Big Man

by Clarence Clemons

  On the wharf below them a man was dancing wildly by himself. He was wearing three-inch platform sandals, a pair of black spandex shorts, and a shiny white T-shirt that was very tight and left his flat stomach exposed. On his head sat a round, sharply pointed straw coolie hat equipped with a chinstrap. Nobody paid any attention to him at all.

  “I gotta tell you something,” said Bobby.

  “What’s that?” said Clarence.

  “I say ‘I gotta tell you’ but I don’t gotta tell you. I’m trying to stop using that word. Gotta. I want to tell you something. Want to,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Clarence, thinking, Where the fuck is this going?

  “But you gotta promise me not to—” He stopped. “I did it again. You fucking believe that? I just finished telling you how I gotta stop saying gotta, and the next fucking word outta my mouth is gotta! Jesus fuck!”

  Clarence didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled. Clarence was also wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and the Panama hat he’d gotten in Puerto Rico a long time ago.

  “I’d like it if you didn’t repeat what I’m about to tell you for a while,” said Bobby.

  “How long?” asked Clarence.

  Bobby looked out at the boats in the harbor and thought about it.

  “Twenty years,” he said.

  “I can’t repeat it for twenty years?” asked Clarence.

  “Make it twenty-five,” said Bobby. “By then nobody will give a fuck.”

  “Twenty-five years,” said Clarence.

  “Yeah,” said De Niro. “Or longer.”

  “Okay,” said Clarence, uncertain if he could keep a secret for twenty-five seconds.

  “Your word?” said Robert De Niro.

  “My word,” said Clarence.

  They shook hands. Shit. Now he really couldn’t say anything.

  “Have you seen Taxi Driver?” said Bobby.

  “Of course,” said Clarence. “Everybody’s seen it.”

  “Okay,” said Bobby. “You know the thing I do in it?”

  “Which thing?” asked Clarence.

  “The thing,” said Bobby. “ ‘Are you talking to me?’ ”

  “Oh, shit, yeah. Of course. ‘Are you talkin’ to me? I don’t see anybody else here,’ ” said Clarence, wishing he hadn’t just done a Robert De Niro impression to Robert De Niro.

  “Yeah,” said Bobby. “I stole that.”

  “You stole it?” said Clarence.

  Bobby nodded his Robert De Niro nod again. “It’s not original,” he said. “I stole the whole thing.”

  “From who?” Clarence asked.

  “Bruce,” said Bobby.

  “My Bruce?” said Clarence.

  “The Boss,” said Bobby. “Mr. Springsteen.”

  Clarence thought about it for a minute. Bobby watched him think. Then Clarence remembered.

  “Oh, yeah…,” he said.

  “He did it in concert,” said Bobby. “At some point he’s got the whole fucking crowd in a frenzy. Everybody’s on their feet screaming their lungs out and saying his name, and he stops in the spotlight and looks out into this howling mass of people, and as cool as a fucking cucumber he says, ‘Are you talking to me?’ Then he looks around to see, to make sure that there’s nobody else they could be talking to and he repeats it. ‘Are you talking to me? To me? Is that who you’re talking to? Are you talking to me?’ Fucking brilliant.”

  Clarence just stared at him for a while and smiled broadly. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Are you talking to me?” said Bobby.

  Santa Barbara

  Don

  Here’s an absolutely true story that complements the previous piece. Believe it or not. —D.R.

  I was walking down State Street in downtown Santa Barbara on a Saturday afternoon in March 2001 when a painting in a gallery window caught my eye. It was a night scene, a street in the rain lined with cars from the ’50s. I went into the gallery and found out that the artist was a Canadian woman named Danielle Borbeau. Then I saw the rest of her work.

  She had done a series of paintings called Jazz, and I loved them. They featured musicians and street scenes. Horn players, close looks at hands on valves, nightclubs, phone booths, etc. She really captured that smoky feeling of backstage at two a.m.

  I bought a few of the paintings and put them in my office above stage 5 on the Disney lot.

  On Monday mornings we always had our reading of that week’s script on My Wife and Kids, the show I was writing and producing. All the players attended, including actors, writers, and executives. That week, our guest star was Clarence. After the reading there were very few notes from the network, so we had some time to catch up. He came up to my office, and we talked about what had been going on in our lives and made plans for dinner during the week. He was sitting on the couch under one of Danielle’s paintings of musicians on a bandstand. From his point of view he could see two other paintings, which hung on the wall behind my desk. One was the street scene and the other was a guy on a pay phone.

  “That guy looks like De Niro,” said Clarence, looking at the guy on the phone.

  He wasn’t the first person to say that. Although Danielle did not paint distinct features, something about that guy said it was De Niro.

  “Yeah,” I said. “In that one, too.” I pointed to the picture above his head.

  In that one, there are two sax players on the bandstand. One black and one white. The white guy is leaning over and saying something to the black guy.

  Clarence turned and looked at it. He stood and looked at it some more.

  “I think that’s me,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I said.

  “I think that’s me and Robert De Niro,” he said. “It looks like a scene from a movie we did together.”

  “What movie?”

  “New York, New York,” said Clarence. “I played Cecil Powell.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Coincidence?” he said.

  “If it is, this is the biggest coincidence I’ve ever heard of,” I said, as I reached for the phone. “I mean come on, I randomly buy a painting of you without realizing it until you spot yourself in it?”

  A minute later I was talking to Danielle.

  “What did you base the Jazz series on?” I asked her.

  “I saw this Robert De Niro movie on TV one night and the images just spoke to me,” she said. “It was called New York, New York.”

  The Legend of the Big Man Meeting the Chairman, Miami Beach, Florida, 1979

  This is one of my hospital dreams. Mr. Sinatra and I did cross paths a few times, and every one of them was thrilling. He was the original Boss, and he loved all kinds of music. I hope that comes across in the story. He is still one of my idols. —C.C.

  Frank Sinatra walked into the room like a vision. He was impossible. He couldn’t actually be there, could he? Moving like a mere mortal, a linen shirt, white pants and shoes, no socks, the silver antique Rolex… the entire package was difficult to accept. Frank Sinatra couldn’t really exist on a mortal plane. He walked across the room with so much history, so many legends, and so much music. Clarence was impressed and reflexively stood up. They shook hands.

  “Big Man,” said Frank.

  “Mr. Sinatra,” said Clarence.

  “Frank. Sit. Please. This is Jilly Rizzo,” said Frank, indicating the balding hulk next to him with the gold-tinted glasses and the gold crucifix on a heavy gold chain. Clarence hadn’t even noticed the guy. Sinatra took up that much space… that much oxygen.

  “Honey loves you guys,” said Jilly.

  “Honey?” said Clarence.

  “That’s his wife,” said Frank. “I call her the blue Jew.”

  “Where’s Bruce?” said Jilly, his one crazy eye wandering off to Clarence’s left.

  “Jersey, I think,” said Clarence.

  “I thought maybe you guys lived together,” said Jilly.

  “You calling him a fag?�
� said Sinatra, half-turning.

  “No, no. I’m just saying… not for nuthin’, you know… that’s all.” Jilly signaled for the waitress.

  The entire poolside bar had been cleared out for Mr. Sinatra so he could conduct this meeting in peace.

  “Sweetheart,” Jilly called.

  She crossed to the table. Tall. Beautiful. Holding a tray.

  “Whatcha want, kid?” said Frank to Clarence.

  “A Coke,” said Clarence. Jilly snorted.

  “You don’t want to drink with me?” said Frank with mock incredulity.

  “It’s a little early for me,” said Clarence.

  “Three Jacks. Put some Coke in his,” said Frank. “And here.” He handed her a C-note. “That’s for being gorgeous.” He smiled.

  “Thank you,” she said, and walked away. All three men followed her departure.

  “If I could catch it I couldn’t ride it,” said Frank.

  Clarence and Jilly laughed.

  “I’d like some olives,” said Jilly to himself.

  “Let me get to the point,” said Frank. “I know you’re a busy guy.”

  “There’s no place else I’d rather be,” said Clarence. “No place in the world.”

  “That’s very kind,” said Frank. “The thing is, I’ve been listening to your records. I like to keep up with what’s going on in music.”

  “Sure,” said Clarence.

  “When I heard you were here in the hotel I thought, what the hell, why not ask him, see what he thinks.”

  “Green olives,” said Jilly.

  “You can ask me anything, sir, and chances are the answer will be yes,” said Clarence.

  “I love this guy,” said Frank to Jilly. Jilly nodded. “Okay, here’s the deal,” Frank continued. “I’m thinking of recording ‘Born to Run.’ ”

  Clarence didn’t know Frank Sinatra, and he wasn’t sure if Frank was serious or joking, so he didn’t react at all. It seemed like the best response.

  “What do you think?” said Frank.

  “Uhh… I think you can do anything you want,” said Clarence.

  “It would require a different arrangement, of course,” said Frank. “Less percussive. More keyboards, I think. Course I’d use my own guys. Bill Miller is my piano player.”

  “He’s great,” Clarence said. Clarence had never even heard of Bill Miller, but he assumed that if he played piano for Frank Sinatra he must be pretty good.

  “I love olives,” said Jilly.

  “Charlie Greenface,” said Frank.

  “Who?” said Clarence.

  “That’s what Frank calls Bill,” said Jilly. “On account of his skin tone.”

  “The guy’s never seen the sun,” said Frank, who was very tan.

  “Oh,” said Clarence.

  “You know Sammy?” said Jilly.

  “Davis?” said Clarence.

  “No, Sammy Schmendrick. Of course Sammy Davis. ‘Davis,’ he says.”

  “No, I’ve never met him,” said Clarence.

  “I just thought maybe… you know, you guys…”

  “Guitars, naturally,” said Frank, who gave no indication of having heard Jilly speak. “I’m not looking to cut the balls off the song. It has to have guitars in there.”

  “Yeah,” Clarence said. He wished the waitress would hurry up with the drinks.

  “But acoustic.”

  “Acoustic guitars?” said Clarence.

  “Yeah. It’s more my style. You ever hear my stuff with Jobim?”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” said Clarence, who had no clue.

  “Maybe I’ll get him. Jobim, Greenface, some strings, and you.”

  “Me?” said Clarence.

  “You’d be the bridge between Bruce’s world and my world,” said Frank.

  “The common domination,” said Jilly.

  “Well… Mr. Sinatra, it would be an honor and a privilege to record anything with you,” said Clarence.

  “Good,” said Frank. The sun reflected the water from the pool onto the ceiling of the room, giving the whole place a dreamlike quality.

  “What the fuck is a hemi-powered drone?” said Sinatra.

  “Uhhh… I’m not sure,” said Clarence. “Some kind of a car, I think. You know, with a hemi engine.”

  “But why a drone?” asked Frank, leaning forward slightly. Clarence moved back slightly. “That word is very specific. I looked it up. It can mean a driverless vehicle. Which would go with the hemi-powered thing, but it’s also a male honeybee. So I asked myself, could this be about some kind of crazy souped-up insect? Or is the point that we don’t know what the point is?”

  “You’d have to ask Bruce,” said Clarence.

  “He’s asking you,” said Jilly.

  “It’s important to know what the composer had in mind,” said Frank. “So the song has the proper interpretation. For instance, when he says, ‘The boys try to look so hard,’ does he mean they have hard-ons?”

  “No,” said Clarence. “I think it means they’re trying to look tough. Badass.”

  “Is this Wendy a real chick?” asked Jilly. “Some hot little piece of ass you and Bruce are banging?”

  “ ‘I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight / In an everlasting kiss,’ ” Frank sang. To be accurate, he crooned the line, stretching out the word kiss. “Beautiful lyric,” he said.

  The waitress arrived with the drinks.

  “Bring us some olives, would you, doll?” said Jilly.

  “Three olives comin’ up,” she said.

  “No. A bowl of olives,” said Jilly. “Green olives.”

  “On the way,” she said.

  Again they watched her walk away.

  “She couldn’t be more lovely,” said Frank.

  “I’d like to stick my cock up her ass,” said Jilly.

  “ ‘Someday girl, I don’t know when, we’re going to get to that place / Where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun,’ ” sang Frank. Clarence noticed that he pronounced every vowel and every consonant. “ ‘But till then, tramps like us, baby, baby, baby—’ ” he paused, letting the final baby hang in the air “ ‘—we were born to run.’ ”

  Jilly applauded.

  Clarence, just about to kill his drink, instead put it down and joined the applause.

  “Stop it,” said Frank. “It’s a marvelous song.” He sipped his drink and snapped his fingers. Jilly instantly produced a gold cigarette case and flipped it open. Frank selected a single unfiltered Lucky and put it in his mouth. From nowhere Jilly pulled a Dunhill lighter and lit Frank’s smoke.

  “So, shall we do this thing?” said Frank.

  “Sure,” said Clarence. “When?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Frank.

  “How much you weigh?” said Jilly.

  “Depends on the scale,” said Clarence. “Sometimes, if it’s a friendly scale, it could be—”

  Frank Sinatra stood up. So did Jilly. Frank smiled. “Big Man,” he said. Clarence stood and Frank hugged him, slapping his back three times. “Keep that horn ready, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Clarence.

  “You hear me?” Frank repeated.

  “I hear you,” said Clarence, wanting to make it absolutely clear that he heard him.

  With that, Frank Sinatra turned and walked out of the room. Jilly Rizzo followed him out. Clarence sat down alone. In the distance he could hear splashing pool sounds. The room was spectacularly empty. After a minute or two the waitress returned, holding a bowl.

  “Here’re the olives,” she said.

  “You can just leave them,” said Clarence. “And I’ll have another drink.”

  “Jack and Coke?” she asked.

  “Hold the Coke,” he said.

  West Hollywood, California, 1985

  Clarence

  I sat under my caricature in a booth at the Palm Restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard in West LA in Hollywood, 1985.

  I loved it out here. As Ray Charles once sa
ng, it has movie stars and cocktail bars and fancy cars—and it’s on an ocean of some size.

  The band was big there, too. It was a hotbed of rabid Bruce fans. Therefore the female talent pool here was large and deep. I used to really like swimming in that pool.

  The truth was, by 1985 the band was big everywhere. We had blown up in a way that was hard to imagine.

  Except I did imagine it. I saw it all that first night at the Student Prince. I saw the success and the stardom and the stadiums, and I knew without a doubt it was going to happen.

  Bruce, however, was a very reluctant star. He never wanted to be Elvis. He saw himself more like Dylan. But the power of the songs made the pull of giant stardom irresistible, and he had to eventually find a way to deal with it.

  I found a way to deal with it, too. I climbed aboard and swore to ride it until the wheels fell off and burned. To receive all this for something I would do for nothing was a blessing that fell on very few people in the world, and I tried to appreciate all of it every day. I’d been poor enough as a kid to know that I shouldn’t take it for granted, either. This wouldn’t, couldn’t, last forever.

  Could it?

  Maybe.

  I hadn’t foreseen any failure or any diminishment in popularity. In my mind we would continue to enjoy nothing but good things until we just ran out of time.

  I remember something I heard attributed to Colonel Tom Parker. The Colonel had said, “You don’t have to be nice to people on the way up if you ain’t coming back down.”

  Still, I planned to be nice to people. Why tempt fate by acting like an asshole?

  But, yeah, California appealed to me in a major way.

  I felt different out here, too. Younger, somehow. The weather suited me. It was a place where if you planned a picnic on Sunday you knew you’d be able to have it.

  The girl I was with was talking and I was answering, but I was not really aware of what was being said. Something about her uncle’s boat.

  I was actually looking around the place. Everybody was beautiful or famous or both. Stallone had stopped by to say hello, as had Larry King and some TV actor whose name escaped me. Bob something.