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I had met his bride-to-be, Sydney Singer, when I lived in Denver. Sydney was a young, attractive secretary who had worked in Harry’s brokerage office, where Seymour met her. I found her to be warm and intelligent, with a nice sense of humor.
The wedding was simple, with just the members of the family there. When the ceremony was over, I congratulated Seymour. ‘She’s a terrific girl,’ I told him. ‘Hang on to her.’
‘Don’t worry. I intend to.’
Six months later, they went through a bitter divorce.
‘What happened?’ I asked Seymour.
‘She found out I was having an affair.’
‘And she asked for a divorce?’
‘No. She forgave me.’
‘Then why—?’
‘She caught me with someone else. That’s when she divorced me.’
‘Do you ever see her?’
‘No, she hates my guts. She told me she never wants to see me again. She went to Hollywood. She has a brother out there. She got a job as a secretary at MGM for a woman director. Dorothy Arzner.’
My very brief foray into radio had given me a taste for it and I had become excited about its possibilities. Radio could well be the profession I was looking for. In every minute of my spare time, I haunted WBBM and other Chicago radio stations, looking for a job as an announcer. There were no jobs, period. I had to face the fact that I was back in the same deadly trap, with no prospects for the future.
One Sunday afternoon when everyone was out of the apartment, I sat down at our little spinet piano. I sat there, creating a melody. I decided it was not bad and I put lyrics to it. I called it ‘My Silent Self.’ I looked at it and thought, Now what? I could either let it sit inside the piano bench, or I could try to do something with it.
I decided to try to do something.
In that year, 1936, the major hotels in the country had orchestras in their ballrooms that broadcast coast to coast. At the Bismarck Hotel the orchestra leader was an amiable young musician named Phil Levant. I had never spoken to him, but from time to time, when he passed the checkroom on his way to the ballroom, we would nod at each other.
I resolved to show my song to him. As he passed the checkroom that evening, I said, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Levant. I’ve written a song and I wonder if you would mind taking a look at it.’
The expression on his face gave me an idea of how many times he had heard that request, but he was very gracious.
‘Glad to,’ he said.
I handed him a copy of the sheet music. He glanced at it and walked away. That’s the end of that, I thought.
An hour later, Phil Levant was back at the checkroom.
‘That song of yours…’ he said.
I was holding my breath. ‘Yes?’
‘I like it. It’s original. I think it could be a hit. Would you mind if I had an orchestration made, and we played it?’
Mind? ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s—that’s wonderful.’
He liked my song.
The following evening, while I was hanging hats and coats, from around the corner in the huge ballroom I heard ‘My Silent Self’ being played. I was thrilled. Since the orchestra was broadcasting nationwide, people would be hearing my song all over the country. It was a heady feeling.
When I finished work late that night, I went home, exhausted, and got into a hot bath.
Just as I was relaxing, Otto hurried into the bathroom. ‘There’s a telephone call for you.’
At this hour? ‘Who is it?’
‘He says his name is Phil Levant.’
I leaped out of the tub, grabbed a towel and hurried to the telephone.
‘Mr. Levant?’
‘Sheldon, there’s a publisher here from Harms Music Company. They heard your song over the air, in New York. They want to publish it.’
I almost dropped the phone.
‘Can you come down here right away? He’s waiting for you.’
‘I’m on my way.’ I dried myself off and hurriedly got dressed again. I grabbed a copy of the sheet music.
‘What’s going on?’ Otto asked.
I explained it to him. ‘Can I borrow the car?’
‘Certainly.’ He handed me the keys. ‘Be careful.’
I hurried downstairs, got into the car and headed for the Outer Drive, on my way to the Bismarck Hotel. My mind was racing with the excitement of having my first song published, when I heard a siren behind me, and saw a flashing red light. As I pulled over to the side of the road, a policeman got off his motorcycle and came up to the car.
‘What’s your rush?’
‘I didn’t know I was speeding, Officer. I’m on my way to meet a music publisher at the Bismarck Hotel. I work there, in the checkroom. Someone wants to publish my song and I—’
‘Driver’s license?’
I showed him my license. He put it in his pocket. ‘Okay. Follow me.’
I was staring at him. ‘Follow you where? Just give me a ticket. I’m in a big—’
‘There’s a new procedure,’ he said. ‘We’re not giving out tickets anymore. We’re taking offenders right to the station.’
My heart sank. ‘Officer, I have to go to this meeting. If you could just give me a ticket, I’d be glad to—’
‘I said follow me.’
I had no choice.
He started up his motorcycle and took off ahead of me. I followed him. Instead of meeting my new publisher, I was on my way to a police station.
I reached the next corner just as the light changed from amber to red. He went through it. I stopped, waiting for it to turn green again. When I started to go, the motorcycle policeman was nowhere in sight. I went slowly to make sure that he didn’t think I was trying to lose him. The farther I got, the more optimistic I became. He was gone. He had forgotten about me. He was looking for someone else to send to jail. I began to speed up again and headed for the Bismarck.
I parked the car in the garage and hurried to the checkroom. I could not believe what I saw. The policeman was inside, waiting for me, and he was furious. ‘You thought you could get away from me, huh?’
I was bewildered. ‘I wasn’t trying to get away from you. I gave you my driver’s license and I told you I was coming here, and—’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re here. Now we’re going to the station.’
I was desperate. ‘Let me call my father.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve wasted enough—’
‘It will only take a second.’
‘Go ahead. But make it brief.’
I dialed my home number.
Otto answered. ‘Hello.’
‘Otto—’
‘How did it go?’
‘I’m on my way to the police station.’ I explained the situation to him.
Otto said, ‘Let me talk to the officer.’
I held the phone out to the policeman. ‘My father wants to talk to you.’
He reluctantly took the phone. ‘Yes…No, I haven’t time to listen. I’m taking your son to the station…What?…Oh, really?…That’s interesting. I know what you mean…As a matter of fact, I do…I have a brother-in-law who needs a job…Really? Let me write that down.’ He took out a pen and a pad and began to write. ‘That’s very nice of you, Mr. Sheldon. I’ll send him around in the morning.’ He glanced at me. ‘And don’t worry about your son.’
I was listening to this conversation, openmouthed. The officer replaced the receiver, handed me my driver’s license and said, ‘Don’t let me catch you speeding again.’
I watched him leave.
I said to the hatcheck girl, ‘Where’s Phil Levant?’
‘He’s conducting the orchestra,’ she said, ‘but someone is waiting to see you in the manager’s office.’
In the manager’s office I found a dapper, well-dressed man who appeared to be in his fifties.
As I walked in, he said, ‘So, this is the Boy Wonder. My name is Brent. I’m with TB Harms.’
TB Harms was one of the biggest music publishers in the world. ‘They heard your song in New York,’ he told me, ‘and they’d like to publish it.’
My heart was singing.
He hesitated. ‘There’s just one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They don’t think Phil Levant is a big enough name to introduce your song. They’d like someone more important to give it a real send-off.’
My heart sank. I did not know anyone more important.
‘Horace Heidt is playing at the Drake Hotel,’ Brent said. ‘Maybe you could go talk to him and show him your song.’ Horace Heidt was one of the most popular bandleaders in the country.
‘Sure.’
He handed me his card. ‘Have him give me a call.’
‘I will,’ I promised.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Horace Heidt would still be playing. I got into Otto’s car and drove very slowly to the Drake Hotel. When I arrived, I made my way to the ballroom where Horace Heidt was conducting his orchestra.
As I walked in, the maître d’ asked, ‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘No. I’m here to see Mr. Heidt.’
‘You can wait there.’ He pointed to an empty table against a back wall.
I waited fifteen minutes, and when Horace Heidt stepped off the bandstand, I intercepted him. ‘Mr. Heidt, my name is Sidney Sheldon. I have a song here that—’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have time to—’
‘But Harms wants to—’
He started to walk away.
‘Harms wants to publish it,’ I called after him, ‘but they want someone like you behind it.’
He stopped and walked back to me. ‘Let me see it.’
I handed him the sheet music.
He studied it as if he was hearing it in his mind. ‘That’s a nice song.’
‘Would you be interested?’ I asked.
He looked up. ‘Yes. I’ll want fifty percent of it.’
I would have given him a hundred percent. ‘Great!’ I handed him the card that Brent had given me.
‘I’ll have an orchestration made. Come back and see me tomorrow.’
The following night, when I returned to the Drake Hotel, I heard my song being played by Horace Heidt and his orchestra, and it sounded even better than Phil Levant’s arrangement. I sat down and waited until Horace Heidt was free. He came over to the table where I was seated.
