She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (14 page)

“Bryanny boy, would you like to go to New York and see some shows on Broadway?” she asked one night out of the blue.

“Does a bear do it in the woods?” I responded.

“You boys with your crazy talk I am assuming that is a yes.”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s a definite yes.”

The planning of the great trip began. My friends at school tolerated my excitement about going to New York and my giddiness about seeing my first Broadway show. Of course I tried to be cool and play it down by saying my mother and grandmother were making me go to New York, and I’d have to endure shows, shopping, and museums, but inside I was bursting with anticipation. Mom
made reservations at the Plaza and contacted a broker for tickets to a few shows that friends had recommended. It was years since she had been to Manhattan. Owing to Dad’s ongoing heart problems, their once-extensive life of travel had been severely curtailed.

“Coach, when I was a little girl, Moozie used to take me every year to New York for the Dance Masters of America convention, and we would see oodles of Broadway shows,” Mom explained. “The original
Gypsy, My Fair Lady
, oh, just oodles. When I was your age, maybe a teensy bit younger, I was star-struck by Ingrid Bergman, and I had to see her in
Joan of Lorraine
. The play was sold out, but your Moozie and I went to the box office and somehow we had absolutely fabulous seats. Well, it was summertime and there was a heat wave. It was beastly hot and I had on a beautiful white eyelet dress with starched petticoats, just a dream of a dress. Anyhow, I was famished when we arrived at the theatre, so your grandmother bought me a big chocolate bar from the concession stand. Honey, when the lights went out and the play started, I was mesmerized, and Ingrid Bergman is a fabulous actress, you know. I didn’t even realize how hot it was in the theatre, but by intermission the chocolate bar had melted all over my dress and gloves. It was a mess, but I didn’t care. I just tossed the gloves in my handbag, and never let that purse move an inch from covering the stain. But I will never forget the magic of that performance.”

She handed me a
New York
magazine and said, “Now, in the theatre section you will see listings of all the shows we already have tickets to:
Annie, Dancin’
, and
Ain’t Misbehavin’
,
plus another play, but the title has slipped my mind. If there is something that you want to see, let me know and I will call the broker to get tickets. I want this to be a special trip, little man.”

I kissed her on the cheek and quickly took the magazine to my room. Salivating over the fashion ads for all the best stores, wondering where we would go and what we would see, I finally reached the Broadway listings. There it was, the show I was destined to see,
Gilda Radner Live from the Winter Garden
. It was the early years of
Saturday Night Live
, and although everyone was imitating Chevy Chase, John Belushi, and Dan Aykroyd, I was drawn to the wacky brilliance of Gilda.

“Mom!” I screamed from the top of the stairs, “I found the show!” Bounding down into the den with the magazine in hand, I announced, “It’s got to be
Gilda Radner Live from the Winter Garden.”

“Okay, pet, I’ll call right now.”

The show was a limited summer engagement and had been sold out for months, and seats were impossible to get, which was not sitting well with Gayle Batt. Never one to give up, she assured me that she would do everything to procure seats.

Finally our travel day arrived. As usual, Mom was running late primping and last-minute packing, so there was some tension in the air as we got ready to go to the airport for our flight. People still dressed to fly in those days. I wore a tie. Eventually every bag was loaded in the massive trunk of the silver blue Fleetwood, and thanks to
Dad’s lead-footed driving, we made it to Moisant Airport just in time to board the Eastern Airlines nonstop evening flight to New York’s LaGuardia Airport.

“Jesus Christ, Gayle,” he sighed, “y’all have enough luggage for a grand European tour. You’re just going for a few days.”

She smiled as she retorted, “Johnny, the Lord’s name, and it’s four days but six shows.”

He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and said, “Son, whenever your grandfather would travel, he’d say, ‘Before you leave, make sure you’ve got your spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch.’”

I chuckled, but of course Mom and Moozie each just raised an eyebrow. As we all hurried down the terminal to board the plane, Dad slipped me some cash and said to treat the “ladies” to a drink on the plane and to pay for all the cabs. Giving me a big hug, he told me to watch out for them and keep my eyes peeled, New York was a dangerous city. In a flash we were seated and airborne, holding hands as the plane rose over the orange and pink sunset-lit swamps and the dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

As instructed, I treated my ladies to their cocktails, receiving adoration for my chivalry from the stewardess, and although we chatted about what we would see and Moozie and Mom recalled their many wonderful trips to the city, the flight seemed to take forever. I must have dozed off for a short while, only to be awakened by Mother tapping my knee softly, saying calmly but with a thrill in her voice, “Son, look at the lights.”

It was a clear summer’s night, and the lights of New
York glistened and twinkled more than the stars in the heavens, but it was just the beginning of the sparkle and wonder I felt. On the cab ride to the Plaza, Mom had the taxi driver pass Bloomingdale’s and designer boutiques and other famous locales, so that we would arrive at the Plaza’s front steps via glamorous Fifth Avenue. We had two adjoining rooms on the fourteenth floor, with breathtaking views of Central Park and the towers of the Manhattan skyline. I looked over at Mom, and she smiled. “Do you love it?” she asked.

And without hesitation I answered, “One day I’ll live here, I’ve got to be here.”

Her classic smile grew, maybe because there was yet another joy we could both share, or, more likely, that I was gently releasing the apron strings I had tied so tightly. After Camp Chippewa, the odds that I would ever stray from the side of Gayle Batt’s hoop skirt were slim, but all it took was a trip to the Big Apple and a Broadway show to snip them.

At 10:00 a.m. sharp, we had a room-service breakfast and then we went to the Winter Garden Theater, where we were first in line at the ticket window. The marble lobby was much smaller than I’d imagined it would be, and I was taken by the photos of Gilda and Father Guido Sarducci on the walls. The blind rose on the advance ticket sales window, signaling Mom to make her move.

“Hello, we would like three seats for tonight’s performance, please.”

“Sorry, ma’am, the run is sold out.”

Turning up the syrup factor on her Southern accent,
she lilted, “Oh, dear sir, this is my son’s very first trip to New York and his little heart is set on seeing Miss Gilda Radner. Is there anything you can do? There must be some seats somewhere.”

“Ma’am, it’s sold out.”

“But we flew all the way from New Orleans just to see this show, and if we don’t, his little ol’ heart will just break. I remember my first show,
Joan of Lorraine …”

As she went on and on, telling the story in her most charming way, batting her lashes, I noticed him softening until finally he said, “All right, all right. Let me see what I can do.”

He stepped away from the window back into the office, while Mom turned to me smiling and crossing both sets of fingers.

The man returned. “Ma’am, this is your lucky day. I can give you three in the house left box.”

“Give? Oh, you sweet thing, I insist on paying for them.”

They both shared a laugh, and she paid for the seats and we were off to meet Moozie at Saks for a day of shopping. Mom never gave up, no matter what. Even if the answer was no, she would just keep on trying. Nothing was ever impossible, she’d say; just try a different approach. She could and still can get whiskey from a rock, as Oralea once noted.

The rhythm and energy of the streets flowed through me like electricity. I’d never felt anything like it before. Not having had sex yet, New York was the closest thing. Saks was a revelation, with floor after floor of designers’
collections. Even the best stores back home were small, with only a few pieces from the runway shows, and here was the whole enchilada—every designer I had ever heard of was represented in a big splashy way. Amid the frenzy, and drunk with retail, we realized it was nearing five-thirty and the curtain was at eight, so we rushed to get a taxi, a futile attempt at that hour on Fifth Avenue. So we hoofed it back to the hotel to the strains of Moozie’s complaints about her knees and feet and why didn’t we think ahead, but I was high on New York, and was loving every rushed, wonderful moment.

We arrived at the Plaza starving and exhausted. Moozie suggested that we order a light snack and get dinner after the show, so that’s what we did. She put her feet up for a moment, and then the flurry of the Southern belles preparing for a big night in the big city began. I showered and shaved the caterpillar over my lip, and hopelessly tried to make the part stay in my thick mane. I dressed in a pair of bright red sailcloth summer pants, a white button-down oxford shirt, and a red plaid madras tie and a navy blazer; I looked like a preppy nightmare. Uncharacteristically, Mom emerged first into my room with a waft of Trigère perfume she’d acquired earlier in the day at Bergdorf’s.

“Darlin’, would you zip me, please?” which I did. “Now what about jewelry?”

I quickly answered with transparent insincerity, “Mom, really, whatever you want, it doesn’t matter to me. Okay, triple-strand pearls, South Sea pearl and gold clips and brooch …”

“Thanks, pet. Mother, are you almost ready? Bryanny
boy, why don’t you go downstairs and get in the queue—that’s what they call it up here, it’s not a line, it’s a queue—for a taxi. As I recall, it’s murder getting a cab this time of night.”

“Yes, but please hurry, I don’t want to be late.”

She winked as she handed me the tickets. “Yes sir.”

I was next in line—sorry, the queue—when the two magnolias appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairway of the Plaza. They stood out from the crowd, but in a good way, a softer way. I couldn’t believe that Moozie was wearing white kid gloves.

The taxi whisked us to the corner of 50th Street and Broadway under the great marquee with its enormous pictures of Gilda with her frizzy wild hair. Moozie took one look at the photos and said, “Oh God, I hope we are not seeing this show. That child is a mess. Does she even own a comb? Who in heaven would let themselves be photographed looking like something the cat dragged in, much less place it on the marquee of a Broadway theater?”

Mom tried to intervene by softly whispering, “Now, Mother …”

But the cabdriver beat her to it. “I hear ya, lady, I hear ya,” he said.

The houselights were already blinking when we arrived, and we were guided to our seats by the lace-collared usherette. We passed through the velvet curtains and up a set of stairs to the box seats. There were three freestanding chairs covered in the same velvet as the curtains; the usherette handed us our
Playbills
, and told us to enjoy the show before she closed the curtains behind her. Mom insisted
that I push my seat to the front, and she and Moozie would sit behind. Meanwhile, Moozie went on about how she remembered seeing Al Jolson at this very theater, and Mom mentioned that they also saw
West Side Story
here as well, to which Moozie replied, “Oh, the dancing was just fantastic in that show, but talk about sad sad sad, I thought I’d cry my eyes out, remember we had to go to the Astor roof for a drink to shake it off?”

Mom thought for a second, “No, Mother, I believe that was
Death of a Salesman.”

“You are right, how could I forget that giddy little romp! I don’t know why people write such depressing things. When I go to the theatre or movies, I want to be entertained and see beauty, not tragedy or, worse, vulgar language. Why can’t people say what they have to say nicely?”

“Moozie, everyone’s taste is different,” I chimed in.

Mom added, smiling coyly, “That’s right, Miss Hazel, something for everyone.”

“Well, that’s all fine and dandy, just give me something pretty, that’s all I ask for, and please don’t make me think too much, let me just sit back and be entertained.”

Just then the lights dimmed and the orchestra started to play. A rush of excitement shook me as I felt Mom’s hand gently patting my shoulder. The short overture stopped abruptly, a white-hot spotlight hit the curtain center stage, and out came Gilda to thunderous applause, wearing pink overalls and sporting frizzy pigtails. She began to sing a simple, juvenile-sounding little ditty, about talking dirty to barnyard animals:

At this very moment there was crazed laughter and more applause, but I feared that Moozie was going to grab me by the scruff of my neck with her gloved hand, drag me down the stairs, and put me in a cab home to New Orleans. Good-bye, city life. With great trepidation, I slowly turned my head to see both Mom and Moozie laughing so much that they were dabbing their eyes with their hankies. Safe. And so Gilda continued talking dirty to the animals, from the birds in the trees to snakes in the grass, and warning how never, ever to tell an alligator to bite her snatch!

And thus my Broadway musical theatre cherry was officially popped.

The rest of the show consisted of highlights of her great
SNL
characters like Emily Latella and Rosanne Rosannadanna. We all stood for the ovation, and laughed nonstop in the cab back to the Plaza.

Years later, when Moozie was nearly bedridden and her memory was failing, she often asked me how that cute girl we saw in New York was doing. I never had the heart to tell her she had died so young.

Spent from the day of endless shopping and sidesplitting laughter, we stumbled into our rooms and simultaneously realized we were starving. Mom suggested we call the famous Carnegie Deli and order some delicious pastrami or corned-beef sandwiches. This brilliant
idea was unanimously and instantly approved. She called and ordered, then turned to me, tilted her head, and said, “Bryanny, would you be a heart and walk over and pick up the sandwiches? The gentleman—well, I really shouldn’t call him that, judging how short he was with me on the phone—well, pet, they are short a delivery boy, so honey, would you mind?”