Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr.

by Davis, Sammy

  Jack E. Leonard spotted me entering Danny’s, and made a whole production of slowly walking around me and staring at my suit. “I just want to say I like your pants, Sammy. You look like a Jewish skin diver!”

  Cliff Cochrane led me to a quiet corner of the bar. He was angry. “If Billy and I are going to do you any good we can’t have you working against us.”

  “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

  He read from a column. “ ‘Sammy Davis, Jr.’s eyebrow raiser at the Harwyn was gorgeous Harlean Harris, a top model.’ Now look, I’m a press agent, not your nursemaid. If you wanta swing with white chicks then go, Daddy, but do you have to make a display of what we’re working to defeat?”

  “Cliff, Harlean Harris is a model for Ebony Magazine! Did they say she’s white, or a blonde?”

  “Well, no, but I thought … well it sounds like she is.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. The cat who wrote that wanted people to think she’s white. Sammy Davis and a colored chick ain’t news. It’s conviction by innuendo: I don’t have to do it, and they don’t have to actually say it, but with my reputation people put two and two together and it comes out white. That’s just why I need you and Billy.”

  George was waiting at my table with Burt Boyar, a columnist who’d been shooting zingies at me. He introduced me to his wife, Jane. I smiled graciously. George smiled back. “We’ve been getting along famously without you.” It was one of his great moves that sounded harmless but which was to tell me: there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend half an hour making small talk with strangers. He added, “We find we have so much in common.”

  I gave him a look to cool it. I was there to neutralize people, not to offend them. “Incidentally, baby, I just want to remind you about Sunday.”

  “Sunday? Which Sunday?”

  I tore apart a piece of bread. “Tomorrow. Polly Bergen and Freddie Fields’ dinner thing. It’s seven-ish.”

  “Seven-ish? I didn’t even know I was invited-ish.”

  I tiptoed along the line between not lying, yet not telling the truth. “Didn’t I tell you? Anyway, I spoke to Freddie today on the phone.”

  “And he invited me?”

  I gave him a patient look.

  “Well, I’m only surprised they didn’t call me personally. It’s not like we’re strangers. Listen, are you sure they really invited me, too?”

  “George, obviously you’re not going to believe me, so why don’t you call Freddie and make a fool of yourself by asking ‘Am I really invited to dinner?’ like nobody’s ever invited you anywhere before. I’ll have Pete bring over a phone, you can make the call and I’ll be right here when you’re ready to apologize.”

  He blushed. “Well, you don’t have to make a three-act play out of it.”

  “No need to apologize. In the words of Abe Lincoln, ‘A man who can’t make a mistake can’t make anything.’ ”

  Early Sunday evening George called from his apartment. “Your producer is ready. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” I called the garage and told them to have my car ready. Nobody was going to think I was an errand boy when I stepped out of a Mark II Continental.

  Walking toward the garage, George said, “Why don’t we just take a cab? Why bother with parking?”

  “Baby, I don’t remember asking you to organize this trip.”

  A uniformed nurse wheeled a baby carriage across Fifth Avenue toward the park, pushing the carriage with one hand and with the other grasping a little boy bundled up in a fur-collared coat, leather leggings and a hat with ear-muffs. I drove slowly up the avenue, looking at the immaculately kept mansions and the elegant apartment buildings.

  George mumbled, “I really can’t understand this whole thing. I mean Polly is so proper, it just seems peculiar that she wouldn’t invite me herself.”

  I stopped the car. “George, you’re getting to be the noodge of all time. Now you’re free to open that door, step out, and I’ll make your apologies for you. I’ll just tell them ‘I’m sorry my producer is rude and so touchy that he won’t go anywhere unless he gets an engraved invitation.’ ”

  He slunk into the seat. “You’re holding up traffic and you don’t have to get so excited. It just seemed strange, that’s all.”

  As we approached Polly and Freddie’s building, a man in riding breeches, boots, and a glen plaid jacket stepped out of a maroon limousine and strode past the doorman who touched his cap and rushed to open the front door for him. As the car drove away I backed into a space just short of the door. The doorman saw me behind the wheel, looked at George—then back at me, and making no move to open our door, spoke through the window. “Can I help you?”

  George said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fields,” and opening the door himself, stepped out of the car.

  The doorman rushed ahead of us to the front door, blocking it. “Are you expected?”

  George glanced at me. “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll have to announce you.” He opened the door, admitting us to the lobby. “Who shall I say it is?”

  “Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  He went to the house phone, plugged in a wire and pressed a lever, glancing over at us as he waited for somebody to answer. I looked outside, through the glass door. I heard the phone being cradled. “You’re expected.” His voice was toneless, withdrawn, and I had the feeling he was thinking more about Freddie and Polly than about me, and that he was never going to feel quite the same about them.

  As we waited at their apartment door, I only hoped Polly wouldn’t see George and react with a “Why, George, what a pleasant surprise! Uh, come in.” A maid opened the door. Polly was behind her. She saw George, and it was a falling face, then a quick catch and a smile, “Why, George, what a pleasant surprise! Uh, come in.”

  Even at Tiffany the table didn’t have so much silver. I knew every piece, but I held up the oyster fork. “And who is this for? The children?” I gathered up all my silver except one fork, one knife and one spoon, handed the whole bundle to the maid, and turned to Polly. “Darling, I know I’m a big star but I’m just folks, and the only time we ever had three forks on a table is when three of us were eating.”

  We left after midnight. The elevator door slid three-quarters open revealing us to a different elevator man, it stopped, he recovered quickly, and it rolled back the rest of the way. The door slid closed behind us; the inner brass gate snapped across the entrance and we began the descent. The elevator man faced front, stonily erect, displaying his displeasure and distaste by the emphatically precise manner in which he was doing his work.

  The doorman did a begrudging saunter-over to the door, letting us know it was his job to open it for us but he loathed doing it. As we passed through the open door George stopped and studied him. “Doorman, did anyone ever tell you that you’re a dead ringer for Hans Von Gerhardt, the great Nazi motion picture star?” He tapped him on the chest, speculatively. “Yes! I must use you in my next picture.”

  The doorman didn’t begin to understand that it was a put-on. His face flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” He followed us to the car. “Uh, sir, what was the name of the gentleman you said I resembled?”

  George waved him away. “No matter. He’s been executed.”

  A brightly lighted, nearly empty bus broke the no-traffic stillness as it roared its way up Fifth Avenue. Then it was quiet again. “George, about bringing you tonight …”

  “Well, we all have our little problems.” He did not enjoy the frankness of the moment—the admission of seeing me wide open, and, eager to withdraw quickly from it, refusing to intrude by staring at the sensitivities and embarrassments which a man tries to keep hidden, he snapped on the radio and stabbed at the pushbuttons. A disc jockey’s voice blared: “And now a medley of those great hit songs from My Fair Lady….” George snapped it off. “We don’t need than!” He said, “It’s only twelve-fifteen. Do you feel like a movie?”

  “No, baby, I’d like to go home. We’ll find Chita and Michael,
and I told Jane and Burt to come by around one.”

  “Oh? Aren’t we carrying meet the press a little too far?”

  I pulled up in front of the Show Spot, George went in and got Chita and we drove over to Downey’s. Michael climbed into the back seat, mumbling, “I was in the middle of a drink. I feel like I’m under arrest.”

  I sat behind my bar and smiled across at the group. “It’s a definite be-it-ever-so-humble.” George had turned off the television set. “Leave it on, baby.”

  “My God, even a train stops?” He picked up a package of Black Crows and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by these?”

  “George, when you’re finished with the racial humor maybe we can talk some business. The kids are goofing. They were just phoning it in all last week.”

  He put down the candy. “I already spoke to Johnny Ryan about it. With the gross picking up this is no time for them to start getting bored.”

  Chita said, “They’re not bored. It’s more like spring fever.” George scowled at her. “Oh? A word from the queen of the gypsies?”

  I interrupted their banter. “You got any ideas how we can lift ‘em up a little?”

  He made a face. “We don’t have a Morale Budget.”

  “Baby, I’ll take care of that part of it. This is important. The fact is all the taking-them-to-the-movies, the parties—everything we’ve done that’s made it family-style has paid off on the stage, right? You’re always hearing about some show that’s got cast problems with feuds and intrigue, and that kinda jazz has got to come across in the performance. Thank God we don’t have none of that and let’s keep it that way.”

  He thought about it. “Well, let’s bring them all up to my hotel. We can have a ‘Mr. Wonderful Weekend at the Raleigh.’ We’ll hire some buses, leave here after the Saturday night show, and stay until Monday afternoon….”

  Jack Carter shouted, “Everybody out of the pool!” He flopped down on a lounge chair next to me and groaned. “Oh … a youth I’m not. That Softball game …” He closed his eyes, “Help. Seltzer!”

  As our kids began jumping in and out of the pool, I watched the regular hotel guests. Nothing but smiles. They were diving in, joining the party.

  George gestured toward a boy dancer standing on the diving board, and spoke quietly. “I never told you this but the first day of rehearsals he wanted to quit. He hadn’t realized it was a mixed cast and he didn’t feel he could work with colored people. Anyway, he decided to stay—obviously—and this morning he came to me and said he was embarrassed over what he’d said that first day, that he loves the show, the cast—he was like apologizing to me. And I’m not even colored.” He looked blankly into space. “Maybe I am.”

  Joe E. Lewis gazed around the jam-packed ballroom of the Delmonico Hotel. “It’s wonderful being up for lunch … actually I’m not really up, but it feels nice.” He had the mike against his mouth. “I sound like the all-clear signal at a floating crap-game.”

  Walter Winchell heckled from his seat on the dais. “Speak into it. Don’t kiss it.”

  Joe E. continued, “I don’t want to interfere with the fun. I’ll just introduce my fellow Friar, one of the greatest entertainers of all time, Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  I stood up. Red Buttons shouted, “Sit down, you shmuck!” He stalked over to Joe E. “You’re supposed to introduce me!”

  Joe E. nodded. “Gentlemen, I wasn’t supposed to introduce Mr. Davis—you’re catching me on a losing streak. I want you to meet Mr. Davis’ nephew, Red Buttons.”

  Red took the mike and gestured toward me. “We’re gathered here to honor this runaway slave….”He waited for quiet and spoke seriously. “It’s a happy thing for the Friars to be throwing a luncheon for someone we love and who has accomplished something important in our business.” He looked at me. “Don’t get a big head, you bum.” He smiled at Winchell. “Walter, it’s nice to see you take a few minutes off from fighting with people. I have a few telegrams here. This one is from Adam Clayton Powell: ‘Sammy, if you vote for Adlai Stevenson you’ll never play The Apollo again.’ Here’s one from Confidential Magazine: ‘Dear Sammy, You made us what we are today.’

  “For our first speaker, I want to introduce Eddie Fisher, one of the finest singers to come along in three or four months.”

  Eddie took the mike. “Gentlemen …”

  Jack E. Leonard shouted, “I trust that will be your closing remark!”

  Eddie composed himself. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted …”

  Jack Carter heckled, “Work without the mike, Eddie. You’re better off.”

  Eddie grinned. “I’ll try again.”

  Jack E. called out, “I want to wish you luck with your comeback!”

  Joe E. groaned, “Three-to-one he won’t sit down.”

  Eventually, they let him say a few words to me, then Red took the floor again. “I’d like to introduce some members of the press who are in the room … and Earl Wilson the great columnist from the New York Post.” Red looked nervously at Winchell. “Walter, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do these things…. All right, he’s not such a great columnist.” Still getting no smile from Winchell, he threw out his hands. “The hell with this. I’m quitting the business.”

  Jack E. was on his feet. “I’ve got a big shock for you. You were never in it!” He took the mike and looked from Winchell to Red. “I just want to say, Red, I certainly enjoyed watching the end of your career today.” He stared defiantly at Winchell. “Mr. Winchell: I like Ed Sullivan! Seriously, Walter, you’re doing a great job on your TV show and you’re a very clever fellow but I just want you to know that soon you’ll be off the air with the rest of us.”

  Alan King began his turn at the mike: “I have nothing bad to say against Mr. Winchell because I’m just getting started in this business whereas all these other guys are through….”

  The hilarity of the afternoon could not, at least for me, overwhelm the warmth which motivated not only the jokes, but the presence of the men who were telling them. As they heckled and insulted me, I remembered the night Jack E. and Red had come backstage at the Riviera. I looked around the room and up and down the dais remembering a kindness with almost every face, and I could think of no greater satisfaction, no sweeter pleasure, than the approval of my own kind of people, show people.

  The luncheon was drawing to a close, the heckling ended and Walter Winchell took the mike. “Sammy, I join all the others who have saluted you and honored you here today with quips and insults. You know we are all devoted to you and respect your art and talent. Damon Runyon once wrote that the word ‘Class’ is difficult to define. But, once you see it you recognize it, and once you’ve recognized it you’ll never forget it. Class, he said, was something you might find in the grace of a ballerina, the lift of a thoroughbred’s hoof, or the flip of a champion’s glove. Gentlemen, Damon must have meant—Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  As I walked to the microphone the entire assemblage was standing, applauding me, and I looked toward the table where my father and Will were sitting with George, Michael, Burt, and Charley Head. My father smiled at me and so did Will, but there was confusion in Will’s eyes, and I could imagine the turmoil within him: the tug of war between wanting to enjoy what he’d never believed he would see happen, to believe it was real and okay, with no strings attached, and the fear that something would happen to prove it all a lie. But the layer upon layer of emotional scar-tissue which had taken a lifetime to develop was impenetrable, and I knew he could never see it as I did and enjoy it as tangible proof that a Negro could gain acceptance at least somewhere in a white world.

  At dinner, dozens of people came by my table at Danny’s to congratulate me. When there was a break George groaned, “I feel like I’ve been sitting through the same movie twenty times.”

  I smiled. “And the night is young, baby. After the show it’s a definite out-on-the-town for your friend the Friar to take a few more bows … Michael, incidentally, is that blazer and thos
e slacks the only clothes you own? I mean I understand about being broke but you’re working steady—you must have at least one suit. After all, we are going to be celebrating.”

  He smiled, embarrassed. “I’ll wear a suit.”

  He left the table a few minutes later and George looked at me. “Don’t you know who Michael is?”

  “What do you mean don’t I know who he is? Who should he be?”

  “His mother’s a Guggenheim.”

  “Then what’s he doing working as our assistant stage manager?”

  “He likes the theater.”

  When he came back I put down my fork. “Michael, do you mean you’ve got money coming out of your ears and you’ve had the audacity to go sneakin’ around here looking like Monday night on 125th Street—and stop blushing ‘cause it won’t help you. What is it with guys like you and Johnny Ryan? You with the dollar-ninety-eight khaki pants and him Charley Undernourished with the frayed collars? The two of you look like: ‘Send These Kids to Camp.’ Well, the party’s over. Tonight we’re starting a new game called ‘Give the check to the assistant stage manager.’ Now, here’s the skam: we’ll start our little celebration by letting you take me, George, Chita, Jane and Burt to Sardi’s after the show. I’m a Broadway star and it’s time I made an appearance there.”

  He smiled agreeably. “Okay.”

  “Then we dash over to the Copa to catch a little Joe E. from the ringside and on to the Harwyn. And consider yourself lucky that I’m anxious to see Sardi’s because I might just as easily have told you I’d like to go to Romanoff’s. In Hollywood!”

  I didn’t have to know the room to know we’d been seated in the back of the bus. “Well, it’s another ‘Welcome to Broadway’ for old Sam by the chic theatah people.”

  George said, “Sammy, I forgot there was an opening tonight. If Richard Rodgers walked in here at this hour without a reservation … I mean there’s nothing they could do if they don’t have a table.”