The Other Side of Me

The Other Side of Me
Sidney Sheldon

A brilliant, highly spirited memoir of Sidney Sheldon's early life that provides as compulsively readable and racy a narrative as any of his bestselling novels.Growing up in 1930s America, the young Sidney knew what it was to struggle to get by. Millions were out of work and the Sheldon family was forced to journey around America in search of employment. Grabbing every chance he could, Sidney worked nights as a busboy, a clerk, an usher – anything – but he dreamt of becoming something more.His dream was to become a writer and to break Hollywood. By a stroke of luck, he found work as a reader for David Selznick, a top Hollywood producer, and the dream began to materialise.Sheldon worked through the night writing stories for the movies, and librettos for the musical theatre. Little by little he gained a reputation and soon found himself in demand by the hottest producers and stars in Hollywood.But, this was wartime Hollywood and Sidney had to play his part. He trained as a pilot in the US Army Air Corps and waited for the call to arms which could put a stop to his dreams of stardom.Returning to Hollywood and working with actors like Cary Grant and Shirley Temple; with legendary producers like David Selznick and Dore Schary; and musical stars like Irving Berlin, Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, memories of poverty were finally behind Sheldon. This is his story: the story of a life on both sides of the tracks, of struggles and of success, and of how one man rose against the odds to become the master of his game.

The Other Side of Me

Sidney Sheldon

For my beloved granddaughters, Lizy and Rebecca

so that they will know what a magical journey I had

‘He that has no fools, knaves nor beggars in his family was begot by a flash of lightning.’

THOMAS FULLER

Seventeenth-century English clergyman

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u4cccf2a9-55c7-55a9-9186-3fa3104d1503)

Title Page (#ue7863664-84d9-5d3b-8dd7-dc63e6828b2a)

Dedication (#u2690f910-f637-5b2b-ae22-a73c6e7eed60)

Epigraph (#u7c604738-ecd4-59cb-a891-01c4ec4197f2)

One (#u8ab9e53d-6ced-55c2-81ef-116980d37444)

Two (#ube0861f9-9e0f-544d-b361-82a27c739e67)

Three (#u84030215-7a93-55ad-881c-9f207c4fd0b3)

Four (#u54e8e785-d8f2-55e8-aee4-bee5373a3816)

Five (#u76649785-5c3b-50e2-a8fc-b43a329aca3d)

Six (#u17ad8896-ab3a-5431-ba57-9a6f71f2bcc1)

Seven (#u4a5f49b7-78b5-5880-bacc-f5d9281fd64e)

Eight (#u10084784-25d7-5fc1-9c66-cc6afe3c7e72)

Nine (#uc2dfb3d1-ae29-52a5-9e26-6e972de82488)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)

Sidney Sheldon’s Credits (#litres_trial_promo)

Index (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Books by Sidney Sheldon (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

ONE (#ulink_35f7607f-6c31-56d0-bf71-3e1ab0c71225)

At the age of seventeen, working as a delivery boy at Afremow’s drugstore in Chicago was the perfect job, because it made it possible for me to steal enough sleeping pills to commit suicide. I was not certain exactly how many pills I would need, so I arbitrarily decided on twenty, and I was careful to pocket only a few at a time so as not to arouse the suspicion of our pharmacist. I had read that whiskey and sleeping pills were a deadly combination, and I intended to mix them, to make sure I would die.

It was Saturday—the Saturday I had been waiting for. My parents would be away for the weekend and my brother, Richard, was staying at a friend’s. Our apartment would be deserted, so there would be no one there to interfere with my plan.

At six o’clock, the pharmacist called out, ‘Closing time.’

He had no idea how right he was. It was time to close out all the things that were wrong with my life. I knew it wasn’t just me. It was the whole country.