At the theater, I loved watching the wonderful movies we showed there. I saw The Great Ziegfeld, San Francisco, My Man Godfrey, and Shall We Dance, with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. They transported me to another world, a world of glamour and excitement, elegance and wealth.
My money was running out. I received a check from Natalie for twenty dollars and I sent it back. I knew that without the additional income I had been earning, and Otto not working, life would be even more difficult for them. I wondered whether I was being selfish in thinking of myself when they needed help.
When my new batch of songs was ready, I took them to the same publishers. They looked at them, and gave me the same infuriating answer: “Come back when you’ve had something published.”
In one lobby, a wave of depression hit me. Everything seemed hopeless. I did not intend to spend my life as an usher, and no one was interested in my songs.
This is an excerpt from a letter to my parents, dated November 2, 1936:
I want all of you to be as happy as possible. My happiness is an elusive balloon, waiting for me to grab it, floating from side to side with the wind, across oceans, big green meadows, trees and brooks, rustic pastoral scenes and rain-swept sidewalks. First high, barely visible, far out of reach, then low, almost within reach, blown here and there by the vagaries of a playful wind, a wind one moment heartless and sadistic, the next gently compassionate. The wind of fate, and in it rests our lives.
One morning, in the lobby of the YMCA, I saw a young man about my age, sitting on a couch, furiously writing. He was humming a melody, and seemed to be writing a lyric. I walked up to him, curious.
“Are you a songwriter?” I asked.
He looked up. “Yes.”
“So am I. Sidney Sheldon.”
He held out a hand. “Sidney Rosenthal.”
That was the beginning of a long friendship. We spent the whole morning talking and it was as though we were soul mates.
When I went to work the following day, the theater manager called me into his office. “Our barker is sick. I want you to get into his uniform and take his place until he gets back. You’ll work days. All you have to do is walk up and down in front of the theater and say, ‘Immediate seating. No waiting for seats.’ The job pays more.”
I was thrilled—not because of the promotion, but because of the raise. I would send the extra money home.
“How much does it pay?”
“Fifteen-forty a week.”
A dollar a week raise.
When I put on the uniform, I looked like a general in the Russian army. I had nothing against my job as a barker, but could not stand the boredom of saying, “Immediate seating—no waiting for seats,” over and over and over. I decided to dramatize it.
I began to yell, in a stentorian voice, “An exciting double feature—The Texas Rangers and The Man Who Lived Twice. How does a man live twice, ladies and gentlemen? Come in and find out. You’ll have an afternoon you will never forget. Absolutely no waiting for seats. Hurry, before we’re sold out!”
The real barker never did show up and I kept the job. The only difference from before was that I now worked mornings and early afternoons. I still had time to go see all the music publishers who were uninterested in my songs. Sidney Rosenthal and I wrote a few songs together. They received a lot of praise and no contracts.
At the end of the week, I would usually find myself with only ten cents in my pocket. I had to get from the theater to the Brill Building, and I had to decide whether to have a hot dog for five cents and a Coca-Cola for five cents and walk the thirty-five blocks, or have a hot dog, no Coke, and take the subway uptown for a nickel. I got used to alternating the routine.
A few days after I started working as a barker, business at the theater began to pick up.