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future arrived in the form of a draft notice: “Greetings. Please report to 39 Whitehall Street for your pre-induction physical.” Although I had flunked those ten physicals during World War II, the new slimmed-down Merv (I’d lost eighty pounds since then) was certain to pass muster.
    Like a man condemned, I got all my affairs in order. First, I informed Freddy that Uncle Sam had invited me off the bus. Then I sent all my belongings back to my parents. My friends in New York gave me a big farewell party. Finally, the day came and I took the subway downtown to the main induction center on Whitehall Street (made famous by Arlo Guthrie in the song “Alice’s Restaurant”). Sure enough, I was now a perfect physical specimen. As I gathered my clothes and walked back to the desk for final processing, I remember thinking, I wonder how long it will take me to learn Korean?
    I was still lost in thought when the desk sergeant looked up at me and barked, “What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Reporting for duty, sir!”
    “Reporting for duty my ass, you’re too old. They changed the law six months ago. Twenty-six is the new cutoff.” I had just turned twenty-seven.
    Stunned, I managed to say, “What do I do now, sir?”
    “Go home. Next.”
    What was next? I didn’t go back to Freddy Martin, but as a personal favor, I did agree to appear with him in Las Vegas for a two-week booking at the Last Frontier Hotel and Casino when his newly hired singer (my replacement) had a last-minute family crisis.
    It was during this engagement that my life once more changed drastically. Again it would happen with dizzying speed, much in the way it had when I was given my own radio show after only three days or when Jean Barry asked me to lunch and, a week later, I was singing with Freddy Martin.
    This time the angel of my good fortune was one of the biggest movie stars of the fifties—the former Doris Von Kappelhoff, better known to the world as Doris Day.
    I was in my dressing room between shows (we were doing two shows a night), when I heard a light knock on the door.
    “Yes?”
    No one answered so I went over and opened the door myself. Standing there was a little boy who must have been about ten years old.
    “Mr. Griffin?”
    “What can I do for you, young man?” I smiled down at him, already feeling for a pen in my pocket to give him an autograph. (People never have their own pens.)
    “My name is Terry and my dad wants to sign you for the movies and my mom wants to make a movie with you.” I’d heard a lot of good stories, but this was a new one on me.
    Playing along, I said, “Hey, that’s great, kid. So who’s your mom?”
    “Doris Day.”
    I stared at him blankly for a moment. He might as well have said Queen Elizabeth. When I found my voice, all I could think to say was, “I love your mother.”
    He ran out and brought both of his parents back to meet me. Needless to say, his mother really was Doris Day, and his stepfather was her husband and manager, Marty Melcher. Doris was under contract at Warner Brothers and she told me that I’d be perfect for the kind of musicals that she was making there. Doris and Marty promised to arrange a screen test for me right away.
    Elated, I flew to Los Angeles immediately following my final show with Freddy. After taking my screen test a few days later, I signed my name on a long-term contract with Warner Brothers for the staggering sum of $250 a week. ( “You don’t understand very much about economics, do you, son?” )
    The ink wasn’t even dry when the studio started trying to “fix” me. They began with the name I’d just affixed to my contract.
    “We don’t think your name works. How about Mark Griffin?”
    I said, “Well, I’ve had my own radio show and a number one record with that name, so I think it works fine.”
    “Okay, then how about changing the spelling? We can add a second ‘e.’ You’ll be Merve Griffin.”
    I resisted the temptation to say, “Hey,