Mary and Mary adored her.
"This is going to be very difficult."
I called Laura into the library. "Laura, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
She looked at me in alarm. "What is it? Is someone sick?"
"We're fine. It's just that . . . I'm going to have to let you go."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't afford you anymore, Laura."
She looked shocked. "You mean you're firing me?"
"I'm afraid so. I'm terribly sorry."
She shook her head. "You can't do that."
"You don't understand. I can't afford to pay you anymore and - "
"I'm staying."
"Laura - "
"I'm staying." And she walked out of the room.
Jorja and I had been forced to cut down on our social life, and we went out very seldom. There were plays that we wanted to see, but they were too expensive. Laura heard Jorja and me talking about it.
As we debated going out one evening, Laura said, "Take this," and she handed me twenty dollars.
"I can't take that," I said.
"You'll pay me back."
I was near tears. She was working hard, getting no salary, and she was giving me money.
The day arrived when I had no money to make the mortgage payment.
"We've lost the house," I told Jorja.
She could see my pain. "Don't worry, darling. We'll be fine. You've written hits before, you'll write them again."
She did not understand. "Not anymore," I said. "It's over."
I remembered the first house my family had ever rented, on Marion Street, in Denver. I'm going to get married here and my children will grow up here . . . By now, counting houses, apartments, and hotels, I had moved thirteen times.
The following week we gave up the house with the swimming pool and the beautiful gardens, and I rented an apartment for us. I was living Otto's life, on a roller coaster that took me from prosperity to poverty in a seemingly never-ending cycle. I was suicidal again. I had kept up payments on a life insurance policy that would take care of Jorja and Mary. They're better off without me, I decided. And I began to pursue that thought.
I knew I would never have the life I once had. There would be no more Europe, no more wonderful parties, no more successes. I would miss all that, and I wondered whether it was better to have been a success and lost it all or never to have tasted success, so it would not be missed. I was in a deep depression and suicide was the only way I could think of to escape it. You're suffering from manic depression . . . Approximately one in five people who are manic-depressive eventually commit suicide.
I was living through a nightmare that I felt would never end. Was I serious about committing suicide?
I tried to think of all the successes I had had, instead of the failures, but it was no use. The mysterious, dark chemistry in my brain would not allow it. I was unable to control my emotions.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could not bear to leave Jorja and Mary. I have to create something, I thought. The motion picture studios obviously did not want me. What about television?
My favorite show was I Love Lucy, which was a brilliantly done comedy that Lucille Ball and her producer husband, Desi Arnaz, put on every week. It was the most popular comedy on television. Maybe I could write something that Desi would be interested in. I thought of a title and an idea, Adventures of a Model. It would be a romantic comedy with all the situations that a beautiful model would get involved in.
It took me one week to write the pilot script. I made an appointment to see Desi Arnaz.
"It's nice to meet you," he said. "I've heard about you."
"I have an idea for a pilot, Mr. Arnaz." I took out the script and handed it to him.
He looked at the title and his face lit up. "Adventures of a Model. That sounds great."