Big Man

by Clarence Clemons

  Bob shrugged. “I guess I was thinking about hockey,” he said.

  “He was thinking about hockey,” said Clarence to Kinky.

  “I’m hungry,” said Kinky.

  “I’m a hell of a cook,” said Clarence. “You got any stuff out in that kitchen?”

  “Be my guest,” said Kinky. “Rattle them pots and pans.”

  “Let me take a look, see what you’ve got,” said Clarence. He got up, stepped over the sleeping dogs, and went into the small kitchen.

  “I like applesauce,” said Bob.

  “I know for a fact that I don’t have any applesauce,” said Kinky.

  “I still like it,” said Bob.

  Later they sat at the tiny kitchen table eating. A TV set on the counter was tuned to the local news. Three more days of rain were predicted.

  “What is this?” asked Bob, looking at his dish.

  “It’s fucking delicious is what it is,” said Kinky.

  “Yeah,” said Bob. “But what is it?”

  “It’s an Italian peasant soup called pasta e fagioli, or pasta with beans, or pasta fazool,” said Clarence.

  “How’d you make it?” said Bob.

  “Olive oil, garlic, onions, and pancetta diced up and sautéed,” said Clarence. “Then I put in two cans of cannelini beans, drained and rinsed, and about four cups of chicken stock. I brought that to a boil, then put in the cavetelli pasta.”

  “I didn’t know I had shit like pancetta and whatever that pasta was,” said Kinky.

  “Cavetelli,” said Clarence. “I found it in a gift basket from Ester Newberg.”

  “My agent,” said Kinky. “I’m going to send her ten percent of this soup.”

  “So the reason I came by,” said Bob, “was ’cause this fella at the bar told me you had some stray dogs here.”

  “Well, cousin Nancy, she lives over that way with her husband, Tony. They rescue dogs,” said Kinky. “I support that and… but it’s not organized or anything, at least not yet. But I like doing it. Dogs don’t bullshit.”

  “What do you call these three?” asked Bob, indicating the three dogs sitting patiently by the door waiting for leftovers or for something to fall.

  “From right to left, which I think is fair since two of us are Heebs, that’s Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego,” said Kinky. The dogs’ ears perked up as their names were mentioned.

  “Good names,” said Clarence.

  Saturday Night Live came on the TV.

  “Guy said you had a heeler,” said Bob. “An Australian heeler.”

  “Yeah,” said Kinky. “Nancy found him wandering around Kerrville. Hadn’t eaten for days. The dog, not Nancy. He’s looking good now, though. She named him Willie, after Willie.”

  “I’d like to meet that dog,” said Bob.

  “Soon as we can get across the river,” said Kinky.

  “Oh, we’ll get across,” said Bob.

  They ate quietly for a while.

  “I had a dream about Elvis,” said Kinky. “I guess ’cause I’m sort of writing about him, but in my dream he was president and Dick Nixon was visiting him and Nixon, as in ‘take a Nixon,’ was wearing the jumpsuit and the cape. Weird, huh?”

  “What the hell happened to Elvis, anyway?” said Clarence. “How does it get like that?”

  “Got in over his head,” said Bob. “Thought he could stand up in the deep end.”

  They finished eating. Kinky gave what was left to the dogs. Bob was doing the dishes while Kinky and Clarence lit cigars. Tom Hanks was on the television, but the sound was off.

  “What the fuck?” said Kinky, grabbing the clicker off the table and turning up the TV’s volume. They all looked at the screen.

  “That’s Bruce,” said Bob.

  Bruce and his new band were doing “Living Proof,” Bruce exchanging guitar licks with Shane Fontayne.

  “Shit,” said Clarence. “Don’t make me watch this. It’s too painful.”

  Kinky clicked the set off. Outside thunder rolled.

  “That’s a bitch,” said Bob. “But shit, I know where he’s coming from. I play with everybody. So does Neil.”

  “Yeah, but he always comes back to Crazy Horse,” said Kinky. “Bruce’ll come back to E Street. He’s no fool.”

  “I hope so,” said Clarence. “It’s like seeing your girl with somebody else.”

  “I know what,” said Bob. “Let’s do something together. Get whatever E Street guys are around. I’ve got some songs. I could be the Boss for a while, right?”

  Kinky and Clarence laughed.

  “Sure thing,” said Clarence. “Let’s do it.”

  “Yeah,” said Bob.

  “In the meantime, where’s the whiskey?” asked Clarence.

  * * *

  Later, in the first hour of Sunday morning, Kinky threw another log on the fire.

  “I could use an Abba-Zaba,” said Bob.

  “Sorry,” said Kinky. “I think I’ve got some frozen Snickers bars.”

  “I was thinking about Odudua, the Santeria mistress of darkness,” said Bob.

  “What’s that got to do with candy?” Clarence asked.

  “Odudua sounds like Abba-Zaba,” said Bob.

  Clarence looked at Kinky. “I give up trying to understand this man,” he said.

  “Santeria,” said Bob, “is a blend of Bantu and Catholicism.”

  Kinky couldn’t think of anything to say, so he took a drink of brandy. They all held snifters. A cloud of cigar smoke hung in the air. The dogs had retreated to the back bedroom. The rain sounded like applause.

  “I ran into Mac Rebennack last week,” said Clarence.

  “How is Dr. John?” asked Kinky.

  “He’s good,” said Clarence. “He told me this amazing story about a tour he was on in the late fifties. Mac was the piano player for some big star, he wouldn’t say who, on the guy’s first tour. The guy had a big hit record and was going on the road behind it. It was thirty dates starting in New York and working down the whole East Coast, ending in Miami. Well, Mac says that guy only played the New York and Miami dates. He hired some other dude who sounded like him to be him at all the other shows.”

  “Wow,” said Kinky, laughing and shaking his head. “I’d love to know who that was.”

  “Next time you see Mac ask him,” said Clarence.

  “Well, it’s possible that nobody is who they say they are,” said Bob. “For example, everybody knows that I’m not really Bob Dylan, but what if I’m not Robert Zimmerman, either? It’s an interesting question.”

  “Yeah, but if you’re not you,” said Clarence, “then who the fuck are you?”

  “No telling,” said Bob. “I could be Wink Martindale or Alan Alda.”

  “Those two are already taken,” said Kinky.

  “Are they?” asked Bob. “I know we all believe that, but what if it isn’t true? What if nobody is who they say they are?”

  “Could explain the collapse of the banking system,” said Clarence.

  “If I said I was Stephen King I’d sell a lot more books,” said Kinky, drawing on his cigar.

  “Why don’t you try that with Elvis, Jesus and Pepsi-Cola?” said Clarence.

  “Coca-Cola,” said Kinky.

  “Who gives a shit?” said Clarence. “Call it whatever you want, but then put Stephen King’s name on it.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Kinky. “It’s highly illegal.”

  “How about this,” said Bob. “You call it Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola by Stephen King, written by Kinky Friedman. You could do that.”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “And you make the Kinky Friedman part real small.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” said Kinky, as he was forgetting it.

  “Assuming,” said Bob, “that you really are Kinky Friedman.”

  “Well,” said Clarence, “whoever you motherfuckers are, good night. I’m going to bed.”

  With that he put his drink down, put his coat on and stepped out into the rai
n. Later, in his cabin, he thought about what Bob had said. Maybe people weren’t who they said they were, maybe it was all an illusion.

  He fell asleep and had crazy dreams. But the next morning when he woke up, he couldn’t remember any of them.

  Montreal

  Clarence

  If Barbara Walters were to ask me what kind of animal I would be, I think I would say a Newfoundland with hip dysplasia. Big, black, friendly, lovable, and in constant pain. But despite that pain I try to continue on with a great attitude, and I always come when called.

  I spoke to Don today before the show. I was calling to check in, like I like to do with all my friends when I’m on the road.

  “There’s a new addition to the stage,” I said.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A throne,” I said.

  “A throne?”

  “A big gold throne,” I said. “It’s great.”

  It was a funny idea and a good solution to my problem, and the idea to do it was Bruce’s.

  One night Bruce came into the Temple of Soul because I wanted to discuss the need for me to descend and then climb the stage stair for the encore. “No need to,” said Bruce. “When the lights go down just go back to the chair. I want you to be comfortable. I’ll put in an elevator if you want.”

  Recently I have been standing on two bad legs, with two bad knees, two replaced hips, and a very bad back.

  My body suffers the results of age and a life on the road. For several years Bruce and I routinely jumped off the stage into the crowd at every show. One night I was surprised to find the drop was over ten feet. I landed hard and severely sprained my ankle. But of course I kept going. For the next two days I was on my back, the ankle packed in ice.

  “You didn’t miss a show?” Don asked.

  “I’ve never missed a show,” I said. “It’s not an option.”

  Missing a show is not part of my work ethic.

  “Now we can title the book Big Man on the Throne,” Don laughed.

  On the morning of March 3, 2008, the Montreal Gazette music critic T’cha Dunlevy wrote a review of the concert the previous night at the Bell Center. It was a glowing review of the show, calling it an enthusiastic celebration of a musical career that has spanned thirty-five years. But for me the best part of the review is found about halfway through. It may be the most memorable sentence in the history of E Street, except for Jon Landau’s “future of rock and roll” line.

  It reads as follows: “Next, Clarence Thomas stepped to centre stage for one of his trademark sax solos, with guitarist Nils Lofgren answering in kind.”

  I guess Mr. Thomas slipped away from his duties on the Supreme Court to play with the Boss for a few shows.

  Now I love the Canadian people, but what the fuck? I’ve only been playing up there for thirty-five years. Can’t you get my name right by now? On the other hand, maybe I could stop by the Supreme Court and make some small changes in the marijuana laws.

  The Legend of Central Park, 2000

  This story is based on truth. I did go to see Jacob play in the Park. What happens after I leave is made up, but it’s a story that makes me laugh. I not only believe that it could happen, I’d be willing to bet that it has happened. Somewhere there are pictures to prove it. —C.C.

  Clarence watched his nephew Jacob play the sax in the small bandshell on the east side of the Park. Clarence sat with Jacob’s new wife, Jackie, and smiled as Jacob led the four-piece band through an elaborate Charlie Parker–inspired riff.

  Jacob had always been a special kid. Always big like Clarence and always charismatic. Like his famous uncle, Jacob was born with an aura of warmth. And he could play. This group was put together through his church, and they were in New York to perform at a three-day quasi-religious festival, but informal events like this one were just about the music.

  Jacob and Jackie met in church, too, and had fallen in love and gotten married within six months. They lived in Virginia and were using this trip to New York as a honeymoon. She sat next to Clarence and smiled as Jacob soloed sweetly, his eyes closed, his body arched backward. The music floated up over the trees in the park and off toward the surrounding city.

  * * *

  Annie Leibovitz slammed the door and headed down the stairs in front of her building. If you wanted something done right you had to do it yourself. Her assistant had just called from Barneys, unable to find the shirt Annie needed for Brad Pitt. She’d be photographing him at six o’clock tonight, and she wanted that blue shirt she’d seen in the window yesterday. Brad was blond at the moment, and the blue shirt would be stunning. Her plan was to have him wearing only the blue shirt so it had to look good, otherwise Brad wouldn’t go for it. She wanted to do a take on the classic shot of the pretty girl wearing the guy’s shirt in the morning, her hair tousled from a recent roll in the hay, standing in the doorway coyly holding a cup of coffee and smiling conspiratorially at the camera.

  The trick of course was to somehow include his feet. To her knowledge Brad’s feet had never been photographed. The rumor was that when he made Troy, they had to throw out the custom-made sandals and custom-make boots instead to hide his feet. Apparently he thought his feet were ugly, and when you’re the most beautiful man in the world imperfection is intolerable. She knew he’d want to wear socks. White socks. She had to find a way to talk him out of that. The blue shirt would help.

  She turned right and crossed the street. She had decided to walk, she could use the exercise, and so she headed into the Park. She walked with her head down but her eyes never stopped observing. She was a watcher, a framer of scenes, and the Park was full of them. She felt naked without a camera. She was almost never without one in easy reach. But in another, more subversive way it was kind of liberating. She felt momentarily unencumbered by the facts of her life. It was a beautiful day.

  Clarence applauded along with the others in the small audience when the band finished.

  “He’s good, isn’t he?” said Jackie, smiling.

  “He’s real good,” said Clarence. “Better than I was at his age.”

  Jacob was twenty-two.

  “You should tell him that,” she said.

  “You tell him,” said Clarence.

  Jacob put his horn in its case, shook hands with the other guys in the band, and crossed down from the stage to where Clarence and Jackie were standing. A few people stopped him on his way and complimented him on his playing.

  “Thank you so much,” he said, smiling that big smile. His hair was fashioned into a long and wild Afro that looked a lot like a halo when he was backlit.

  “Come over here,” said Clarence. He grabbed Jacob and hugged him. “You were great.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jacob. “That really does mean a lot.”

  “He said you’re better than he was at your age,” said Jackie, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

  “He’s a liar,” said Jacob.

  “That’s true,” said Clarence. “But I’m not lying about this. You are the shit, my man.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll be half as good as you,” said Jacob.

  “I’m not going to argue this point anymore,” said Clarence. “You’re right. I’m the best, but you’re still okay. How’s that?”

  “Better,” said Jacob.

  Clarence looked at his watch.

  “Oh, shit, I’ve got to bounce,” he said. “I’ve got a fitting for my new stage clothes. I am going to be one fly motherfucker.”

  “You go ahead,” said Jacob. “We’re going to walk around the Park a little.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” said Jackie. “It’s hard to believe it’s actually here in the middle of this city.”

  “I think the Park is the city,” said Clarence. “It gives New York its identity.”

  “I love it. I want to see the whole thing,” she said.

  “That’ll take some time,” laughed Jacob. “The place is huge.”

  “Enjoy,” said Clarence. “I’
ll check in with you later about dinner tonight.”

  They hugged and kissed again and Clarence headed off toward the city’s East Side.

  * * *

  Annie skirted the Great Lawn, crossed the road, and headed slightly north. Maybe the trick was to provide too much footwear. Socks, shoes, boots, footie pajamas, sneakers, and finally flip-flops. Maybe she could wear him down through attrition. She smiled to herself at the absurdity of the entire endeavor. Trying to get Brad Pitt’s shoes off… ridiculous. For God’s sake, she was in museums around the world. She was arguably the most successful photographer of her time, and here she was scheming to get a shot of some movie star’s gnarly feet. She actually laughed out loud.

  “Excuse me,” said Jacob.

  Annie looked to her right to see a young couple standing at the top of the mall, just below the small bandstand. They were a cute couple. He was a big guy with a great face and a big shock of hair. She was small and pretty and they had newlyweds written all over them. He was holding some kind of case. Maybe for a horn of some kind.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Could you take our picture?” he said.

  Jackie held out a small digital camera and smiled.

  “We have no pictures together,” she said.

  Were they kidding? Was this some kind of elaborate trick to get her to take their picture?

  “It’ll just take a sec,” he said.

  No, they had no clue who she was.

  “Sure,” she said.

  She crossed to them. The girl handed her the tiny camera.

  “You just look through here and press this button,” she said, pointing.

  “I see,” said Annie.

  “There’s a flash if you need it,” he said. “But I think it’s automatic.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need a flash,” said Annie. “Okay, stand together and give us a smile.”

  They did, and she looked at the display. It was a nice shot. They were smiling and bright and young and attractive and framed beautifully by the trees on either side of the path. The light was perfect. But it wasn’t special.