Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (52 page)

“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 those 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.”

If I were Richard Rodgers it wouldn’t matter. I sensed heads all over the restaurant turning and staring at us like “Hey, look where they stuck Sammy Davis, Jr.” Somebody from the show that opened must have walked in because there was a burst of applause. The savory show business atmosphere floated rich and desirable all around us and I hated myself for caring where my damned table was.

Michael said earnestly, “If you look around the room, the fact is the really important people are sitting back here.”

I shook my head. “Michael, you may not be poor but you lie beautifully, baby.”

“Well, anyway,” he said, “when people see you sitting here they’ll
assume the chic section was moved. Just think how uncomfortable you’re making all the little nobodies who thought they had good tables up front.”

Chita asked, “Would you feel better if we left?”

“Darling, you’ve got a lot of talent and a big heart but you’ve got a few things to learn about being a star; we play it with smiles and chic talk like we couldn’t care less ‘cause our every move is being watched—like the man said: ‘The curtain never falls.’ Also we don’t order anything that’ll keep us here too long. One drink, then a casual exit, and home sweet home.”

Michael asked, “What about the Copa and the Harwyn?”

“Another time, baby. Old Sam’s had it for tonight. We’ll go back to the hotel. We can sit around, get to know each other better….”

George groaned. “My God, how much better can we know each other?”

I turned on the television set and sat behind the bar. “I admit we don’t have caricatures on the walls, but we have records, television, books, magazines, and guns for those who wish to practice their draw. Now, the first thing we’ll do is make a little call to The Stage and get some delicacies sent over….”

Burt said, “Here’s that pass you wanted for your father.”

“Thanks, baby. He’ll get a big kick out of this. I’ll go down and give it to him now.”

My father smiled at the words “Working Press,” fanned the little slips of paper for each day of the racing season, and hung the pass on the lapel of his pajamas, beaming. “Poppa, I’ll be the first man standing at the gate in the morning.” He winked. “Wait’ll some of my pals sees me with
this
hangin’ from my jacket.”

I got out of the cab in front of the Gorham and said goodbye to Jane and Burt. “Catch you guys at Danny’s. Six-ish.” As they drove away, my father pulled up in another cab. While he paid the driver, I made a whole production out of checking my watch and giving him Oliver Hardy looks through the window. “Oh, no. Oh … I don’t believe this. You ran out of the money by
three o’clock
, Gracie?”

He stepped out of the cab, looking brokenhearted, like he’d lost his shirt. “You have a bad day, Dad? You drop much?”

“No. I just didn’t feel much like stayin’ around.”

He started to walk into the hotel but I held his arm. “I don’t get it. Why?”

He hesitated. “Y’know that pass you gave me?” Tears started coming to his eyes. “Well, when I got to the gate the guard looked at it and then at me—and he made me take it off.” He shrugged like that was all but obviously it wasn’t and I kept looking at him waiting for the rest, not realizing how he’d not wanted to tell it to me until he sighed resignedly, looked away, and continued, “Anyway, he wouldn’t let me in. He kept the pass. He said, ‘This ain’t yours. Ain’t no nigger reporters on the New York papers.’ ” His shoulders sagged as he pronounced the last few words and he kept looking past me up the street, avoiding any contact with me that could only be a final twist of the knife that had slashed into his sense of pride, a knife placed there not by the white man, whose hatred could never be a surprise to a middle-aged Negro, but by the necessity for a father to stand before his son degraded, stripped of all dignity, beaten in a fight which never took place, helpless to do anything but admit, “This is all I am—the man who dreamed you’d look up to me.”

I put my arm around him and we went inside. “Look, Dad, the guy was a bastard. Burt’ll get you a new pass and he’ll speak to the track so it can’t happen again.”

He was shaking his head. “Thanks, Poppa, but don’t bother. What the hell. I appreciate it and all but I don’t think I’d wanta try usin’ it … it wouldn’t be no fun any more….”