Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (17 page)

The audience, mostly show people, was giving us a tremendously warm ovation and I wanted to do something more than just stand there bowing and smiling our thanks.

I stepped forward. They were quieting down to listen to me. I felt the cold of the mike against my hands. I’d never before spoken a word onstage that hadn’t been prepared in advance, but they were waiting. “Ladies and gentlemen, you can’t imagine what this means to my father and …” I couldn’t possibly say “Mr. Mastin” or “our friend Will.” I said, “my father, my uncle and me.”

We were booked for two weeks. I’d just come off stage when I caught a look at myself in the dressing room mirror. I looked again, staring at my zoot suit. It was horrible! I’d thought of it as a timely costume which got big laughs but I was doing exactly what I despised in other Negro performers—making people laugh
at
me. I was saying, “Gen’men” with those clothes just as loud and clear as if I’d come shuffling on singing “Old Black Joe.” I tore it off my body, unable to get out of it fast enough, and dropped it in the trash can.

A few nights later, a middle-aged woman came backstage and said, “I just had to meet you to tell you that when you first came onstage I thought, There’s the most unattractive man I’ve ever seen.’ But fifteen minutes after you started performing I thought you were beautiful.” She turned and left.

Something had happened during my performance. I must have touched this one woman. I must have gotten through to her enough so she couldn’t see anything but what I was trying to do as a performer. I wanted to ask her a dozen questions. Maybe she’d be able to tell me when I’d changed and maybe I could analyze why. I searched for her in the audience every night but she never came back. I was lifted to the skies by the knowledge that it was within me to touch an audience, but after all the wondering and testing and trying, it was killing to not know what thing or combination of things had accomplished it for me.

The stage manager handed me a cablegram. “THE REVIEWS WERE GREAT. KEEP IT UP. FRANK.”

I showed it to Will and my father, then looked at it again, seeing that it had come all the way from Spain, realizing that almost a year had passed since the Capitol. And what a rotten year it had been for him. His radio shows were off the air and his records had begun dropping on the charts. For no logical reason he’d cooled off and his career was in a serious decline. I hung the cablegram on the dressing room mirror. “Can you imagine a guy like this? With all his troubles….”

Our name was getting around, people were starting to say, “Hey,
y’oughta catch that new act at Slapsie Maxie’s,” and we were actually attracting a few customers. We’d taken the job for $200 a week, just to be seen, but we closed riding such a crest of good talk and publicity that when we signed for our next date, the Golden Gate Theater in San Francisco with Buddy Rich and his band, our price went to $550 a week and stayed there as we played our way across the country to New York.

I saw Buddy Rich standing on Broadway outside the Brill Building. He introduced me to the fellow he was with, Marty Mills, and nodded toward the second-floor windows of the Brill Building that said “Mills Music” in gold letters. “Marty’s plugging songs for his old man. C’mon with us. We’re going over to Mel’s rehearsal.” Perry Como had a fifteen-minute TV show every night on CBS and Mel Tormé and Peggy Lee were his summer replacements. I felt very “inside” going over there to drop in on a friend’s rehearsal.

Marty, Buddy and I were together constantly. We formed a club, a very secret organization. Marty was X1-69, Buddy was X2-69 and I was X3-69. We’d call each other on the phone and say, “Hello, X1? This is X2. We’re meeting in front of the Paramount at 12:30.”

Marty found four old police badges in a pawnshop. We each had big gold “Chief Inspector” badges. The fourth was silver. Buddy said, “C’mon let’s go over and show Mel.”

It was a silly time in our lives. We were grown men in our twenties, but we walked into the studio wearing our badges Secret Service style, concealed behind our lapels. Mel was just finishing a number. We walked over to him and flashed them.

“Hey, how about me?”

Buddy was firm. “Sorry, Mel, you can’t join.”

Marty agreed. “We’d like to have you, kid, but it’s very secret.”

I said, “Hey, wait a minute, X1 and X2, let’s have a conference on this.” We walked away and did a whole arguing bit, with shaking our fists, looks of horror and mistrust, and a lot of whispering. It was no more incredible that Mel was holding up rehearsal awaiting the verdict than that we were actually doing this whole thing in the first place.

Buddy gave him the official word. “Okay, Mel. You made it!”

“Hey, wow! I’m in the club?”

“From now on you’re X4-69.” We shook hands ceremoniously and Buddy handed him our extra badge.

Mel’s face dropped. “But this one’s silver.”

Marty patted him on the arm. “Well, you’re not really in yet, Mel. You’re on probation and we’re watching you.”

We left the rehearsal and wandered over to Times Square. The Shriners were in town and the Astor Hotel had uniformed private detectives all over the lobby. Buddy approached one of them. “Pretty crowded, huh? They’re giving us a rough time on the force, too.” He flashed his badge. “Grab a smoke. I’ll take over for you.” The guard was delighted and went down to the men’s room.

On Eighth Avenue we passed a fruit peddler, flashed the badges, grabbed apples, and walked away.

We went to a movie at the Capital and got out around two in the morning. Marty said, “Let’s go over to Lindy’s for a sandwich.”

I copped out. “I don’t have much money with me….”

“We don’t need money. I just sign my dad’s name.”

We were almost in front of the place so I had to come right out with it. “Look, Xl, I don’t know how they’re gonna feel about me in there.”

“Are you kidding? Listen, I’ve been eating in there all my life.”

The lights outside the restaurant were off. “Hey, it looks like they’re closed.”

“They’re still open for the steady customers. The doorman’ll let us in.”

Through the glass door I caught sight of Milton Berle sitting at the head of a long table directly in front of the entrance. He had a big cigar in his hand and he was telling a story or something. He really looked like what he was: the idol of the hour, the King of Television holding court, with everybody laughing hysterically at every word he said. I nudged Marty. “Look.”

He took it very casually. “Berle’s in here every night. That’s the Comic’s Table. It’s a regular thing for the comics and press agents and writers.” He knocked on the door. The doorman appeared from inside, spotted me, and waved us away. Marty rapped on the door again. It opened a crack. “We’re closed.”

Marty said, “You’re out of your mind.” The doorman was looking straight at me as he said, “I told you we’re closed to you.”

Marty turned purple. He banged on the glass door with his fist and shouted, “Tell Mr. Lindy that Marty Mills will never be back again.”

We stood on the sidewalk watching the doorman walk away from us. “Look, I’ll catch you guys tomorrow.”

Buddy said, “Come on. We’ll go to the Bird ‘n Hand and have some coffee.”

“No, really, I’m a little tired.”

He grabbed my arm and pointed to the restaurant only two doors away. “How tired can you be?”

We sat at the counter staring silently at menus. I heard the revolving door turn and in the mirror over the counter I saw a man in a baggy tuxedo hurrying toward us. He tapped Marty on the shoulder. “Mr. Mills, I’m sorry about what happened. It was that damned doorman … please come back. I have a table all ready for you.”

Marty looked at me to see what I wanted to do. Obviously the headwaiter wasn’t concerned over my feelings. He was worried about offending a good customer. On the other hand I didn’t want to make problems for Marty. He answered for me, “We’ve already ordered, thanks.” As the headwaiter left Buddy called after him, “By the way … you apologized to the wrong man.”

Marty was looking at me, a world of disbelief and compassion in his face. “Sammy, I’m sorry.” All the certainty of our fun times was gone from his voice. “Jesus, I knew it went on, but I never figured New York….”

I wanted desperately to play it like it didn’t bother me. “Baby, keeping us out of restaurants and hotels is the national pastime. It’s bigger than baseball.”

He kept looking at me as though he couldn’t accept the fact that it had happened. “Is it always like this?”

I shrugged. “Only when I’m colored. Listen, I’m starved …” I used the menu as a prop and as I stared into it I knew I’d have broken my arms to have prevented it from happening—they were my friends and I wanted them to like me, not pity me—yet I was strangely glad that they saw what it was like.

The club was meeting at Mel’s apartment. “Well, do I get my gold badge yet?”

Buddy looked at me and I looked at Marty, who hung his head a little. “Gee, Mel, I hate t’tell you this—but frankly the reports haven’t been good.”

Mel made a face. “Very funny. Boy, you guys are a scream. Big deal with your gold badges.” He opened a closet and took out a
western holster which he buckled around his waist and tied down to his leg. Then the gun was in his hand pointed at us. Then it was spinning around his finger, forward, backward, and into the holster. He drew three more times, faster than I’d ever seen it in the movies. When he figured we were sufficiently impressed, he unbuckled the holster and started to put it back in the closet.

I ran over to him. “Can I see the gun?” My hand dropped six inches. I hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. “Is this real?”

“It’s a single action Colt .45. Put it on.”

I buckled it on and reached for the gun but I misjudged where the butt was and my hand went right over it. I went for it again. This time I got it out and I started spinning it around on my finger.

Mel said, “Forget the fancy stuff. First learn to draw it right.”

“But you’ve gotta admit I wasn’t so bad for the first try.”

“Except it wasn’t cocked, baby. You’d be a dead man.”

I was so tickled with the way I had it spinning around my finger that I looked up. “Hey, this is a breeze.” As I searched his face for a little approval the gun slipped off the end of my finger and fell to the floor with a humiliating thud. Mel made a whole Laurel and Hardy scene out of picking it up, spinning it on his finger casually, expertly, then looking at me with patient disgust. “Would you like to learn the right way? Or did you just come up here to break my gun?”

I kept at it, working in front of a mirror until I made a fairly decent draw. He sighed, “You’re hooked!”

When we were leaving, he asked, “Well, what about my gold badge?”

Buddy shook his head. “You’re not ready yet, Mel.”

“Whattya mean I’m not ready? You saw the way I handle a gun.”

Buddy nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s true, kid, but it’s a little flashy for our kind of work.”

I caught Mel’s reaction, and the joke, at least for me, lost its humor. I had a strong desire to give him my own gold badge so he wouldn’t feel left out. But I did nothing. At that moment I felt that I was in a small way exactly what was wrong with the world and that I was everything I hated. But still I did nothing.

My father tugged gently at the shirt cuff concealed under the sleeve of his best suit. “Always show a little linen, Poppa.”

“You’re looking like Saturday night at Small’s, Dad.”

He fixed his tie. “Well, son, you might as well know I met myself a nurse, name of Rita Wade—I calls her Peewee ‘cause she’s real little and neat. I’m takin’ her for dinner soon as she gets off duty.” He turned. “What’re you doin’ tonight?”

“Nothing much, just going over to the Copa to catch Frank Sinatra.”

“The Copa?” His forehead wrinkled. “Listen, Poppa …”

“It’s okay, Dad. Buddy Rich invited me. He’s a hip guy, right? He must know it’s okay or he wouldn’t have brought it up.”

I spent twenty minutes getting a perfect knot on a ten-dollar tie I’d bought at Saks Fifth Avenue that afternoon, and although the subway downtown vas half empty I stood all the way so I wouldn’t crease my suit. I was in front of the Copa entrance at a quarter to eleven, staring across the street at the doorway I’d stood in so many times with my father.

Buddy and his friends pulled up in a cab. As we got to the steps the doorman stopped us. “Wait a minute. Only people with reservations.” He rushed in front of us. “Hey, didn’t you hear me?”

“I’m Buddy Rich and I have a reservation.”

He shook his head. “You better wait here while I check.” He was back in a few minutes. “They don’t know anything about a reservation for you.” He gave me a meaningful look, then turned to Buddy. “Maybe if you go away and come back in a little while they’ll be able to find it.”

Buddy blew. “Wait a minute, fat face! Are you saying that if we come back without our friend we’ll get a table? ‘Cause if you’re saying it I want to hear it.”

The doorman’s face reddened. “I didn’t say that. Now look, don’t make trouble. We’re not looking for trouble. Go away peacefully …”

Buddy’s arm was back, cocked to swing, but I stopped him. “Come on, let’s go.” We walked away. I couldn’t face him. “Look, this is ridiculous. You guys go in. Why should you miss Frank’s show? I really wish you’d …”

He grabbed my arm. “If you say that again I’m going to belt you. C’mon, we’ll find a movie or something.”

We walked silently toward Fifth Avenue. As we reached the corner I looked back at the big awning that said “Copacabana.” I
felt Buddy’s hand on my shoulder. “To hell with those bastards. You’ll dance on their tables someday.”

My father was waiting up for me in the kitchen. “How’d it go?”

“They didn’t let us in. Good night, Dad.” I went into the bedroom and began undressing. It was hot as hell but I closed the window to keep out the smell of the garbage that people threw out their windows and which piled up in the courtyard. I heard his steps coming into the room.

“Look, Poppa, they never did want us in them places and they never will and it kills me seein’ you gettin’ yourself hurt over somethin’ you oughta know by now.”