good idea to go, but Maj insisted. She was tired of being cooped up, fat, and uncomfortable.
We had two vehicles, our Austin-Healey and a Vespa motor scooter. Maj made me get
out the Vespa so, as she said, she could feel the wind against her face.
It was against my better judgment. Nonetheless, I loaded her onto the back.
“Larry, it’s like when we were in London,” she beamed. “Let’s go.”
She held on tight and we scooted into the night. Less than a mile later, I drove over
a pothole and Maj’s water broke. It was probably the first time a pothole proved useful.
Instead of the party, we ended up at Lenox Hill Hospital, where doctors told us the
ride had induced Maj into labor.
Unfortunately it wasn’t an easy one. After several false alarms, the doctors sent
me home and promised to call when the action started. I went outside and saw the ground
was covered with snow, two feet of it. There was no traffic in the streets. New York
was at a standstill. Rather than go all the way downtown to the Village, I stayed
at Val D’Auvray’s apartment, which was just three blocks away from thehospital. A lot of years had passed since Mom had cracked open my piggy bank to flee
from him. He’d contacted me when we moved to New York City and he and his wife, Jane,
had become fast friends.
When the doctor finally called, about 3 A.M. , it wasn’t with good news. He said Maj was having trouble. The baby was stuck in
her pelvic area and he needed permission to take the baby out with a C-section. That
was major surgery. I worried about Maj and the baby and felt helpless and scared.
“Jesus, do you have to?” I asked.
“Do you want your kid to be able to count to ten?” he said.
“Take the child.”
* * *
I saw Heidi Kristina Mary in the nursery while Maj was still under anesthesia. She
was adorable. As Maj woke up, I was able to tell her our baby was perfect. After spending
a week in the hospital, Maj and the baby were ready to come home. My mother, not wanting
to think of me cramming Maj and the baby on the back of the Vespa, made sure her granddaughter
traveled in style. She sent her Rolls-Royce and chauffeur to the hospital to take
all of us home.
A week later, I received the bill for Maj’s surgery and hospital stay. It was about
$1,000. We didn’t have a cent. We couldn’t pay the bill. No way.
I met with the hospital’s head accountant, a nice woman who glanced through my paperwork
while I told her that I felt terribly embarrassed about being unable to meet my obligation.
“Larry Hagman?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember a guy named John Salmon?”
John Salmon. I hadn’t thought of him for years. But sure, I remembered him.
“He was one of my best friends at Trinity.”
She smiled warmly. “Well, I’m his mother.”
The news immediately put me at ease. She worked out a payment plan, and I went home
just as broke as before but feeling relieved. A few weeks later, I sold the Austin-Healey
for $1,200, used the bulk of that to pay off the bill, and still had $200 left over.
Suddenly we were rich.
* * *
Things got even better. My agent, Jane, came through with a job, getting me a role
in the Ziv production of
The West Point Story,
an important show at the time. I got my part, learned my lines, and was supposed
to report at 8 A.M. Monday morning at West Point, where the series was filmed. Embarrassingly, I miscalculated
how long it would take to get there and arrived two hours late for my first TV job.
I was appalled but not to the point where I gave up.
Off in the distance, on the drill field, I saw what looked like a film crew, not that
I’d ever seen one, and to make up for lost time I drove right up to it. As I jumped
the curb, I pulled off the car’s muffler and roared across the drill field. I was
greeted by the first assistant director, who threw his hat down and said, “Who the
hell are you?
We had two vehicles, our Austin-Healey and a Vespa motor scooter. Maj made me get
out the Vespa so, as she said, she could feel the wind against her face.
It was against my better judgment. Nonetheless, I loaded her onto the back.
“Larry, it’s like when we were in London,” she beamed. “Let’s go.”
She held on tight and we scooted into the night. Less than a mile later, I drove over
a pothole and Maj’s water broke. It was probably the first time a pothole proved useful.
Instead of the party, we ended up at Lenox Hill Hospital, where doctors told us the
ride had induced Maj into labor.
Unfortunately it wasn’t an easy one. After several false alarms, the doctors sent
me home and promised to call when the action started. I went outside and saw the ground
was covered with snow, two feet of it. There was no traffic in the streets. New York
was at a standstill. Rather than go all the way downtown to the Village, I stayed
at Val D’Auvray’s apartment, which was just three blocks away from thehospital. A lot of years had passed since Mom had cracked open my piggy bank to flee
from him. He’d contacted me when we moved to New York City and he and his wife, Jane,
had become fast friends.
When the doctor finally called, about 3 A.M. , it wasn’t with good news. He said Maj was having trouble. The baby was stuck in
her pelvic area and he needed permission to take the baby out with a C-section. That
was major surgery. I worried about Maj and the baby and felt helpless and scared.
“Jesus, do you have to?” I asked.
“Do you want your kid to be able to count to ten?” he said.
“Take the child.”
* * *
I saw Heidi Kristina Mary in the nursery while Maj was still under anesthesia. She
was adorable. As Maj woke up, I was able to tell her our baby was perfect. After spending
a week in the hospital, Maj and the baby were ready to come home. My mother, not wanting
to think of me cramming Maj and the baby on the back of the Vespa, made sure her granddaughter
traveled in style. She sent her Rolls-Royce and chauffeur to the hospital to take
all of us home.
A week later, I received the bill for Maj’s surgery and hospital stay. It was about
$1,000. We didn’t have a cent. We couldn’t pay the bill. No way.
I met with the hospital’s head accountant, a nice woman who glanced through my paperwork
while I told her that I felt terribly embarrassed about being unable to meet my obligation.
“Larry Hagman?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember a guy named John Salmon?”
John Salmon. I hadn’t thought of him for years. But sure, I remembered him.
“He was one of my best friends at Trinity.”
She smiled warmly. “Well, I’m his mother.”
The news immediately put me at ease. She worked out a payment plan, and I went home
just as broke as before but feeling relieved. A few weeks later, I sold the Austin-Healey
for $1,200, used the bulk of that to pay off the bill, and still had $200 left over.
Suddenly we were rich.
* * *
Things got even better. My agent, Jane, came through with a job, getting me a role
in the Ziv production of
The West Point Story,
an important show at the time. I got my part, learned my lines, and was supposed
to report at 8 A.M. Monday morning at West Point, where the series was filmed. Embarrassingly, I miscalculated
how long it would take to get there and arrived two hours late for my first TV job.
I was appalled but not to the point where I gave up.
Off in the distance, on the drill field, I saw what looked like a film crew, not that
I’d ever seen one, and to make up for lost time I drove right up to it. As I jumped
the curb, I pulled off the car’s muffler and roared across the drill field. I was
greeted by the first assistant director, who threw his hat down and said, “Who the
hell are you?
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