Still Foolin' 'Em (36 page)

At this, his face brightened up.

“I’ve got the perfect one. White marble, very distinguished, above ground, no mold.”

Now, that sounded like me. But it had to be private. When people come to visit, I don’t want the paparazzi taking pictures of them at my grave. I also told him I didn’t want a vault in a wall, like Marilyn Monroe. I won’t like it; I can’t even sleep on a plane.

He explained that the mausoleum (which looked like a marble doghouse) was “very private and very tasteful, with its own garden area.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars … each.… More complicated, we build a vault for you both. George and Gracie are in a vault together. It’s lovely.”

I couldn’t breathe. Before I knew it, I was running away from him through the cemetery. I ran to the lake and ripped off my clothes and dove in. As I swam, I could see a small group of mourners at a lakeside service. I emerged from the water stark naked, and a woman in black lifted her veil. “Billeee, Billeee … kiss me twice.” Sophia Loren and I were about to make love on Jolson’s tombstone when I heard, “Mr. C? Are you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah,” I said meekly, distracted by my daydream. “I want to think about all this. Where do you do the service?”

“You’ll love it,” he said. “We have a beautiful theater—it seats two hundred.”

“We’ll need more room,” I said.

“You can do two shows. Plus, we valet for those we recognize.”

My demise started to feel too real as I imagined everyone at the service. A tidal wave of sweat moved across me.

I excused myself to wash my face. While I was in the men’s room, I realized that all I really wanted was a simple service. That and not to die. All I want is for it to be funny, for Janice to be stunning and charming, as she always is, for my friends to tell great stories. I want my kids to be strong and make people laugh, I want my grandkids not to kick the chair in front of them, for Derek Jeter to say, “He could really play,” and for the service to end with an Asian girl on a unicycle who uses her feet to flip soup bowls onto her head. She does halftimes at Clipper games, and she performed at my fiftieth birthday party. It’s a real crowd-pleaser. Google her—she’s amazing.

While the salesman was in the office, I scooted out the back door, like a criminal on the lam in a detective movie. I got in my car and drove home. I started to think maybe I should have bought the plot. And I will someday, but not now; I’m not ready.

How can I handle my own death when I still have trouble with everyone else’s? I have lost so many people I cared about. Life is like a big game of musical chairs. One by one we get eliminated, except there’s no winner at the end; it’s just an empty chair, a covered mirror, and a lot of leftover sponge cake.

So what does death mean to me? Death just means … no more. No more laughs with my brothers and friends, no more watching my kids grow older. It means no more seeing what amazing things are ahead for my grandchildren, and it means … no more Janice and me.

That’s the hardest part. As I sit here writing and look across the room at Janice, I keep thinking of the most heartbreaking question: Which one of us will go first? It could happen that we go together; we could be like all those white-haired couples in Iowa: he’s ninety-seven, she’s ninety-six, they met at the state fair in 1926, he dies in bed, and an hour later she just slips away so she can be with him for eternity. But chances are, one of us will go and the other will live on.

So that’s what it comes to. I can’t bear to think of life without Janice. I want to go first, because I don’t want to miss her. That would be a pain far worse than any death. I don’t want to miss the way she makes me laugh. I don’t want to miss waking up and realizing she’s holding my hand while she quietly sleeps. I don’t want to miss hugging her when nothing else in the world makes sense. I don’t want to miss her finishing my sentences because we’re thinking the same thing. I would rather be gone than have to miss her. I won’t buy the plot right now, because I can’t. I’m going to just go on and keep living and laughing and loving. I’d like to think there is a heaven and it starts from the happiest day in your life. I’ll be eighteen and Janice Goldfinger will walk by me in a bikini, and I will follow her and it will start all over again. I’d really like to think that.

Epilogue

March 14, 2013, the evening of my sixty-fifth birthday. We were having a small dinner party in the dining room at my daughter Lindsay’s house while she was in her bedroom having big labor pains.

A few hours later my fourth grandchild and second grandson, Griffin, was born.

I had told Lindsay no gifts, but you know kids, they never listen. “Do something special” my mom always said about my birthday. It doesn’t get any more special than this.

The day that started with angst ended with me holding the greatest treasure one can ever receive: a healthy, beautiful baby. This little guy and I will be forever united by our birthday.

Once we got home from the hospital, I got into bed just after two
A.M.
, and I did something I don’t usually do in the dark—I smiled.

It is a great life with plenty more to go, I hope. Time to see how my little ones fare in the world we turn over to them. That is our task after all. Get them ready for the rain. Teach them all we know and help them try to be better than us. That is my job as I begin my sixty-sixth trip around the sun. And yours … fly safe … wait a second …

HOLY SHIT! I found my keys!

“Happy Birthday to Us, Happy Birthday to Us…” 3-14-1948 meets 3-14-2013, the greatest gift of all.

Acknowledgments

After I retired from the Yankees, I didn’t know what to do with myself. As I approached my sixty-fifth birthday, I thought it would be great fun to go out on tour and do stand-up again. I’d talk about all the things that were going on in my head and to my body as I neared the milestone. Inspired, I started writing, and after I had sixty funny pages or so, I read them aloud as if it were a performance. Instead it felt like a book. Here are the people who agreed with me:

Simon Green at CAA was a pleasure to deal with, and his knowledge of the book world was essential. Thanks to Steve Rubin at Henry Holt, who believed in the material and his wardrobe, and to Gillian Blake—so smart, so easy to work with, who pushed me to be better. To the production team at Holt for their talents and for being so open to ideas. To my managers, David Steinberg and Larry Brezner, for their expertise, friendship, and unwavering support all these thirty-nine years. To those named in the book throughout the chapters of my life: each one of you is an important part of my ongoing tour de chance. For those not named—or named but Gillian cut you out or wouldn’t let me wax on—I’ll name you now. John Goodman, John Lassiter, and all the genius folks at Pixar; the backstage crew at the Oscars and my writing team all stars, Jon Macks, Dave Boone, Ed Driscoll, and Billy Martin. Thanks to Troy Miller, Dan Butz, and the talented group at Dakota Films for magically putting me in all those nominated films, and to Mike Seligman for always finding the dough. To Barry, Wanda, and maestro Giorgio Armani’s beautiful designs and his ability to make me look taller. To Manny Kladitis and my Broadhurst Theatre family; it was an honor to walk that stage.

Al and Michael Shedler, Steve Tenenbaum, Cindi Berger, Heidi Schaeffer, and Sol Rosenthal for doing things the right way. To Richard Lovett and Jimmy Darmody for their guidance as we keep moving forward. To the Los Angeles Clippers for giving me something to cheer about. To Jimmy Walker and Lonnie Ali and the support of my friends at Fight Night in Phoenix, Arizona.

To Sid Caeser, Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, Neil Simon, and the late Larry Gelbart for their genius, inspiration, and friendship. To my entire family, especially my brothers Joel and Rip, who are the only ones to witness all of my sixty-five years, much love to you all. To my fans: your support during my career is everything, and I’ll try and tweet more often. Finally, to my grandchildren, Ella, Dylan, Hudson, and Griffin: if I forget to tell you some of these stories, you’ll always have this book.

A
LSO
BY
B
ILLY
C
RYSTAL

700 Sundays

FOR
CHILDREN

I Already Know I Love You

Illustrated by Elizabeth Sayles

Grandpa’s Little One

Illustrated by Guy Porfirio

About the Author

B
ILLY
C
RYSTAL
is a comedian, actor, producer, director, author, and nine-time Oscars host. He has starred in many hit films, among them
When Harry Met Sally…, City Slickers
, and
Analyze This
. He is the author of two children’s books and the Tony Award–winning play
700 Sundays
, about his relationship with his late father, which was later adapted into a book. A former cast member of
Saturday Night Live
, Crystal is a six-time Emmy winner and a recipient of the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Janice.

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^®
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are registered trademarks of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Copyright © 2013 by Jennilind LLC

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

   Crystal, Billy.

   Still foolin’ ’em: where I’ve been, where I’m going, and where the hell are my keys? / Billy Crystal. — First edition.

          pages   cm

   ISBN 978-0-8050-9820-4 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-8050-9823-5 (electronic book) 1.  Crystal, Billy.   2.  Comedians—United States—Biography.   3.  Aging.   I.  Title.   II.  Title: Still fooling them.

   PN2287.C686A3 2013

   792.702'8092—dc23

   [B]                                                                   2013012238

Photograph credits:

Courtesy of Broadway Video Enterprises and NBC Studios, Inc.
Courtesy of MGM Media Licensing © 1986 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., All Rights Reserved.
NBC / NBC Universal / Getty Images.
Courtesy of Peter Montagna.
Jeff Kravitz / Getty Images.
Ken Regan / Camera 5.
CITY SLICKERS – Licensed By: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
CITY SLICKERS – Licensed By: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
© Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
MR. SATURDAY NIGHT – Licensed By: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
ANALYZE THIS – Licensed By: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
© Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
Getty Images.
© Berliner Photography.
J. Meric / Getty Image Sport / Getty Images.