Hello Darlin'

Auteur

Larry Hagman and Todd Gold

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On November 21, 1980, over 350 million people worldwide tuned in to find out: Who shot J.R.? In portraying the scheming, ruthless J.R. in Dallas during its run from 1978 to 1991, Larry Hagman reached a level of fame and recognition that is rare, if not unique. Now the man behind J.R. tells his own story in an autobiography that is at once rowdy and moving, self-searching and scandalous, juicy and a "recovery story" — and often outrageously funny.

Though Larry Hagman is best known for his starring roles in two hugely successful television series, I Dream of Jeannie and Dallas, his life has been a star act from birth. Born into the theatrical purple as the son of the legendary Mary Martin, Larry Hagman received his first exposure to the heady world of show business through Broadway's most beloved leading lady. Following a stint in a soap opera, he got his big break with I Dream of Jeannie, and from that came instant fame and celebrity, from which he never looked back.

It was as J.R., however, in the phenomenally successful series Dallas (the second longest-running TV drama in history), that Hagman earned his greatest fame. Taking the reader behind the scenes, he shares many stories of ego clashes, off-screen relationships, and flamboyant behavior during his work on that series—and the pain he experienced as drugs and alcohol began to take their toll. The greatest drama in Larry Hagman's life came when he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver and entered into a race against time to find a liver donor.

Dishy, witty, frank, and unsparing of Larry Hagman himself and of others, Hello Darlin'! is, like its author, destined for international fame—a rare memoir by a show-business celebrity that not only makes us laugh, applaud, and cry, but also leaves us with respect and admiration for a man who can not only tell a good story about others, but reveal something of himself.

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Chapter One

For Bob and Melinda Wynn, it was a big night. Maybe the biggest. Bob was a Texas wildcatter who'd made and lost fortunes and at the moment was flush enough for his wife to serve as the chairperson of the Cattle Barons Ball, a cancer fund-raiser that was the hottest ticket among the social elite in Dallas. Bob's wife, Melinda, was exquisitely beautiful. He wanted the best for her, from diamonds to clothes (like the Bob Mackie gown she'd had made for the evening) to social status, which hosting the ball ensured.

Like so many of Bob's endeavors, it appeared to be working. Everyone who was anyone in Dallas was on the grounds outside of Southfork, the epicenter of so much sex, sleaze, and scandal on television's highest-rated series. It was exciting, like being on a Hollywood set. Even better, a fleet of helicopters swooped in, circling overhead, and then it began to rain money -- one-hundred-dollar bills.

Within moments they knew that each helicopter carried one of the stars from Dallas and that I was in the lead chopper, the guy in the white Stetson who was tossing out handfuls of the one-hundred-dollar bills with my picture on them and the saying "In Hagman We Trust." As all of us stepped onto the lawn, people cheered and waved. Some shouted, "We love you, J.R.," and I could feel the atmosphere turn electric. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Bob Wynn grinning.

But his good mood didn't last long. As I knew from having lost money in one of his oil deals, Bob's ventures often had another side, and this grand evening did too -- rain. Not long after I arrived, the nighttime sky unleashed a storm of biblical force. It just poured. I was supposed to introduce the night's entertainment, country music legend Johnny Cash. By the time I arrived backstage, I had mud up to the crotch of my white Western-style tux, the power had gone off, and Johnny was telling Bob why he couldn't play.

"There's a damn good chance me and my band could get electrocuted out there."

Bob stepped forward until there wasn't any space between him and Mr. Cash.

"Look, you son of a bitch," he growled, "if you don't go out there and play, I'm going to blow your head off."

I have no doubt he might have done it too. Neither did Cash, who followed my introduction onto the stage, which, in the absence of electrical power, was illuminated by headlights from a bunch of Cadillacs and Rolls-Royces that were hastily moved into a semicircle. The introduction over, I hurried out to the audience, where my chair sunk into the mud. The woman next to me chuckled; hers was even deeper. We spoke briefly. She was from out of state, Cleveland or somewhere.

When the power was restored, and after a couple of songs, the man seated behind the woman asked the guy in front of her to remove his ten-gallon cowboy hat. It was blocking his view. It was blocking everybody's view. When his request was ignored, he waited about fifteen seconds, reached over the lady, and knocked the guy's hat off. She and I exchanged nervous glances as the man slowly turned around, asked for his hat, and put it back on. A few moments later the scene was repeated. But this time, before the hat hit the ground, the guy wheeled around and threw a vicious punch. It missed its target, who ducked, and instead hit the woman square on her forehead.

She tumbled backward in the mud. I saw a huge goose egg form just above her nose. I thought she was dead.

Meanwhile, the two men went at each other, fists flying and all that. As security intervened, I noticed Bob Wynn had taken over the microphone. He was asking everyone if they were having a good time. Despite the rain, it seemed like they were -- except for the woman lying at my feet. An emergency medical team had rushed over and were working on her. A few minutes passed before she opened her eyes. She looked right at me without any recognition and asked where the hell she was.

"Dallas," I said. "Welcome to Dallas, honey."

My arrival in Texas, though much less violent, would over time lead to moments of real drama.

I was born in Fort Worth, Texas, on September 21, 1931. My mother was seventeen. She had married and become pregnant almost the moment her marriage was consummated. She had no idea about sex. Nor did she have much of a clue about motherhood. It just happened as if it was supposed to, like so many events in life seem when you look back on them.

But Mom did things her way, and her way was rarely traditional.

Her father, Preston Martin, was a prominent lawyer in town. Her mother, Juanita Presley, had taught violin at the community college. Mother was born in the family's modest home. According to her, my grandfather signaled her birth to the neighbors by raising the bedroom curtain, and she liked to say, "Curtains have been going up for me ever since."

My mother was a good-looking child. She sang the words to every song the town band played on Saturday nights outside the courthouse. At twelve, she took voice lessons. She would describe herself as the best customer at the Palace, the town's only movie theater. She began to dream about becoming a performer after seeing Al Jolson sing "Mammy," and soon she was able to mimic Ruby Keeler, ZaSu Pitts, and other stars of the day.

"Give me four people and I'm on," she said. "Give me four hundred and I'm a hundred times more on."

My father, Ben Hagman, had his own flair. He was a criminal attorney who, at six feet and 240 pounds, commanded a courtroom the way Mother did a stage. He once defended a man who'd gone into a sleazy bar on Jacksboro Highway and taken a shot at the bartender. While he missed the bartender, the bullet went through the bar's thin metal siding and killed a lady seated in a pickup parked outside.

Dad got a hurry-up call from the shooter, who'd been arrested on murder c…