20.

THE MORNING AFTER.

Margie and I were vacationing in London when The New d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show The New d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show debuted on September 18, 1971. I heard the reaction was positive. A few days after we returned, though, I was in the grocery store when a sweet-looking woman walked up to me and hit me with her purse. debuted on September 18, 1971. I heard the reaction was positive. A few days after we returned, though, I was in the grocery store when a sweet-looking woman walked up to me and hit me with her purse.

"Excuse me!" I said, stepping back before she could do it again.

"How dare you leave that sweet Laura," she said.

It wasn't exactly the kind of hit I hoped for, but it told me that people watched. In fact, despite lukewarm reviews, including the New York Times New York Times, which said, "on the originality meter, it rated two, maybe two-and-a-half, coughs," we were a Top 20 show. Of course, it helped to be in a Sat.u.r.day-night lineup that included America's number-one show, All in the Family All in the Family, as well as The Mary Tyler Moore Show The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Sandy Duncan's new series, and Sandy Duncan's new series, Funny Face Funny Face.

Carl wrote and directed the opening episode, but from then on it was always a struggle behind the scenes to fill the scripts with the requisite funny. Although it was never mentioned, all of us knew that in addition to battling for ratings, we were competing against the extraordinarily high expectations my previous show set. People like the woman in the grocery store saw more than just a new sitcom. We tried our best to deliver.

Hope was not used to working in front of an audience, and so on taping nights when the studio was packed with people who had driven in from Phoenix to see the show, she calmed her nerves with a little belt. That one drink made her happy enough to do the show.

Sometimes it made her even happier. We were doing a scene in an episode midway through that first season where I came home from work and found her already in bed. I changed clothes and walked around to get into my side of the bed. When I pulled back the covers, she was stark naked. The audience hooted and laughed, as did Hope, who thought she could make me crack. But I never went out of character even though I thought her prank was hilarious.

During the second season, Hope was involved with Frank Sinatra. One week he came out to visit her. He flew in on his Lear jet and set up camp in the little house that she rented. Hope invited a bunch of us over for dinner one night and Frank cooked. We went there after taping the show. Margie had come to the studio to drive there with me, and she was all excited about meeting Frank.

It was funny, because it wasn't like she'd never met big stars before. We had attended every major awards show. I'd made movies with some pretty famous people. But as I've said before, my wife did not like Hollywood, its stars, or its emphasis on status. To put it another way, she was not a fan of the tinsel in the town. Hence, we were living in the middle of the desert.

On the way to Hope's, I said something to that effect. Margie gave me a look as if I had started to speak a strange language.

"But this is Frank Sinatra," she said.

We walked in and were immediately hit by the thick, garlicky aroma of a rich Italian meal. I knew it was going to be a good one. Hope led us into the kitchen, where we were introduced to the man responsible for the delicious smell filling the house. Frank was at the stove, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and wearing an ap.r.o.n. He had made the entire meal from scratch. Friendly and loose, he fixed drinks and served us dinner.

It was an evening of food, booze, stories, and laughs-everything except the one thing Margie wanted from Frank, to hear the famous Sinatra voice. Throughout the whole night, she tried to get him to sing, and he wouldn't. Several times she heard him humming to himself in the kitchen. She then elbowed me, as if to say, See, he's almost singing. Do something that will get him to sing See, he's almost singing. Do something that will get him to sing.

With Frank, it clearly did not work that way. He did what he wanted to do, and that night he wanted to cook pasta, tomato sauce, and garlic bread, and afterward watch us bite into his own chocolate cake. He did not want to sing.

I understood.

There was also something that I I did not want to do. Few people would have guessed what it was. But I had a problem with alcohol. I knew that the time had come to deal with it. did not want to do. Few people would have guessed what it was. But I had a problem with alcohol. I knew that the time had come to deal with it.

It was August 22, 1972, and I was alone in the kitchen, staring out the window at the expanse of desert. I wish I could have admired the arid beauty more, but I could barely see past my throbbing headache. I took a few aspirin. As I set my water gla.s.s down on the counter, I noticed my hands shaking. This was nothing new. I'd had the morning shakes countless times before. And that was just the most visible symptom of a condition that I had, until now, done a first-rate job of ignoring and denying-a drinking problem.

I do not know how much I drank. Some nights it was three drinks. Some nights it was double that and maybe even more. But how much I drank, whether it was one or a dozen, didn't matter. The point was that I drank, and I had to face up to the fact that it was affecting more than just me. The rest of my family was suffering for it, too.

Just the night before, I had lost my temper with Margie for no reason, and now, as I sat in the kitchen sober and sore, I knew it was not the first time that had happened. Nor was Margie the only victim of such outbursts. I'd snapped at the kids numerous times, too. It was always at night and always after I had gotten in my cups.

I told myself that wasn't me. But in truth, it was me. Maybe it wasn't at one time, but I had become that person and I realized that if I wanted to be the man I thought I was, I needed to get help. That's exactly what I did. I got out the Yellow Pages and called St. Luke's Hospital, which advertised a treatment. A woman answered. I said that I had a drinking problem and wondered if they could help me.

"Yes," she said.

"Do I need an appointment?" I asked. "How do I do this?"

"Come in," she said.

"Now?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Now."

Margie and the children expressed concern and offered support as I packed a bag. Then I made the twenty-minute drive to the Phoenix hospital and began the process of trying to figure out how I ended up with a problem.

Alcoholic was not a term that came to mind when I thought about myself. For years, Margie and I did not drink. As I mentioned earlier, we kept a bottle of Early Times in the pantry for company, but neither of us ever unscrewed the top for ourselves. It was only after we moved to Brookville, Long Island, that I began to drink, and then it was only at parties. was not a term that came to mind when I thought about myself. For years, Margie and I did not drink. As I mentioned earlier, we kept a bottle of Early Times in the pantry for company, but neither of us ever unscrewed the top for ourselves. It was only after we moved to Brookville, Long Island, that I began to drink, and then it was only at parties.

I was the prototypical social drinker. I had a martini to loosen up. It got me past my shyness and helped me enjoy the night. Very quickly, though, I was enjoying the night with three or four c.o.c.ktails, and then I did the same at home when I arrived back from work. I never drank on the set. But by the second season of The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show, I would start looking at my watch to see how close we were to five o'clock. Pretty soon I just knew without having to check the time.

As soon as I got home, I poured myself a gla.s.s of bourbon. And then another. And sometimes still another. In a frank admission to columnist Marilyn Beck, I said, "Somewhere along the line I progressed from being just a party drinker to the point where I'd run a race with Margie each night to see if I could get drunk before she could get dinner on the table."

I did not get drunk-not in the way most of us think of drunk. It was more that a couple of drinks before dinner put me in a more tranquil state of mind. And a couple more after dinner kept me in that place.

But I never thought of myself as an alcoholic.

And why was that?

Well, I would ask myself simple questions.

Did I drink in the morning? No, not unless it was a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary at Sunday brunch, and who didn't have one then?

Did I drink at work? Never.

Did I go to bars? No.

Did I have a problem? No, not as far as I was concerned.

Others saw it differently. In 1967 a friend dropped by the house and said some people who had worked with me were whispering about my drinking. They hadn't actually seen me drinking, he said, but they'd noticed me complaining a few too many times about being hungover.

"Maybe you want to get some help," he said.

"I don't have a problem," I said. "I appreciate your concern and friendship and willingness to come to me, but I swear to you, I'm fine. I have a couple drinks at parties, one or two to unwind at night, but that's it. If that makes me an alcoholic, well, I guess everyone else is, too."

"But d.i.c.k, you understand why-"

I cut him off.

"I understand," I said. "But I don't have a problem."

The staff at St. Luke's did a double take when I walked through the doors and said I was there to check in for treatment. They were not expecting anyone famous. They kept looking out the windows for reporters. Eventually I was able to a.s.sure them that no one knew I was there. I explained that I had called earlier about getting help for a drinking problem, my wife had dropped me off, and now I wanted to be treated like anyone else.

And I was. I was placed in the psych ward with other alcoholics and drug addicts. We were separated from those with serious emotional problems, but we heard them in the background. The addicts and alcoholics were bad enough, though. Some were having fits and throwing up from withdrawals, others were agonizing through the DTs. I had no such side effects.

Although the hard-core addicts scared the h.e.l.l out of me, I didn't let that get in the way of the work I needed to do. I attended group meetings daily in a bas.e.m.e.nt room with concrete walls and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. One day, I suggested that I didn't think I was an alcoholic, or a severe case, since I didn't have any physical problems going cold turkey. A thin, pasty guy about my age said, "Buddy, there aren't different types of alcoholics. You are one or you aren't. And you are. And it don't matter if you're rich and famous like you are or a desert rat like me. The only way to beat this thing is to put a plug in the jug. Period."

During treatment and therapy sessions, I dredged up emotions and fears I had buried long ago, like the fights my parents used to have when I was a child. I remembered hearing their screams rattling through the house. It was always after my father came home drunk following one of his lengthy road trips. Then, a little after I turned six years old, my mother gave him an ultimatum: either quit drinking or she was leaving.

She left and went to a friend's house in Boston. Then my dad went back on the road.

All of a sudden I found myself, along with my brother, at my paternal grandparents'. I had no idea where my mother and father were. I was told only that they were gone. Nothing specific was said to me (and Jerry was too young to know). I sat in my grandmother's lap at night and cried. Finally my mother returned, followed by my father, and everything was all right again. I was nearly grown before they told me the truth.

During treatment, I dealt with those painful memories for the first time and faced other more recent and regrettable issues, like the way I'd snapped at Margie and the kids over the past few months. I saw myself repeating some of the mistakes my father had made and vowed to stop. There was no instant cure, but self-awareness was the first step to real change.

After three weeks at St. Luke's, I was sober for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Feeling enlightened and empowered, I understood that alcoholism is a disease, one that does not care if you have strong moral fiber or no conscience at all, and that, like it or not, I was an alcoholic. I also understood that the disease does not quit until you do. You had to wave the white flag.

I thought that by going in for treatment I was better. I certainly had more knowledge, awareness, and the tools to help me.

But, as I would learn, that wasn't enough.

On my last day at the hospital, Margie came to pick me up. I was sitting on my bed while she spoke with the counselor in the hallway. I thought she was getting tips on what was next for me. However, after a few minutes, the counselor came in and said that Margie was taking over my room.

"What?" I asked. "She's driving me home."

"No," he said. "She just checked herself in."

It turned out Margie had a problem with Librium. She'd been taking the drug for anxiety and depression and gotten hooked. I had no idea. The situation, while serious, was ironic. We were quite a pair-a drunk and an addict. I offered the same support and encouragement she had given me, and I visited regularly over the next few weeks as she confronted her problems.

As we sobered up, the two of us began to wake up to the realities of our lives, which were more complicated than we were ready to admit.

PART THREE.

You know what d.i.c.k's problem is? He always wanted to be smarter than he is.

-Jerry Van d.y.k.e

21.

SAILING AWAY.

Shortly after getting out of the hospital, I moved back to L.A., leaving Margie and the girls at the ranch. I commuted back on weekends, but putting that much distance between us was a prescription for future trouble.

Were there other options? I did not think so.

CBS had picked up The New d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show The New d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show for a third season, but the network insisted on making major changes, starting by moving production to L.A. They also gave us a new time slot, on Monday night at nine-thirty, and a creative overhaul that had my character, d.i.c.k Preston, moving to Hollywood to work on a daytime soap opera after his talk show was canceled. Some critics wondered why the network didn't cancel the show in real life. for a third season, but the network insisted on making major changes, starting by moving production to L.A. They also gave us a new time slot, on Monday night at nine-thirty, and a creative overhaul that had my character, d.i.c.k Preston, moving to Hollywood to work on a daytime soap opera after his talk show was canceled. Some critics wondered why the network didn't cancel the show in real life.

Others were even harsher. When Carl and I faced the press at the end of summer to talk about the revised premise and addition of new castmates Chita Rivera, Richard Dawson, Barbara Rush, and d.i.c.k Van Patten, I found myself defending the fact that my hair had turned white ("I have no control over that," I said, "and I'm not going to dye it") and trying to diplomatically answer a reporter's rather nasty inquiry as to why Mary's show was a hit and mine wasn't.

"I got old," I said. "Mary didn't."

People laughed, as did I, although you could hear a sour note if you listened closely. Although comforted by the fact that Carl was more involved with the scripts, I had a hard time going back to an empty apartment after work. I had never lived by myself. I had gone from my mother to Margie. I was lonely, confused, and filled with questions about my life-or rather the meaning of it-that came as a result of my struggle to stay sober.

I hadn't liked the person I became when I drank, but I wasn't especially keen on the refurbished version, either. I felt a pretty big vacancy inside. And one night in April, after going eight months without a drink, I lost my willpower. I fell off the wagon, as they say. On my way home from the studio, I stopped at the liquor store, bought a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and poured myself a drink as soon as I got home. I did not even pause to take my jacket off.

I had three more drinks before I got sick to my stomach. I poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.

Mad and disappointed with myself, I called home and made a tear-filled confession to Margie. Then I did what any other alcoholic must do if he or she is determined not to succ.u.mb to this insidious disease: I acknowledged my slip as evidence that I was powerless over my addiction and started my sobriety again from day one.

Midway through the second season we had an uncharacteristically rocky moment when CBS rejected an episode Carl wrote ("Lt. Preston of the 4th Calvary") because it contained a scene in which d.i.c.k and Jenny's daughter Annie peeks in their bedroom and sees them having s.e.x. The audience did not see anything other than Annie looking in the door, and in the next scene, after noticing Annie acting peculiarly, we wonder if in fact she saw us making love.

We have a talk with her, and in what I thought was a beautifully written moment, I explain s.e.x to Annie as an intimate physical expression of love. My character goes on and on, as he was wont to do, and he is still talking when Annie gets up and starts to leave the room. Since he's not finished, d.i.c.k asks if she has any questions.

"No," she says. "But you sure looked silly."

I thought that was the perfect response. The scene was smart, really sensitive, and funny-a cla.s.sic example of Carl Reiner's trademark touch. Today no one would question the propriety of such a scene. But back then the network thought it was too risque and the show was shelved except in Canada, where it played without complaint.

Incensed, Carl vowed to never again work with CBS (though he appeared in several specials in the early 1980s).

I delivered a shocker of my own to the network when at the end of the third season I met with CBS executives and said that, despite a b.u.mp in ratings, I did not want to do a fourth. I was finished. Out of the previous three seasons, I explained, I counted only about seven episodes that I thought achieved the standard that I envisioned.

"I want my fellow actors to be able to work again," I said in a joking tone. "If we keep going, I might ruin their careers."

Once the series wrapped production, Margie and I fled to Coronado, a secluded jewel of an island just outside of San Diego, for a long, much-needed vacation. I decompressed and she soaked up the scenery. We took long walks along the Pacific, stared at the waves, went sailing, and talked endlessly as if we were getting to know each other all over again.

Indeed, we were trying to do exactly that. If either of us realized deep down that we might have started to grow apart, we did not acknowledge it. We were high-school sweethearts who had pledged togetherness for the rest of our lives. We had four children. And so much history together, so many stories.

And yet.

Deep down.

The knowledge that people change.

Margie wanted me to retire.

I wasn't ready to stop work. Even though I held the record for talking about retiring and then changing course, what was I going to do?

"Enjoy life," Margie said.

"I do," I said.

"Take up hobbies, like me," she said.

"I already have one," I said. "It's my job."