by Davis, Sammy
Yes I Can was originally published in the United States by Farrar
Straus & Giroux.
Copyright © 2012 by: Sammy Davis, Jr., Jane Boyar and Burt Boyar
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4776-1192-4
ISBN-13: 9781477611920
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-627-1
YES
I
CAN
the story of
SAMMY
DAVIS
JR
by
SAMMY
DAVIS
JR
and
Jane&Burt
BOYAR
We ain’t what we oughta be,
we ain’t what we wanta be,
we ain’t what we gonna be,
but thank God we ain’t what we was.
—MARTIN LUTHER KING
Contents
Prologue
Part I
1
2
3
4
5
Part II
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Part III
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Part IV
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
PROLOGUE
They liked me.
The audience was leaning in to me, nodding, approving, catching every move I was making, and as I finished big with “Birth of the Blues” their applause was like a kiss on the lips.
It was November of 1954, we were playing the New Frontier in Las Vegas, and after twenty-six years we were finally getting off the ground, starting to make our move. People were beginning to hear about The Will Mastin Trio and “the kid in the middle.” They weren’t exactly hysterical about us yet, but everybody knew it was going to happen for us any day—we were contenders and they were rooting us in.
The applause kept building. I looked out at the people, absorbing what they were giving me, wishing I never had to walk off that stage and leave them. I smiled “Thank you.” Not for the applause. For making it possible for me to walk through the world through the front door.
I changed out of my stage clothes and Charley handed me my gold cigarette case, polished and filled. I nodded ceremoniously. “You are indeed a gentleman’s gentleman and I shall speak of you to the King.” I gave him a shot on the arm, “I’ve gotta go by the room to pick up some things. See you in the car in an hour.”
As I stepped out the stage door the glow from the casino was lighting up the desert, and as the doors swung open and people came out, the sound of money, laughs, and music poured past them as if there was just too much hilarity inside to stay bottled up. It was out of my way but I felt like walking through there for the sheer joy of knowing I could.
The deputy sheriff standing just inside gave me a big “Hi’ya, Sam.” I waved and kept moving through all the action, past a wall of slot machines, the dice tables, black jack … “Hi’ya, Sammy” … “Swingin’ show, Sam.” … “Here, make room for Sammy.”
“Thanks, not tonight. Gotta run into L.A. Catch y’tomorrow.”
I loved the way the crowds opened up for me and I circled the room twice, getting loaded on the atmosphere they’d kept us away from the other times we’d played Vegas, when there’d been a law against me, when it had been “Sorry, but you’re not allowed in the casino—you understand.” While the other acts had laughs and gambled, we went back to the colored side of town and we “understood.” But now we didn’t have to understand, and the joy of it swept through me every time I walked through that door.
Two of the chorus chicks standing at the roulette table waved and made room for me between them. I had no desire to gamble, but people were gathering around to watch my action. I dropped five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. “On the red, please.” An excited murmuring rose around me. “Sammydavis … Sammydavis … Sammydavis …” The chicks were grinning, digging the big-time move. The dealer spun the wheel. I shook my fist at him. “If you yell ‘black’ at me there’s gonna be a race riot.” It got a laugh. I lit a cigarette and as I took the first drag the ball clicked into the red six. The dealer matched my money with a huge stack of chips and pushed it all back to me. I split my winnings, slid one pile to each of the girls, and playing it Cary Grant-on-the-French Riviera, with a little bow and “Thank you for bringing me luck, ladies,” I turned and rode away on their gasps.
Walking along the corridor to my room, I intensified the satisfaction by the bittersweet of contrast, concentrating on the emotionless face, remembering the matter-of-fact voice: “You people can’t stay here. You’ll have to find a boarding house in the—uh, on the other side of town.” Now they wanted us enough so they were breaking their rules, we were bigger than Jim Crow. They were paying us $7,500 a week, the best money we’d ever made, but that was the least of the payoff. It was as though a genie had materialized out of show business and said, “You’re going to be a star and anything you want is yours; now you’re as good as anybody,” and he’d handed us a solid gold key to every door that had ever been slammed in our faces.
I sat on an easy chair in my living room, absorbing the acceptance, smoking a cigarette, enjoying the luxury of the suite and the picture of myself in the middle of it.
I showered and called Room Service for a hamburger. There was a knock at the door. One of the chorus kids was standing there wearing skin-tight blue jeans. I laughed. “They’ve got crazy Room Service here.” She laughed too. She didn’t understand the joke but she laughed anyway. That was a part of it all. When you’re making it you get laughs with “Good morning.”
Charley was waiting in the car in front of the hotel. “Baby, you drive the first half while I catch a few hours sleep.” I climbed into the back seat and got comfortable. As the car rolled down The Strip toward the highway I saw the big neon sign flashing my name across the desert. I could smell the brand new leather as I rested my face against it and I kissed that expensive seat with all the love I had for everything it represented.
I was glad to take over the driving. Nobody’s invented booze that’ll give you a kick like the first few times you drive your first Cadillac convertible. I pulled onto the highway and let the car swallow up the road. The sun was coming up over the mountains and I saw the night leaving and the day growing bigger, brighter every minute. It was one of those magnificent mornings when you can only remember the good things—as though nothing bad has ever happened. I was actively aware that the edge of the window was exactly the right height for my left elbow. My fingers fit perfectly into the ridges around the steering wheel, and the clear desert air streaming in through the window was wrapping itself around my face like some gorgeous, swinging chick giving me a facial.
I turned on the radio, it filled the car with music and I heard my own voice singing “Hey, There.” Oh, God! What are the odds against turning on the radio to the exact station at the exact moment when a disc jockey is playing your first hit? For a second I was afraid that life was getting so good that something would have to happen to take it all away. But the car, the suite in Vegas, the hit record—and all they symbolized, were the start of a new life, and nobody had given it
to me, so there wasn’t anybody who could take it away. It had all come from show business and as long as God let me keep my talent it would keep on coming. We were building and any day now we’d really break wide open and I’d be a star. A real goddam star! And nobody could ever again tell me, “Here, this is your corner of the world. Stay there.” And that would be it, that would be goddam it!
We were on a double lane highway with two lanes going each way. A green car passed me, the first car I’d seen in ten minutes. At another time I might have raced it, but I didn’t need that jazz any more. I was on my way to record my first movie sound track. It wasn’t really being in pictures but it was closer than I’d ever gotten before. I visualized myself driving through the gate at Universal in my own Cadillac convertible. The guard was tipping his hat, “Good morning, Mr. Davis. They’re waiting for you on sound stage Number One.”
The green car was slowing down but it wasn’t pulling over to the right like they had to stop for a flat or something; they were pulling over to the left. I knew there were women in it because I’d noticed their hats. Whoops, stay away from them. I moved into the right lane fast but as I did she started moving into it, too, but not all the way, she was straddling the two lanes. Now what the hell is she trying to do? Oh, she’s not going to make a U-turn on the parkway! Or is she? Why else would she be slowing down? She must have missed her turn-off. Well go on, baby, if you’re gonna do it then do it. I got way over to the right to give her all the room she’d need but still she didn’t move. She stayed in the middle … then a little left … a little right … now it looked like she wanted to stop. Make up your mind, lady. She cut sharp to the left, hooking out to make a wide U-turn, then stopped, stretched out across both lanes like a roadblock. I had no choice but to use the oncoming lane to swing around her. I started to make my move but suddenly several cars were coming toward me. I was boxed in. I hit my brakes. Only a second ago she had seemed to be a mile away. I was jamming on the brake with all my strength and pulling back on the wheel as though hoping I could pull the car to a stop with my two hands. I knew I was going to hit her. I cut the wheel as hard as I could toward her rear fender trying at least not to make it broadside where the driver was sitting….
The grinding, steel-twisting, glass-shattering noise screamed all around me. I had no control. I was just there, totally consumed by it, unable to believe I was really in an automobile crash. I saw the impact spin her car completely around and hurl it out of sight, then my forehead slammed into my steering wheel.
As I felt pain and saw my hand moving I was stunned by the knowledge that I was still alive.
I heard Charley moaning in the back. Thank God, he was alive too. I felt blood running down my face and into my eyes like it had a couple of times in the army when I’d been hit over the head. I could hardly see but I knew I’d be okay as soon as the blood cleared away.
I was afraid to see what had happened to Charley. When I turned around he was trying to get up off the floor. “Charley? You okay?” I opened my door and got out to help him. I reached into the back seat and took hold of his arm. When he stood up I could see his jaw hanging loose and blood coming out of his mouth. “Oh, God! I’m sorry, Charley. Please forgive me! I’m sorry….”
Cars were stopping and people were running out of a diner and gas station. Someone said, “It’s Sammy Davis.” I started up the road to see what had happened to the women, but a soldier stopped me. “They’re all right over there. We better get you to a hospital.”
“I’m okay. My friend’s hurt.” I pulled the soldier over to Charley. He had both hands in front of his mouth and the blood was pouring through his fingers. I put my arm around him. “It’s gonna be all right … don’t worry. It’ll be okay …” He looked up at me and made a horrible choking sound, trying to speak. He pointed to my face, closed his eyes and moaned. I reached up. As I ran my hand over my cheek I felt my eye hanging there by a string. Frantically I tried to stuff it back in, like if I could do that it would stay there and nobody would know, it would be as though nothing had happened. The ground went out from under me and I was on my knees. “Don’t let me go blind. Please, God, don’t take it all away….”
People were picking me up and carrying me and putting me somewhere but I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move. I was half-awake, half-asleep, hanging somewhere between the past and the future. But there was no future any more. All the beautiful things, all the plans, the laughs—they were lying out there, smashed just like the car. The doors were going to close again. The people who’d been nice when I was somebody would turn away from me. None of them were going to say “Hi’ya, Sam” any more.
I heard a siren. There was movement under me and I knew I was in an ambulance. Can it really happen this way? Twenty-six years of working, and taking it, and reaching—was all that for nothing? Can you finally get it and blow it so fast? Was that little touch all there was for me? For my whole life? I’m never going to be a star?
They’re going to hate me again.
part
I
1
I was born in Harlem on December 8, 1925. My father was the lead dancer in Will Mastin’s Holiday in Dixieland, a vaudeville troupe in which my mother, Elvera “Baby” Sanchez, was a top chorus girl. Good jobs were scarce so she remained in the line until two weeks before I was born. Then, as soon as she was able to dance, she boarded me with friends in Brooklyn, and continued on the road with my father and the show.
My grandmother, Rosa B. Davis, came out from Harlem to see me and wrote to my father, “I never saw a dirtier child in my life. They leave Sammy alone all day so I’ve taken him with me. I’m going to make a home for that child.”
I heard my father call my grandmother “Mama” so I called her Mama, and this was appropriate because by the time I could speak I thought of her as that.
Mama was housekeeper for one family for twenty years, cooking, cleaning, ironing, and raising their children and me at the same time.
One day she returned to the nursery school at which she’d been leaving me. The nurse was surprised. “We thought you were on your job, Mrs. Davis.”
“Something told me get off the streetcar and see what you’re doing with my Sammy. Now I find you put these two other children in his carriage with him and you got Sammy all scrooched up in a corner of his own carriage. I bought that carriage for Sammy. Paid cash for it. Now you got him so he can’t stretch out in his own carriage. Get those kids out of Sammy’s carriage.”
She began taking me to work with her. On her days off she took me to the park and put me on the swings. Nobody else could push or touch me. When her friends saw us coming they snickered, “Here comes Rosa Davis and her Jesus.” Mama’s reply was, “He’s a Jesus to me.”
When I was two my parents had a daughter, Ramona, whom they sent to live with my mother’s family while they stayed on the road. Six months later they separated. My mother joined another travelling show, Connors’ Hot Chocolate, and my father came home to get me.
“Sam, this child’s too young to go on the road.”
“Hell, Mama, I’m his father and I say he goes on the road. I ain’t leaving him here so’s Elvera can come in and take him away. ‘Sides, I want my son with me.”
When the train moved into the tunnel and I couldn’t see Mama anymore I stopped waving and settled back in my seat. My father started taking off my coat, my leggings and my hat. “Where we goin’, Daddy?”
He smiled and put his arm around me. “We’re goin’ into show business, son.”
Our first stop was the Pitheon Theatre in Pittsburgh. I was backstage with my father all day, but at night he left me at the rooming house with a chair propped against the bed and often I didn’t see him again until the next afternoon. Will Mastin came in every morning, bathed me in the sink and made my breakfast, Horlick’s malted milk, which he mixed with hot water from the tap. We were great friends. He spent hours making funny faces at me and I loved making the same faces right back at him. One
afternoon I was in the dressing room playing with the make-up, trying to use the powder puffs and tubes and pencils on my face the way I always saw my father and Will doing it. Will was watching me. “Here, let me show you how to do that.” I sat on his chair while he put blackface on me. Then he took a tube of clown white, gave me the big white lips and winked, “Now you look like Al Jolson.” I winked back. He snapped his fingers like he’d gotten an idea, and sent for our prima donna who sang “Sonny Boy.” “Next show,” he told her, “take Sammy onstage, hold him in your lap and keep singing no matter what happens.”
As she sang, I looked over her shoulder and saw Will in the wings playing our game, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at me and I rolled my eyes and shook my head right back at him. The prima donna hit a high note and Will held his nose. I held my nose, too. But Will’s faces weren’t half as funny as the prima donna’s so I began copying hers instead: when her lips trembled, my lips trembled, and I followed her all the way from a heaving bosom to a quivering jaw. The people out front were watching me, laughing. When we got off, Will knelt to my height. “Listen to that applause, Sammy, some of it’s for you.” My father was crouched beside me, too, smiling, pleased with me. “You’re a born mugger, son, a born mugger.” He and Will both had their arms around me.
When we arrived at our next town Will began giving out meal tickets to the troupe. Once an act had its name up on a theater, there were restaurants in show towns that would give food on credit. They’d issue a meal ticket good for a week’s food and we’d settle with them on payday. Will gave my father his ticket and then put one in my pocket. “Here you are, Mose Gastin. You got a meal ticket coming to you same as anyone else in the troupe.”
I took it out of my pocket and held it. “Okay, Massey.” I couldn’t say Mastin. Why he called me Mose Gastin or where he got that name I don’t know.