Big Man

by Clarence Clemons

  Standing by the car. Daphne was looking down at her little-girl shoes, with her hands in the pockets of her little-girl dress.

  “So this whole thing was planned?” said Clarence. “This meeting was calculated? Set up?”

  “We’ve been writing each other for months,” she said. “But we had never met.”

  “And my part in this was what, taxi driver?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I had planned to come up here on my own, but then we met in Boston, and you were so sweet, and I thought it might be fun to drive up here with you.”

  “And let Jerry see you with a big black guy?”

  “Jerry is neither jealous nor prejudiced, I can assure you,” she said.

  “Daphne, that guy is old enough to be your grandfather,” he said.

  “He’s my hero,” she said. Then she stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she said.

  He was in a phone booth an hour later talking to his friend Terry Magovern, who was back in Jersey. Terry became his assistant and later worked in the same job for Bruce.

  “Where are you?” asked Terry.

  “Nowhere,” said Clarence.

  “Springsteen is looking for you,” he said. “He called like ten times already. He’s in some studio. Said he needs to talk to you.”

  “Have you got a number for him?” asked Clarence.

  “Yeah, right here,” said Terry. “You got a pen?”

  Clarence took the fancy blue pen out of his shirt pocket.

  “I sure do,” he said.

  Neptune, New Jersey, 1972

  Clarence

  For reasons I don’t understand, I’ve always been aware of the song playing in the minor keys, the dark melody that runs counterpoint to life’s sweeter song. The one that says time is short.

  That thought was in my mind when I made the decision to go down to Seldin’s Jewelry store to talk to Norman.

  When I walked in Norman was with a customer. The customer was a small woman with gray hair holding a big purse under her arm. They both looked up when I came in. The woman grabbed her purse tighter. Norman smiled and held up a finger.

  The air-conditioning in the store felt good to me. It was only ten thirty but it was already hot outside. Summertime in New Jersey.

  I looked at the display cases filled with rings and watches. I looked at the big silver Rolex. Someday, I thought.

  After a few minutes Norman finished his business with the woman. She kept her eye on me as she left.

  “Big Man,” said Norman. “What are you doing here?”

  Norman was smiling, but I could see the look in his eyes. Norman knew what was coming.

  I also noticed that he had brought the red Afro down an inch or two more. He started to change his look about six months ago, at about the same time that Karen had left the band.

  “I wanted to talk to you in person,” I began.

  “Uh-oh,” said Norman. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He laughed nervously. He had one of those jackhammer laughs that was equal parts infectious and annoying.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I got an offer from Bruce and I’ve decided to take it. He’s in the studio right now with his album.”

  Norman looked down and then out the windows to the street. There weren’t a lot of people walking around on account of the heat. Finally he looked back at me.

  “Clarence,” he said. “I love you, man, but I’ve got to be honest with you. You’re making a huge mistake.”

  I had considered that possibility. Maybe it was a huge mistake. There was really no way to predict what would happen. I just knew that when I played with Bruce it felt right. Exactly right. It was like the hat I’d gotten in Puerto Rico. The second I put it on it fit perfectly.

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But like the man said, if you don’t take a chance you haven’t got one.”

  “We’ve been together what, two, two and a half years?” asked Norman.

  This was worse than breaking up with a chick. Norman seemed set on doing the entire dance.

  “ ’Bout that,” I said.

  “It’s been pretty good, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “This isn’t about you, Norman, you’ve been great. I know you took some heat putting me in the band and I’m grateful. I’ve just gotta give this a shot.”

  “I think the Noyze is right on the edge, Clarence,” said Norman. “I think we could be big.”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  Outside a fire truck roared past, sirens wailing.

  “But I don’t think that’s what’s in the cards for Bruce,” Norman said. “Record deal or no record deal. I’ve heard his stuff, Clarence. He thinks he’s the next Bob Dylan or something. He uses too many words.”

  I thought that was an accurate assessment. Bruce did use a lot of words. A torrent of words. I sometimes thought of cloudbursts when I heard Bruce singing. An impossible amount of rain crammed into too little time. “Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat / In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat,” Bruce sang on one of the new songs. I had no fucking idea what any of it meant, but it had that Chuck Berry syncopation, using vowels and consonants like musical notes. Instead of “School Days” or “Memphis,” Bruce was singing about finding the keys to the universe in the engine of an old parked car.

  He was like Dylan. But I thought he was like Elvis, too. And he was like Jerry Lee Lewis and even a little Hank Williams.

  And musically Bruce was an adventure. The guy would try anything. There was an amazing amount of stuff going on in Bruce’s head all the time.

  But there was no point in trying to explain any of this to Norman.

  “I know,” I said instead.

  “You know how many ‘new Dylans’ there have been who are out of the business now?” asked Norman.

  I thought of pointing out the fact that we were having this conversation in a fucking jewelry store, but I didn’t.

  “I know all that, Norman,” I said. “What can I say, man? I’ve decided to give it a shot.”

  “What’s he paying you?” asked Norman.

  This was an issue. I was going to be making next to nothing. Twenty, maybe twenty-five bucks a week. We were all going to starve for a while. Maybe a long while. Bruce’s insistence on not doing covers cost us a lot of gigs. But if the record hit, the jobs would come and the money would go up fast.

  “We haven’t talked about money yet,” I lied.

  “Federici told me he’s only getting fifteen bucks a week when you average it out,” said Norman. “I can guarantee you thirty-five and on some gigs, like the Wonder Bar, I’ll give you fifty.”

  “You’re not making this easy,” I said.

  “I don’t want it to be easy, C. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you do something that you’re going to regret for the rest of your life. You could end up being a sideman for Helena Troy, ’cause when you close this door it’s going to stay closed.”

  “I understand that,” I said.

  Norman had finally gotten to it. It wasn’t really a threat—he was too nice a guy for that—but it was clear that this bridge was going to burn.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’ve made up my mind.”

  Norman stood up straight and let out a big sigh. He looked out to the street again, then just stood there and nodded his head for a while.

  “All right then,” he said. “If that’s the way it is, all I can do is wish you good luck.”

  He extended his hand. I shook it. I felt simultaneously exhilarated and terrified. I knew that I had just stepped off the edge of something high. “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “You’re going to need it,” said Norman.

  The Legend of the Phone Call, Beverly Hills, 1972

  I was only on half of the phone call in this next story so I can’t swear that it’s true, I’ve filled in the blanks on the other end of the line the way I imagine that it happe
ned. —C.C.

  The phone rang.

  It was in an empty phone booth located on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. It was one o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. It was October 26, 1972.

  Groucho Marx was walking down the street with Erin Fleming. Groucho wore glasses and a black beret. Erin was in a pantsuit and held his arm to support him. Groucho heard the phone ringing, looked at Erin, and smiled. She rolled her eyes.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  Groucho stepped into the phone booth and picked up the receiver.

  “Dewey, Cheetem, and Howe,” he said.

  “I’m looking for Lovey,” said Clarence.

  “Good lucky,” said Groucho.

  “Is this the right number for Lovey Dexter?”

  “It could be,” said Groucho. “Who’s calling?”

  Erin gave a theatrical sigh and indicated through hand signals that she’d be going into the store behind her. It was Gucci. Groucho waved okay to her and she left.

  “This is Clarence Clemons.”

  “And Clarence, pray tell, how do you know Lovey?”

  “Is this her dad?” Clarence asked.

  “That’s a possibility,” said Groucho. “But I doubt it.”

  “I met her in a club in Jersey about a week ago. I was in a different band than the one I’m in now. She gave me this number and I wanted to invite her to come and see the new show.”

  “That’s a lot to absorb,” said Groucho. “Fortunately I’ve got a mind like a sponge. First of all, am I to assume that you’re in Jersey?”

  “Yeah. You’re in Los Angeles, right?”

  “Beverly Hills, actually,” said Groucho. “A much nicer class of losers here.”

  “I was going to send her a plane ticket.”

  “Lovey must be quite a girl,” said Groucho. “And no, I’m not related to her.”

  “Is she there?” asked Clarence.

  “ ’Fraid not. Either you dialed the wrong number or she gave you the wrong number.”

  Clarence repeated the number.

  “That’s it,” said Groucho, reading it off the phone.

  “Shit,” said Clarence.

  “Well said,” said Groucho. “But I’m intrigued by random encounters; you’re a musician?”

  “I play the saxophone.”

  “That qualifies you. Had you been a drummer…” Groucho trailed off.

  “This new band is great,” said Clarence. “I wanted Lovey to check it out.”

  “This girl, and I regret to tell you that I don’t know her, made quite an impression on you and, I would guess, your couch.”

  “Best sex I ever had,” said Clarence.

  “I remember my first sexual encounter,” said Groucho. “I still have the receipt.”

  Clarence laughed. “You’re funny, man,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Julius,” said Groucho.

  “What do you do, Julius?”

  “Currently I’m involved in making a comeback,” said Groucho.

  “You a show biz dude?” asked Clarence.

  “Yes, but I’m not one of those phony Hollywood assholes,” said Groucho. “I’m the real thing.”

  “You an actor?” asked Clarence.

  “Among other things,” said Groucho.

  “I met Mickey Rooney once,” said Clarence.

  “I’ve had it to here with Mickey Rooney,” said Groucho, indicating his knees.

  “Hang on a sec,” said Clarence.

  There was the sound of a receiver being placed on a hard surface and distant voices. Groucho looked through the front window of the Gucci store, where he saw Erin looking at purses. A pigeon walked by on the sidewalk just outside the phone booth. Groucho looked down at it.

  “Any messages?” he said.

  Clarence came back on the line. “That was the Boss. We start rehearsal in five minutes.”

  “The boss?” said Groucho. “Do you mean the bandleader?”

  “Yeah, but everybody calls him the Boss. His name is Bruce Springsteen.”

  “Sounds Jewish,” said Groucho.

  “German, I think,” said Clarence.

  “One drives the truck, one rides on the truck… same truck,” said Groucho. “I’ve said that before but I was misquoted, and you can quote me on that.”

  “You’re on fire, man. When we get to LA come see us. We’re called the Bruce Springsteen Band.”

  “And you play the sax?” said Groucho.

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “I’m the big black guy.”

  “I’m not prejudiced,” said Groucho. “I hate everybody.”

  “What’s your last name, Julius?”

  “Marx,” said Groucho.

  “Like Groucho Marx?” asked Clarence.

  “Yes,” said Groucho.

  “Give me your number, man, I’ll call you when I get out there.”

  “You can reach me at this number every Wednesday,” said Groucho. Inside the store Erin was buying a purse. She was paying with a credit card.

  “Cool. Do you know Cheech and Chong?” asked Clarence. “We’re doing a show with them Friday night.”

  “I know who they are. The potheads, right?” asked Groucho.

  “Right,” said Clarence.

  “I’m a little too old for their stuff. Course, a man is only as old as the woman he feels.”

  Clarence laughed again. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, Julius.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Groucho.

  “I’ve gotta run. Nice talking to you,” said Clarence.

  “I had a perfectly wonderful time,” said Groucho. “But this wasn’t it.”

  Belmar, New Jersey, 1972

  Clarence

  On Friday night we were going to open for Cheech and Chong. Bruce wanted to rehearse in the afternoon, so we all piled into Danny Federici’s van and drove over to pick up David Sancious. We always picked David up last because he was never ready, and the theory was that if we got to him last he’d have more time to get his shit together and we wouldn’t have to wait so long for him. It was a good theory, a fine theory, but it didn’t happen. He was never ready. He lived in his mother’s house in Belmar, and we’d park outside and just shoot the shit until he emerged.

  When he did finally come out he always had some bullshit excuse, like his alarm clock was broken or he had to go to the store to pick up medicine or something. You know, the kind of stuff you couldn’t really fault somebody for doing. After a while we started making bets on what the excuse would be this time.

  But it wasn’t so bad because we would pass the time talking nonsense. We’d talk about girls and music and girls. We told a lot of entertaining lies. Danny would always have these unbelievable stories about having sex with all these chicks, but none of us had ever seen him with any of them. On the other hand he was so charming, so good with women, that we really didn’t know what to believe. But if he was telling the truth he was getting laid constantly. Danny was a ladies’ man even before he got famous. After he got famous… well, that’s a whole other book. Maybe I’ll write a book that has all the sex-and-drugs stories from the early years and publish it after all of us are dead. (Nah, I can’t do that either, ’cause now all of us have kids and grandkids.) But I think it’s safe to say that for a while there some of us did not set a good example. I’ll leave it at that.

  Anyway, Danny would tell these sex stories and we’d all tell him he was full of shit, and that would go on for a while until some song one of us liked came on the radio. First we’d listen to it and sing along, but then we’d start to break it down into chords and meter and stuff. Steve Van Zandt was great at that. That guy has the most incredible ear. He sees music with his ears. It just appears to him in his head and he can tell you everything about it. He’s a great, great talent. He also happens to be the nicest human being on the planet Earth. If you don’t like Steven, you just don’t like anybody. I would do anything for that guy. But back to the story.

  Then Garry Tallent
would start with his trivia questions. Garry knows everything about early rock and roll. I have never been able to stump him. I remember one day we were out there in the van waiting for David, and I turned to Garry and said, “Bluebirds over the Mountain,” and without hesitating he says, “Ersel Hickey, 1958. It was the shortest song to ever appear on Billboard’s top one hundred. It was a minute and twenty-eight seconds long. Got as high as number seventy-five. Ersel is also the only guy named Ersel that anybody has ever heard of living or dead.” He had that kind of information on the tip of his tongue.

  But I think we all would’ve gone crazy in that van waiting for David if it hadn’t been for Bruce. Bruce is the most amazing storyteller. He would see somebody walking down the street with a limp or something, and he would spin this incredible tale about how the guy had broken his leg in a bobsled race in Austria three years ago because the driver of the sled was screwing the limping guy’s wife, and so halfway down the mountain the limping guy starts to strangle the driver and they go off the track and into the trees at like a thousand miles an hour or something, and the guy breaks his leg in three places but the driver is dead and the authorities never suspected it was murder. Shit like that right off the top of his head. I wish I could remember some of them exactly, but I was laughing so hard most of the time they went in one ear and out the other. He used to tell those long stories on stage sometimes. A lot of them were during my intro, where he’d make up all these tales about ghosts and visions and the heavens opening up and a light coming down at me standing on a hill with my horn held up over my head. Crazy, wild shit. Somebody once collected all of them on a bootleg and sent it to me. There was some very funny stuff. I swear to God that if he didn’t have music, Bruce would be a comedy writer or some shit like that. Comedy novels, probably.

  Actually, I do remember one of his stories. This girl is going skiing and she has a couple of cups of coffee in the lodge and then takes the lift up to the top of the mountain. But it’s a long ride and it’s cold and windy and when she gets off she’s got to pee like a racehorse.

  She can’t hold it so she skis over into this bunch of trees. She sticks her ski poles in the snow and unzips her suit. Fortunately she’s wearing one of those one-piece deals so she slips it down around her legs and squats down and starts to go, right? No problem. Except her skis start to slide. She doesn’t realize it for the first few seconds but she’s moving down the hill. She grabs for the poles but she misses and she starts to pick up speed. And remember she can’t move, ’cause she’s got her entire ski suit wrapped around her legs and she’s actually in the perfect tuck position.