So I started work on Apple Annie, the story of a poor little old lady who sold apples on the street corner, but in letters to her son back East she pretended to be a wealthy dowager throwing lavish parties every night. But the son was coming out to visit her and soon the game would be up, unless she could find a way to fool him. So with the aid of a gang of less-than-honest bookies, gamblers, etc. they would manage to help her pull it off.
（By the way, many years later Apple Annie turned into a movie called Pocketful of Miracles [1961] with a wonderful performance by Bette Davis.）
I was lucky my next-door office neighbor was a guy by the name of Alfred Hayes, who had written a novel with a beautiful love story about a GI and an Italian girl called The Girl on the Via Flaminia. He was also from New York, so we hit it off. Alfred was actually born in the Jewish neighborhood of London called Whitechapel and came to New York when he was only three. We had lunch every day and traded stories about growing up in New York City.
One day, when we came back from lunch Alfred noticed that his name was not on his door. I said, “Maybe it’s on the floor?” The nameplates could be slid in and out from the slots on the doors. So we looked around for it, but we couldn’t find it. Alfred called downstairs to report that his name was not on his door, and he couldn’t find it. The explanation was simple and terrible. They told him thank you for services rendered, but he was no longer needed at Columbia Pictures.
He said, “I guess that’s the way they fire you. They just slide your name off the door!”
That night, I was so angry I couldn’t sleep. I decided I had to do something about how Alfred was treated. I got up real early and snuck into the building with the janitorial staff at six a.m. I went to the third floor. I took every name from its slot on the door. I went down to the first floor. I took every nameplate from the first floor and put them in the empty slots of the third floor. And then I went to the second floor and swapped those out too. In a fit of outraged insanity, I changed the name on every door at Columbia Pictures! Then I went back up to my office, put my feet on my desk, and fell asleep.
After an hour or two I was awakened by an incredible din in the halls outside my office. It seemed that people were upset. All of Columbia Pictures was flooded with angry agents and lawyers.
I was happy. I had gotten even.
Unfortunately, around four o’clock that same day there was a tap on my door. Jerry Wald stuck his head in and said, “Mel…you were seen.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “Yes, somebody saw you change all the names and Harry Cohn wants to see you in his office.”
Ten minutes later I was on the red carpet in the office of the head of Columbia Pictures, Harry Cohn. （Strangely enough, his office carpet was actually red.）
He was not happy.
Freddy Kohlmar and Jerry Wald pleaded my case. They said things like:
“He’s a crazy kid! He does crazy things!”
“But he’s good! He’s funny! He’s writing for us.”
“He’s gonna make us money! Don’t fire him, Harry.”
Cohn, his face boiling with rage, shouted, “I don’t want him fired! I don’t want him fired. I want him KILLED!”
And I knew that he probably knew exactly the guys who could do it.
But thanks to Freddy and Jerry, I got off with just a blast of angry invective. After my tour of duty at Columbia was over, I was happy to head home to New York. My first foray into movies was an unmitigated disaster. Oh, so happy to be back to the safety of television and the talent of Sid Caesar.
But Hollywood was not wasted on me. I realized there was a big difference between movies and television. As a writer, a movie afforded you all the time you needed to develop characters, story, and a satisfying denouement. Television gave you no time at all. I also realized that films lasted a long time—sometimes forever. But television was forgotten the week after it aired. I brought this new understanding home to Sid Caesar.
We had done two seasons, actually three seasons, if you count The Admiral Broadway Revue and two of Your Show of Shows. Sid was one of, if not the hottest comedian in America. We were among the highest-rated shows on TV and we were doing an hour and a half show thirty-nine times a year. Amazing by today’s or any other standards.
So I asked Sid to have dinner with me—just he and I alone.
He answered with, “What is it? You’re not going to quit, are you? If it’s a matter of money I could get you a raise.”
I said, “No, no. Not going to quit. It’s not a matter of money, it’s a matter of survival.”