Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr.

by Davis, Sammy

  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 i
t’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.”

  “Any word from Will, yet?”

  “Yeah, but you ain’t gonna do no celebratin’ over that news, neither. We’re set to play the Flamingo in Vegas. Will signed ‘cause they upped us to $750-plus pickin’ up our fare out. We can’t afford to turn down that kinda money, Poppa.”

  I turned around. “Dad I’ll play the Governor’s mansion in Alabama if it’ll help us get off the ground a little faster! Anything to change the way we’ve gotta live. I’ve gotta get away from it! I’ve got to!”

  He was looking at my hand, at the necktie I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in my fist, crumpling it into a wrinkled mess. He shook his head slowly, sadly. “Sammy … you ain’t gonna get away from it ‘til you die.”

  Buddy said, “I talked to Frank last night. He wants you to call him.” I looked up from my coffee. He nodded. “Certainly. I told him.” He pointed to the phone booth. “Eldorado 5-3100.”

  Frank didn’t even say hello. His opening line was, “Tonight, you are coming to the club. I’m making the reservation and you’re walking in there alone.”

  “Look, Frank, I’d rather not. I appreciate …”

  “That’s it! We don’t discuss it. Just be there.” His voice softened. “When something is wrong it’s not going to get right unless you fix it. I know it’s lousy, Charley, but you’ve got to do it.”

  I walked slowly toward the Copa. Sure, Frank had made the reservation, but what if they forgot to tell the doorman I was coming? And even if it goes smoothly, if I get in and get a table—at best, forcing my way in where I’m not wanted is even more degrading than being turned away. They’re wrong not to want me but they’ll sure as hell have a right to hate me for pushing my way in. I walked past the entrance intending to just keep going, but I could never face Frank if I backed away. His decline had grown worse and he needed the Copa far more than they needed him, but despite that he was fighting for me.

  I walked up the three front steps. The doorman stood on the sidewalk, watching. I pulled open the door and walked in. I was braced to be facing people but I found myself alone in a vestibule. I paused, then pushed open the next door.

  There was a hatcheck room in front of me and I wished I had a hat to give them so I could have a minute to look around and get my bearings. I saw people standing around a bar to the right of me. I couldn’t see anything but a mirror on the left so I took a guess and turned right. A captain smiled too brightly. “Good evening, sir. A drink at the bar?”

  “No, thank you. I have a reservation for the show.”

  “The show is downstairs.” He smiled indulgently.

  There were two groups of people ahead of me downstairs. The headwaiter asked for their names, checked them off on a list, and sent them to their tables. I stepped forward but before I could give my name he snapped his fingers and a captain appeared, telling me, “Right this way, sir.” Obviously they’d had no trouble recognizing me.

  I felt as if I were a bundle of dirty laundry being taken through the dining room. He left me at a table and as I began to get my bearings I realized I was so far back that I could better see what was happening in the kitchen than on the stage. A captain was standing over me. “Your order, sir.”

  “I’ll have a coke—acola, please.”

  The stares, like countless jabs against my skin, were coming from every direction. I lit a cigarette, and took a long drag, breathing the smoke out gently, holding the cigarette delicately at the tips of my fingers, trying to do all the suave Cary Grant moves I’d just seen in “Mr. Lucky.” Two guys were coming across the room straight toward me. I put the cigarette into the ashtray. A hand moved forward. “Sam? We’re friends of Frank. He said you wouldn’t mind if we sat at your table….”

  As we talked it was clear they were close friends who’d seen the show more than once. Frank had wanted me to walk in by myself, leaning on nobody, but he had sent them to sit with me so I wouldn’t feel like I was alone on an island.

  The waiter brought my coke and I reached for it but he beat me to it, pouring it elaborately, his patronizing smile informing me that he understood I wasn’t accustomed to being served.

  There were cards on all the tables with Frank’s picture on them, and brochures with pictures of the stars who played there every year. They were all wearing the Copa Bonnet, a hat made of fruit. The brochure described it as “the laurel wreath of achievement in nightclub circles, awarded only to entertainers who had reached the peak.” I looked at the pictures of the stars who were wearing it, smiling like they had the whole world in their pockets. I wondered what you had to accomplish before you could get that kind of acceptance. One of Frank’s friends laughed. “Pretty ridiculous looking hat they got ‘em wearing, huh?”

  I smiled. “Yeah.” I could see how a hat made out of grapes and oranges could look silly, but to me it seemed like a crown.

  When I asked the waiter for my check he said, “Mr. Sinatra has taken care of it.” We went up to Frank’s dressing room. He took me aside and put his arm around my shoulder. “You did something good, Charley.”

  The subway lurched from side to side and I swayed with it as though all the muscles and nerves in my body had been stretched until they’d snapped and were hanging limp like broken rubber bands. For the first time I could remember, I loved that ride uptown and I nestled into the restful, anonymous cheapness of it, and where it was taking me. Usually I saw just the seamy side of Harlem and resented being glued to the poverty and second-bestness of everything, but now I yearned for the peace it offered, the release from watching every move I made and from being watched. I knew I was thinking wrong, that it was everything I hated and I tried to bring myself out of it
. “I’ve been to the Copa.” I kept repeating it until I heard it screaming in my ear, roaring back at me in time with the wheels. “I’ve been to the Copa … been to the Copa … been to the Copa …” But all I felt was like I’d bought a brand new Cadillac convertible—for a hundred thousand dollars.

  At breakfast I lit a cigarette with a match from the Copacabana. My father spotted them instantly. “Hey! How’d you get them? Were you inside?” I nodded. “Damn!” He laughed, giddily. “What’s it like? Anything like we figured?”

  “It’s unbelievable! You go downstairs and a guy in a black coat is waiting with the reservations list. He turns you over to a guy in a red coat who takes you to your table. Then a guy in a blue coat takes your order and a waiter in a white jacket brings it to you. And when you’re finished along comes a maroon jacket who takes away the dishes….” He was hanging on every word.

  Later, I went into the front room and looked out the window, staring downtown, toward Lindy’s and the Copa—two in one week—understanding for the first time what lay ahead, and that it was worse than an insult or a fight, it was a pressure chamber, and the further I moved out into the world, the thinner the air would become. Buddy and Marty were just the start, I’d make other friends, and every time they’d breeze into a restaurant for a sandwich I’d be holding my breath, waiting.

  I stood at the window for a long time, watching people moving but going nowhere—people who’d never tasted anything but the leftovers, seeing Harlem again as it is, a corner of New York like all the Harlems are just used-up corners of the country, the carpet under which every city sweeps its problems. I looked at the people who stay “uptown” under that carpet where prejudice does not seek them out. Obviously, they could accept the peace and be content just to hear Jack Eigen describe the Copa, but I was glad I’d seen it for myself.

  I went downstairs to the candy store and called Marty. He said, “Hello, X-3. Whattya say we case X-4’s rehearsal this afternoon?”

  I went downtown.

  In Vegas, for twenty minutes, twice a night, our skin had no color. Then, the second we stepped off the stage, we were colored again.