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Stretched out on a couch, his head resting comfortably in the lap of his beautiful wife, Gus was eating gourmet popcorn and enjoying a quiet evening at home on the television, five familiar faces filled the screen as Betty Davis began to announce the nominees for best actor in a leading role. What do you say, handsome? Up for a little wager, his wife laid out the challenge with a twinkle in her eye. Would you have in mind gorgeous loser does the dishes all month.

The entire month, he said. All the dishes down to the last spoon. She said Gus considered the field. Bob Hoskins had been great in Mona Lisa, but James Woods was equally terrific. And Salvador. I'll go with William Hurt, he said. For children of a lesser God, he's got the sensitive thing down pat. Oscar loves that kind of crap because his wife snorted in a way that somehow made snorting elegant. I'm going with the old guy with the mustache, she said.

The one with the nice eyes. Give me a break, said Gus. That guy's been nominated seven times. He never wins. Besides, this ain't his best work. Not by far. I think you're wrong, mister. I think the old man is due. I think you might have a thing for older men, he said. His wife raised an eyebrow. You should be so lucky. Just laughed. Godi love this woman.

It's a deal, he said. Loser does dishes for a month shake on it. Gus's wife extended a delicate manicured hand which he took, squeezed softly, then kissed. I'm going to go stretch my legs, sweetie. Back in a sec. Don't be too long, she said. Gus rose from the couch, opened another Budweiser and walked on to the terrace. As Betty Davis introduced clips from the nominated performances overhead. A flock of ducks flew toward the reservoir as they passed in front of a waxing moon.

He noticed a gap in their formation a missing bird about halfway down the right side of the V. And just like that, Gus was no longer overlooking Central Park, three thousand miles from the fifty ninth annual Academy Awards. He was back in the Pacific watching his squadron fly off to battle. Without him, he could still recall the conversation with his pilot forty two years earlier. And Eriq said, Gus, we can't go because you have an earache.

His pilot could only shrug. They won't let me fly with an ear infection, he said. I'm afraid we'll have to sit this one out. Gus had joined the Navy to become a pilot, a dream that was dashed when they found out he was colorblind.

Now, as the newest gunner in the squadron, he was eager to fly with his crew to the USS Bunker Hill, an aircraft carrier bound for Okinawa, where a decisive battle would soon be fought. But rules were rules. Gus was grounded and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Darling, come back in here. Betty Davis is opening the envelope. Don't you want to see this? But Gus was still back there May 11th, 1945, the day after he'd been grounded, the day two kamikazes crashed into the flight deck of the USS Bunker Hill, the day 400 Americans died in one of the deadliest attacks of the Second World War, including everyone in his squadron.

Darling, get in here.

You won't believe it. I've won. Gus, watch the ducks fly into the dark and walked back inside just in time to see Betty Davis tell 37 million viewers why the old guy with the mustache, the one with the nice eyes, wasn't there in person to accept his long overdue award. After seven previous nominations, she said Gus has opted to sit this one out. He's watching from home this evening with his beautiful wife, and we send them our warmest congratulations.

Of course, Betty Davis didn't refer to him as Gus. No one called him that since college. Fact is, no one seems to know why Gus became his nickname in the first place. Maybe it was short for asparagus back when he joined the Navy People's Sexiest Man Alive was just 17 years old, five foot three inches tall and weighed less than 100 pounds. In those days, his physique had much in common with a single stalk of asparagus.

But that's only a guess if you're really curious about why people called him Gus or why he wound up on President Nixon's list of sworn enemies, or why a fan paid 17 million dollars for the watch he used to wear. You can probably find answers in any one of the many biographies written about him. But if you're wondering why he was never bothered by the seven near misses for Best Actor in a leading role that defined his career, you need look no further than his first near miss in the Second World War, the near miss that kept him grounded for the rest of his life.

By the time the academy finally recognized his talent in 1987, the man who saw the world in black and white had little interest in the color of money or the long overdue trophy that came with his performance in that less than memorable film. As for those defective eyes that kept him from realizing his dream of becoming a pilot, well, they served him pretty well on the big screen and the small screen and of course, on countless jars of gourmet popcorn and salad dressing.

That's why in 2008, when the curtain finally came down on his long and remarkable career, the artist formerly known as Gus left behind 500 million dollars for charity, a legion of heartbroken fans and a 50 year marriage to the love of his life. And though his time with Joanne Woodward didn't earn him an Oscar, it was without a doubt his most cherished accomplishment, which is why her beautiful face was the last thing those defective baby blues ever saw. Exactly what you'd expect from the actor who knew the importance of staying grounded.

Paul Newman. Anyway, that's the way I heard it. The story you just heard is true, at least the way I heard it. Thank you, Chuck Klausmeier, for producing this podcast. Matthew Zipkin, thank you for hitting the buttons over here at one union recording studios. Thank you, gentle listener, for listening. And if you haven't subscribed and you would prefer not to miss a new episode, consider yourself officially invited to do that very thing.

Talk to you next week.