genius at the table. One night, as Rob and I walked across the old railroad tracks in Hollywood, he made a surprising confession.
“You’re the first Jewish girl that I’ve liked,” he said.
I looked at him like he was missing the obvious.
“That’s because I’m not Jewish,” I said.
Then, all of a sudden, our relationship was put on hold. Rob had a nervous breakdown. He moved back in with his parents and dropped out of sight. I thought it was because I’d told him that I’d liked him, too. It might have been too much for him to handle. As time went on, though, I understood this wasn’t about me. Although he had written for
The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour
and
The Smothers Brothers,
and his play had won an award, none of that was enough. He was under extraordinary pressure to succeed and make a name for himself, separate from his father, and I thought perhaps he had buckled under the weight of his own expectations.
I stayed in contact with him as best I could. I got updates from Carl Gottlieb and spoke fairly often with Rob’s parents. They were mystified. He couldn’t work. At first he felt too much of everything, and then he went through a phase where he felt nothing. Literally. If he hit his arm against a tree, he didn’t have any pain. He didn’t have any sensation whatsoever.
Then, a few months later, I checked in with his father and things had improved. “He shaved today!” Carl said. It was the breakthrough all of us had been hoping for. From that point on, Rob improved slowly but steadily. Soon we were hanging out again. He would call and ask if I wanted to get something to eat or go to a movie and I always made myself available.
I was now living in a one-bedroom, ground-floor apartment on Palm, just off Sunset Boulevard. Barry Levinson, who was then writing comedy with Craig T. Nelson, had helped me move. I decorated the walls with jigsaw puzzles that I glued together after completing them. Jerry Belson came over one day and warned that that was a sign of sickness, not art. I disagreed. I thought it was a sign that I didn’t have enough money to afford anything else.
Those were tough times. I spent three days on a Jack in the Box commercial shoot, playing a pregnant woman whose husband stops for a burger on the way to the hospital. George Furth, who was collaborating with Stephen Sondheim on the play
Company,
was my husband. I expected to make enough from the commercial to pay my rent for several months. But the ad was pulled at the last minute. Apparently you weren’t supposed to show a pregnant woman detouring from the hospital. I guess someone at the FCC feared that thousands of babies would be born in the drive-through line.
I was also in an episode of
Love, American Style,
playing opposite actor Mike Farrell in a segment titled “Love and the Pickup.” The script described my part as the “homely girl at a bar.” Was I? Apparently. After I saw myself, I cried for three days. Reading those parts could send you to a psychiatrist for years. (Note to future scriptwriters: Don’t describe girls as ugly, fat, or homely. You can tell the director quietly, in private. But it’s not nice.)
Then I hit a new low point when someone tried to break into my apartment. It was late at night, and I was in bed. I had the window open a crack because it was hot. I had just put my book down and turned off the light when the lamp on my nightstand fell over with a crash. Startled, I noticed a large hand reaching through the Levolor windows next to me, searching for something to grab onto. I leapt out of bed and screamed.
My neighbor, Jesse Pearson, the actor who had played Conrad Birdie in
Bye Bye Birdie,
raced over from next door as soon as he heard my frightened scream. From behind the door where I was hiding, I pointed toward the window. Jesse yanked up the blinds and standing there was a guy holding his shoes in his hand. He looked as startled as we were.
“Don’t get upset,” he said, waving
“You’re the first Jewish girl that I’ve liked,” he said.
I looked at him like he was missing the obvious.
“That’s because I’m not Jewish,” I said.
Then, all of a sudden, our relationship was put on hold. Rob had a nervous breakdown. He moved back in with his parents and dropped out of sight. I thought it was because I’d told him that I’d liked him, too. It might have been too much for him to handle. As time went on, though, I understood this wasn’t about me. Although he had written for
The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour
and
The Smothers Brothers,
and his play had won an award, none of that was enough. He was under extraordinary pressure to succeed and make a name for himself, separate from his father, and I thought perhaps he had buckled under the weight of his own expectations.
I stayed in contact with him as best I could. I got updates from Carl Gottlieb and spoke fairly often with Rob’s parents. They were mystified. He couldn’t work. At first he felt too much of everything, and then he went through a phase where he felt nothing. Literally. If he hit his arm against a tree, he didn’t have any pain. He didn’t have any sensation whatsoever.
Then, a few months later, I checked in with his father and things had improved. “He shaved today!” Carl said. It was the breakthrough all of us had been hoping for. From that point on, Rob improved slowly but steadily. Soon we were hanging out again. He would call and ask if I wanted to get something to eat or go to a movie and I always made myself available.
I was now living in a one-bedroom, ground-floor apartment on Palm, just off Sunset Boulevard. Barry Levinson, who was then writing comedy with Craig T. Nelson, had helped me move. I decorated the walls with jigsaw puzzles that I glued together after completing them. Jerry Belson came over one day and warned that that was a sign of sickness, not art. I disagreed. I thought it was a sign that I didn’t have enough money to afford anything else.
Those were tough times. I spent three days on a Jack in the Box commercial shoot, playing a pregnant woman whose husband stops for a burger on the way to the hospital. George Furth, who was collaborating with Stephen Sondheim on the play
Company,
was my husband. I expected to make enough from the commercial to pay my rent for several months. But the ad was pulled at the last minute. Apparently you weren’t supposed to show a pregnant woman detouring from the hospital. I guess someone at the FCC feared that thousands of babies would be born in the drive-through line.
I was also in an episode of
Love, American Style,
playing opposite actor Mike Farrell in a segment titled “Love and the Pickup.” The script described my part as the “homely girl at a bar.” Was I? Apparently. After I saw myself, I cried for three days. Reading those parts could send you to a psychiatrist for years. (Note to future scriptwriters: Don’t describe girls as ugly, fat, or homely. You can tell the director quietly, in private. But it’s not nice.)
Then I hit a new low point when someone tried to break into my apartment. It was late at night, and I was in bed. I had the window open a crack because it was hot. I had just put my book down and turned off the light when the lamp on my nightstand fell over with a crash. Startled, I noticed a large hand reaching through the Levolor windows next to me, searching for something to grab onto. I leapt out of bed and screamed.
My neighbor, Jesse Pearson, the actor who had played Conrad Birdie in
Bye Bye Birdie,
raced over from next door as soon as he heard my frightened scream. From behind the door where I was hiding, I pointed toward the window. Jesse yanked up the blinds and standing there was a guy holding his shoes in his hand. He looked as startled as we were.
“Don’t get upset,” he said, waving
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