by John Ridley
I got an education.
I got one that would twice give sense to the words of two women. The first time would be there, San Fran. The second would come years later when it all ended where it all began.
I DIDN'T HAVE ANY DATES lined up in San Francisco, hadn't planned to go. But people talk. Since my nod from Sammy at Ciro's, in the nightclub circles I was what people were talking about. Maybe among the stars of Hollywood I was an anonymous face, but to bookers I was building a name. Keith Rockwell, who owned the Purple Onion, called down. An act had fallen out and he needed someone to fill the bill and fill it pronto.
I had some days off and I never had a problem making some extra pay. I made the trip to S.F. from L.A. Made it by train, but I could have floated up the coast, my head having mushroomed to fit my new ego. When I did the city I was treated to more of that “Mr. Mann”-style of service I was getting addicted to along with the related highs that came with it. The hotel—the St. Regis—the restaurants where the club picked up the meals, were ail five-star or four-diamond. Whatever I needed—to get driven here or there, to see sights or go buy this and that—nothing was too much of anything to ask for. I was unbecoming Jackie Mann. I was becoming Jackie Mann, direct from Los Angeles. Jackie Mann, sensation of southern California and friend to the famous.
The shows at the Onion were solid. The audiences in the Bay were smart, thoughtful. Like an upscale version of the Village, more than just coming to get entertained, they came to listen.
I did the week with ease, things having gone so well in San Francisco, my ego kept me where I was, eager to suck up a few more days of backslaps and of getting whisked around, wined and dined. Just a day or so more of getting drunk on thanks for coming up and saving the day as only Jackie Mann could.
What I got was just about inevitable. Cocked at such an arrogant angle, I was begging to get slapped down.
The club was Anna's 440. More a coffeehouse. A showcase room. I went to watch, not work. Really, I went to get slathered over, the uptown act going downtown to see how the other half got entertained. I had Keith phone up, get them to save us a table. He was sure to make a big deal out of it, let them know that Jackie Mann was coming 'round. When we arrived, I got nothing but the warm hand. “Hello, Mr. Mann” and “This way to your table, Mr. Mann.” And if all that wasn't enough to make me feel tops, there was a comic on the bill I'd worked with a couple of times in New York. A guy who, used to be, had no time for me. When he heard I was in the audience, he came 'round before the show with a big smile and broad hug, told me how happy he was I was doing so well. He wasn't. He was putting on a performance in hopes, if I bought the act, I'd mention his name to someone who could help him down the line. The idea of the envy I knew he held and the bitterness of having to swallow it just to shine me for favors, the idea that I was even worth trying to shine in the first place, it was a cocktail that just made me all the higher.
The show started. There were comics, a couple of singers. The guy I used to know went on pulling out all stops to impress me.
Then Lenny Bruce went on.
When he was introduced, different from now, I didn't think one thing or the other. Never having heard of the guy, I had no expectations. Maybe that's why he hit me so hard.
He took the stage.
He took hold of the mike.
He said things.
More than just standing there cracking jokes, he said things, things about religion and politics and society and race and all the craziness that seemed to be erupting everywhere. Cool and relaxed, he eased across the stage, taking his time with his act instead of running from joke to joke. But when he got where he was going, he went at his topics vicious as a shark, uncaring that some might be offended, and just as happy if they were.
He said things.
About sex. He said a whole lot of things about sex, about having sex, about who we have sex with, why and how. He was graphic in detail. He was foul in language. Foul and raw in a way you didn't normally hear even in the coffeehouses. You barely heard it outside of smoky rooms and back alleys. Sick. They called his humor sick. But he didn't flinch, he didn't back down, back away, back off. He was assured in what he was saying and that he had a right to say it. He was so precise and so on target, it wasn't like he was swearing to swear, swearing to shock. It was like he was using the arch words of a whole new science. His talk, his lingo, was a mumbly-style scattershot delivery making it seem he was too cool to rehearse; his routine wasn't a routine—dragging out the last word of every sentennnnnce. Letting it hang theeeeere. Making you listen, maaaaaan. Making you think. Then he'd rapidfireatyouwithsomethingkeen. Something knife sharp. He made you be quick with him or risk getting cut.
He said things.
And the things he said were real. No made up little ha-ha bits about his mother-in-law, his fat aunt Ethel. If it wasn't going on in the world, if it didn't reference some event or emotion or outrage, if it didn't grate and bite, if it didn't make you sit up and take notice, then he didn't have time for it. He didn't want anything to do with it.
And on top of all that, he was funny. This sullen-eyed, side-burned, slick-haired wonder, the devil's jester, was funny. Insightful and funny. Clever and funny. Uninhibited, racy, provocative and …
After he got offstage, on came a singer, another comic, another comic …
I finally got myself up out of my seat, begged off Keith, told him I had to get back to the St. Regis. I left, but I felt like I was sneaking out, afraid of being spotted for the phony I'd suddenly been revealed to be.
What had I been doing? All that time I had worked myself up from burlesque to coffeehouses, from nightclubs to supper clubs, to finally circling around about where I wanted to be, what had I been doing? The jokes I told—compared to Lenny, compared to what he was laying out—were old and stale and tired. They were ordinary, unremarkable. They were indistinguishable from anything that anybody else might say. Anybody. Anybody with a little timing, a little skill, could pick up my bits, hit a stage, and have an act. I'd sold my audiences, maybe, on being likable. Conned them into thinking I had something to offer by having a personality, by being a “good” black who didn't scare them. Other than that, I was as unique as a slice of bread.
What made Lenny so different, he had a point of view. He had perspective.
He had a voice.
What he talked about and the way he talked about things, he put a stamp on every joke that made it his. He owned his material.
What Tommy had tried to beat through my skull since forever I finally got. You want to be famous? Fine. You want to live the high life? Who doesn't? But if you really want to make a mark deep and hard and forever, then you have to be unique. You have to be special.
So there I was in my hotel room after getting the warm hand all over town. There I was alone with myself and the truth: I was either a guy who told jokes and would get away with telling jokes until people got tired of my tired self. I was either that, or I was, like my mother used to whisper to me, special.
I don't know what time I'd come in from the club, but sunlight was working its way through the draped windows before I did anything besides just sit. I picked up a pen, some St. Regis stationery, and started to write.
FRAN'S SPECIAL AIRED. A half-hour variety show. Her guests included Judy Holliday, and a young and very swinging Bobby Darin. Sid told me Fran had wanted me for the comedy spot. CBS had nixed the idea. CBS wanted a name. CBS wanted someone people would tune in to see. CBS got Louis Nye. I guess he was a name. Back then.
Fran sang three numbers including her newest record “ 'Tain't What You Do.” The song was great. Fran was great. The program was great and the ratings proved it.
Shortly, CBS announced their fall lineup would include The Fran Clark Show.
Fran had just become the newest star to light the heavens.
THE HOUSEMAN, the gorilla in a suit, didn't know what to do. He didn't want to stand there, middle of the casino floor, all eyes on him, apolog
izing like a little girl who'd messed her dress. He didn't want to not apologize, because if word got around that he had given Sammy Davis, Jr. anything close to heat, he'd be in for twice what he'd handed out. So the houseman, looking past me, who he couldn't care less about, said: “Didn't see you, Mr. Davis,” which came off as more statement than apology.
“You didn't spot the only colored Jew in the joint? Baby, I thought I had trouble seeing.” Sammy tossed off the line without missing a beat, the chucker reduced to working as his straight man, good for being the butt of a laugh and nothing more. Hand still on my shoulder, Sammy was walking me away before he'd even finished the crack.
I didn't say anything. I was no good for talking. The bravado I owned when I walked out of the Copa Room and crossed the restricted floor for the gaming tables was spent. What the houseman hadn't scared out of me the rescue from Sammy had stunned quiet. I thought it best to play things cool, tiy to play them off, as if having big stars talk me out of tight spots was just about routine.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
“Sammy? Oh, now we're chums? You know, I'm very upset with you. I give you a hello from the stage at Ciro's and you don't even bother to do a drop-by at King's Restaurant.”
“You saw me there?”
“Chicky, I might have one good eye, but I can do a whooole lots o' lookin' wit' it,” he joked Kingfish-style.
We arrived at the roulette table. People made space. Not like they didn't want to be around a couple of blacks, but more like Sammy's star power compelled them to give room.
I dug that.
I put my hundred on black.
Sammy put out five hundred dollars cash.
“Money plays,” came the call from the dealer. He spun the ball.
“Sammy … Mr. Davis—”
“It's Charlie between us.”
All around I felt stares, felt the press of flesh from the constricting crowd that buzzed same as a hive of excited white bees.
“I didn't mean any disrespect that night, but there were all those people wanting to meet you, all those celebrities, and I figured I'm just—”
The ball dropped.
The dealer called: “Twenty-two. Black.”
The crowd gave a hiccup of thrill.
The bets were paid, I started to reach for my chips.
Sammy didn't. He quipped as he lit a Dunhill: “Well, if you're going to be cheap about things …”
His thousand to my two hundred. Casually as I could I moved ray hand away from the table.
The dealer spun the ball.
People hurriedly laid bets on black just because, win or lose, they wanted to go back to whatever breadbasket or Bible belt state they called home and tell the folks they'd bet with Sammy Davis, Jr. They did it because they wanted to be like Sammy Davis, Jr.: able to toss around green as if green were nothing. I looked at all that money overflowing from the table. There was a reason Sammy was the only black they let walk the floor.
“Listen, Charlie, maybe I poured it on a little heavy at Ciro's, especially as I still haven't caught your act. But emmis, the word on you is you're sensational. And you know, and I know, if you weren't a colored act, you'd be twice where you are today.”
The ball dropped.
The dealer called: “Thirty-one. Black.”
Going on three deep, the crowd cut loose with an electric yelp.
Sammy moved for his chips and I did the same.
A cocktail waitress, dressed skimpy like all the cocktail waitresses, did a slow crawl past the scene.
Nodding at one of the drinks on her tray: “Sweetheart, who's the gas for?”
“It's for the gentleman over at the era—”
Never-minding all of that, Sammy picked up the glass. “Tell him he just bought a drink for Sammy Davis, Jr.” Tossing a hundred-dollar toke on her tray: “That's so you can buy the rest of that outfit.” Chasing the toke with another: “That's so you don't.”
The girl just about bust out of her bra.
Moving from the table, I stayed with Sammy, people clapping, applauding his one-man show. He headed from the casino for the guest rooms. I puppy-dogged along for lack of specific instructions on what else to do.
All eyes on us as we eased across the floor, the air around aro-maed with more envy than resent.
“That was … You're a cool one, Mr. Davis, I'll tell you that.”
He shrugged. “You win, you lose. Last time I checked money was for spending. Look, Jackie, you've got to quit playing Charlie Wide-eyed. You're strictly star now.”
Hearing that from Sammy, I was flattered.
After seeing Lenny, I was honest. “I'm just a comic.”
“Forget the humble bits. You're a Copa comic. A Sands comic, and that's a whole lot more than most. On top of that, you're in the club. FOF.” He could tell I didn't even begin to get that. “Friends of Frank. Most exclusive club in the world, babe. And that membership buys you a whole lot.”
“Sinatra, he's a hell of a guy.”
“Oh, you done said a mouthful. Half the time you don't know if the cat is going to kiss you or kill you.”
I thought of the first time I'd met Frank, of him tearing some poor Harvey a new hole, making him cry, then turning around and playing St. Francis to me.
“Yeah,” I tagged.
“You heard about the party?”
The party? “No.”
“The party. Palm Springs celebrity to-do some kitten was throwing. Frank's there, talks up a girl. Preps her with some gas to get a little hey-hey out of her. Only, bright eyes and short skirt doesn't want to hand out any hey-hey. Leastways, she didn't want to hand out any to Frank. Now, most cats would've had their ego bruised but just limped off bird in hand. And a star the size of Frank should've moved on the next broad same way you'd pick meat off a deli platter.
“My man did neither.”
Sammy paused.
I felt the way I did when I was a kid at the movies anticipating the next chapter in a serial. “And …”
“And he shoved her through a plate window.”
“Jesus. You're kidding me.”
“I kid you not, Chicky. The scene was crazy. Bright eyes was lying there, bleeding up the joint. Judy Garland does a faint. Rock Hudson's screaming like a girl… . Frank? He mixes himself another drink.”
“That…”
“That son of a bitch. Yeah. He can be that. The cuckoo thing is, as nasty as he can be, he can be just as swell. When I had my little …” Sammy swirled a hand near the left side of his face. “You know.”
I knew.
“Frank dropped everything, drove out to San Bernardi-nowheresville just to sit with me in the hospital. Then the man gave my self-sorry-feeling behind the kick it needed to get back on the showbiz horse. And I'll tell you this: There isn't a cat alive who is more race tolerant than Frank. Let him find out some Harvey was giving you trouble, and see what his Irish is like. He's opened a whole lot of doors for this colored Jew.”
We got to Sammy's room. Standing just outside was a girl, young, tight dungarees and T-shirt. Her makeup, bright, multicolored, and spatulaed over her cheeks and eyes, said she was a showgirl straight from the line.
A white showgirl.
You had to figure she'd probably been parked in her spot a good while, but the waiting hadn't worn her down any. The smile she gave were Vols. I and II on anticipation. She looked more than ready to personally autograph Vol. III.
“And, baby,” Sammy added as a final thought to me but delivered right to the girl, “when these doors open, they swing.”
Sammy opened the room door, sidestepped, and did a broad sweep with his arm, letting the girl in first, gentleman-style, for what would surely be some very un-gentlemanlike activities.
Kept company by the science Sammy had lectured to me, I walked back to the Copa Room by way of the casino. A lot of looks got sent my way, but no one said a thing.
KANSAS CITY. Kansas City, Missouri. I was having an afternoon rest. I'd been u
p late, a jazz club after my show. I'd just eaten. Barbecue. If you dig that sort of thing, meats slathered with tangy sauces, K.C. has some of the best bbq to be had. I lay on my bed in my hotel thinking of nothing in particular. My life had reached such a point of steady ease that very little deep thought was required in being me. Sid booked my shows, I did my shows. I did them well and was paid accordingly. I worked New York. I worked Los Angeles. I worked Las Vegas. I worked the best clubs in each city. The only blip on my mental radar was television. As comfortable as I was, I knew I needed some national exposure if I was going to ever be more comfortable.
Sid kept telling me not to worry, television would come.
Alone in my room in the quiet, I had to be honest with myself: I was getting a little tired of hearing that.
The phone rang. I flopped a lazy hand to the nightstand, picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Jackie Mann?” The voice was tentative. It had an accent. Southernish. Missouri was a border state. There were a lot of accents walking around.
“Yes.”
“Jackie, Ah'm, uh … well, Ah caught yer act last night, and that was some funny shit yew were talkin'. Ah jus' … muh wife an Ah both—”
“Thank you, I appreciate that. And thank you for calling.” I said that last bit in a you-may-hang-up-now manner. The party on the other end missed my meaning.
“Ah was hopin' that, well, that… tha missuhs would surely luv tah tell yew how much she enjoyed tha show.”
I didn't mind having fans. I could even deal with fans calling up to the room. But why did the ones who called have to be the lowest common denominator of fan?
I told him: “Now's not a really—”
“Wouldn't take up but uh minute. Tha missuhs, like Ah said, it would jus', yew know, mean uh lot. She surely does thank yer uh hoot.”
