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

by Davis, Sammy

  After a few hours I drove home to the house my father had rented for me, with Frank’s help. It was a small house in the Hollywood hills, and I’d gotten Dave Landfield, a kid trying to get started in pictures, to move in with me. My father’s car was parked outside.

  He was pacing the living room. “Poppa, I don’t mean to push you but me and Will’s been waitin’ for you to call a rehearsal. It’s only a coupla weeks off now and we knows you hates to rehearse and all, but …”

  “Dad, I just lost an eye!”

  “We knows that, Poppa, and the last thing I wanta do …”

  “What’s the matter? You guys afraid I can’t do it any more?”

  “Now you knows better’n that …”

  I lit a cigarette and blew out a long, steady stream of smoke. “Look, you and Will Mastin just worry about yourselves. When the time comes, I’ll be on that stage and swinging.”

  I saw Ciro’s lights from a few blocks away on Sunset Boulevard, and as we drew closer I could see a line of people extending all the way around the block. “They’re waitin’ for you, Poppa.” He turned the corner and pulled up to the stage entrance. He came around to my side, opened the door and reached in to help me make the move. “You’re gonna tie ‘em in a knot, son.” He was looking at me hard and straight, trying to give me the strength he knew I needed. “Come on, Poppa, we’re goin’ back into show business. And this time we’re stayin’ there.” I couldn’t answer him. I put my arm around him and we went into the club.

  The dressing room was so crowded with flowers that we could hardly get in. I changed out of my clothes and into a robe and started putting on my make-up.

  “Hi’ya, Charley.” Frank was smiling into the minor at me. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to introduce you out there.” He gripped my shoulder. “The patch is dramatic as hell. See you in the wings.”

  People were filling the dressing room—close people—talking, laughing. I had to be by myself. I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I looked at my face in the mirror. Can they possibly relax and enjoy the act with the patch there to constantly remind them I’ve got no eye?

  I leaned against the wall, waiting, wondering what it was going to be like.

  There was a knock on the door. “Poppa? You ready to go?”

  My father, Will and I were taking the same walk we’d taken a thousand times in a thousand clubs but I felt like I was ten seconds behind every step I took.

  Frank was speaking to the audience. Then he was coming toward me, holding out his hand and I was walking onstage to meet him. The applause began and out of the corner of my eye I saw people starting to stand up. Frank hugged me hard and whispered, “Don’t let ‘em throw you, Charley. Tonight you’re the only star in the room.”

  I looked out into the audience. From one end of Ciro’s to the other were the giants of the motion picture industry—the Cary Grants, the Bogarts, the Edward G. Robinsons, the Spencer Tracys, Gary Coopers, Jimmy Cagneys, Dick Powells—standing and applauding. I saw tears rolling down June Allyson’s cheeks. People were shouting “Bravo” and whistling. I didn’t know how to stop them and I didn’t want to. Their faces held expressions of warmth and elation that you expect from your own family, as though they were taking personal pride that I was back, like it was their joy as much as my own. The curiosity I’d expected wasn’t there at all, nor anything that resembled it. Never had I felt so much a part of show business. All that it had given me materially was nothing compared to the kinship I felt for all those people, strangers who’d come out because somebody in the business had had a rough time. I felt that they weren’t there to see me entertain as much as to root me home. I saw Frank at his table, applauding, smiling and nodding, and Mama sitting at the ringside seeing this happening to me.

  The applause kept on and on, building until I almost couldn’t breathe, and I knew that if I didn’t start performing I wouldn’t be able to. I put up my hands asking them to stop, and little by little they sat down and the room became quiet. Morty was waiting for the cue. I wanted to say something to them first, but could I do lines like “You’ll never know how grateful I am for this reception” or “I’m thrilled to be here”? They were the right words, but they’d been canned and used to death in the standard, everyday “show business sincerity.” I nodded to Morty and at the sound of the first chord all my strength and confidence was back as though I’d never been away. I finished “Black Magic” and they were out of their seats. I turned and bowed to Morty for the arrangement he’d done. The second I started my turn back toward the audience I realized I was spinning toward my blind side, but it was too late to stop myself and my head slammed into the microphone. There was a horrible, loud crack! The audience gasped. The pain was as though a burning cigar were being ground into my bad eye. A thousand hands that had been applauding froze in mid-air, and the room which had been exploding with sound became deathly quiet.

  I reached out, patted the mike and smiled. “Sorry, Frank. Didn’t see you come in, baby.”

  There was a split second of even greater silence, then a scream of relief and I was doing the Jerry Lewis strut around the stage—half to keep the laugh going until they could relax and half so I could have a breather until the pain in my eye subsided. I cued Morty for another chorus of “Black Magic,” and as I finished it I waved, “So long, folks, gotta go do a Hathaway shirt ad.”

  I leaned against the wall in the wings listening to their roars for more. All my fears had been for nothing. They’d go whichever way I played it: if I went for the sympathy, I’d get it—until I was sympathized right out of the business; or I could brush it off, kid it, and eventually they’d forget everything except my performance.

  I hurried back on and did everything I could think of—every song, every dance, every gag I could invent or remember since I was five years old. I did Danny Kaye which I hadn’t done in years and I did half the people in the room. All the show business rules of “leave ‘em wanting more” fell by the wayside because it was I who could never get enough of what they were giving me.

  I’d been on for over two hours, done three closing numbers and run out of excuses to stay on. I bowed a long last thank-you and when I looked up they were standing and applauding; Herman Hover was walking onstage followed by every waiter, bus boy, every cook and kitchen helper in the club. They formed a semicircle around me, the band began playing “Auld Lang Syne,” and they were singing to me—led by the Chinese chef holding a long spoon for a baton. The audience fell apart, I fell apart. I just stood there crying like a baby, not just little tears, but deep, racking sobs.

  Marilyn Monroe and Milton Greene were waiting for me. I’d read in one of the trades that Milton was “… financing and masterminding MM’s break from Fox …” I’d been dying to meet her, not for the boy-girl jazz, just for the kick of knowing Marilyn Monroe, so I’d asked Milton to bring her to the opening. When the dressing room cleared, he asked, “You want to go back to my place and have a drink?”

  “Not on your Rolleiflex, Milton, old buddy. I’ve had it with the Garbo bit. You and I are going to take Marilyn to the Mocambo, then it’s a definite see-and-be-seen at the Crescendo …”

  The smell of freshly percolated coffee came drifting into my bedroom, waking me up. Dave Landfield was in the kitchen eating breakfast and reading a newspaper. He handed it to me. “You don’t have to bother opening it. You’re on the front page.”

  There was a picture of Marilyn Monroe, Milton, Mel Torme and me, at the Crescendo. It was captioned “FIRST NIGHT OUT.” “Baby, I’d like to be Charley Blasé about this, but you’ve gotta admit that when a guy who hasn’t killed somebody gets his picture on Page One, then it means he’s pretty important, right?”

  “The whole thing is fantastic. The phone’s been going like a madman all morning.” I poured myself some coffee and he handed me a pile of telegrams. I opened the top one. “Never dug you before. Dug you last night. You the man. Marlon.”

  Dave was poi
nting to an item in one of the Hollywood columns. “… Guess which double initialed, blonde movie queen and Sammy Davis, Jr. are mmmmmmm….”

  He looked at me. “They must mean Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Baby, they don’t mean Myrna Malted.”

  I knew the columnist so I called him. “Look, if someone told you there’s something between Marilyn Monroe and me, it’s a lie. You’ve gotta retract it. There’s not even a thought of anything.”

  “You were out with her, weren’t you?”

  “I was in her party. The picture is in all the papers, and you can see that Milton Greene and Mel Torme were with her, too.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “What can I think? She’s tremendously exciting to be with. My God, she’s Marilyn Monroe”

  The “retraction” read: “… Sammy Davis, Jr. admits that blonde movie star is ‘tremendously exciting to be with’ …”

  The next morning’s paper had another blind item about us. I went down to Jess Rand’s office. “Baby, you’ve got to do something. This kind of publicity is death. The public’s not going to stand for it. Not on top of the Ava Gardner thing.”

  He tossed a magazine across the desk at me. “Hot out of the sewer today.”

  It was a new scandal magazine and it had separate pictures of me and Zsa Zsa Gabor on the cover but with a headline linking us romantically. “I never even met this woman.”

  “What’re you, a stickler for accuracy? Confidential created a thing with you and a white movie star and it turned out to be their biggest selling issue so this one is following the same formula.” He shrugged. “There must be something about you and white chicks that people want to read, so you’d better prepare yourself to keep seeing it until the people are tired of it.”

  “Are you telling me I should just sit still while some guy goes passing the word around, ‘Hey, you wanta sell magazines? Link Sammy Davis with a white movie star and you’re in business’? I don’t need this kind of trouble.”

  “Wait a minute. Okay, it’s no bundle of laughs, and we’re certainly not going out and looking for it, but exactly what kind of trouble do you mean? The fact that Confidential destroyed you to such a point that a guy has to slip somebody a hundred bucks to get anywhere near the ringside at Ciro’s? The fact that they could fill the Hollywood Bowl with your overflow every night? The fact that last night they had to turn away Rock Hudson?”

  I dropped the magazine onto his desk. “Yeah, how about that?”

  He grinned wryly. “Everybody I handle should have your kind of trouble.”

  I stood up. “Well, look, shouldn’t I at least sue them?”

  “Chicky, the damage is done, and they probably don’t have anything for you to win anyhow. Forget it. All it can do is make you a little more famous.”

  I heard a horn tooting, and looked out the window. My father was stepping out of a brand new Fleetwood Cadillac. I opened the front door and he floated in. “Just got delivery on her an hour ago. Now ain’t she a hummer?”

  We stood in the doorway gazing at it. “You trade your other one against it?”

  “Hell no. This one’s for dressy wear. Listen, whattya think about us goin’ down to the showroom tomorrow? They’re gettin’ the new model convertibles in and I’ve always had it in mind to have me one of them.”

  “Dad, you must be losing your mind! What’re you gonna do with three cars?”

  He was giddy. “Poppa, I don’t care if two of ‘em stays on jacks. I’d just like t’know I owns three Cadillacs.”

  His car horn was honking and a guy in the front seat called out. “Hey, Horse, it’s gettin’ late.”

  I stared at my father. “Horse?”

  He nodded. “That’s kinda a name some of the boys got for me. It’s in honor of where my money goes.” He smacked me on the back. “See y’later, Poppa. Gotta go look after my investments!”

  Humphrey Bogart opened the dressing room door and looked in. Will rushed over to shake hands. “How’d you like the show, Mr. Bogart?”

  “The show was great. But you’re too damned old for the business. Why don’t you retire? The kid’s the whole show!” The smile froze on Will’s face. He’d been expecting a pleasant compliment but he’d asked the wrong man. When you asked Bogart a question he assumed you wanted his honest opinion and he didn’t do Dale Carnegie answers. “Look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but why don’t you face reality? You and the old man are doing less than you did the last time I saw you here and you weren’t doing much even then. The nostalgia’s wearing a little thin, y’know. The people have stopped saying, ‘Isn’t it nice they’re still together’ and if you’re half the showman I know you are, then you oughta see it.”

  Frank led me into his den, chose an album, adjusted the volume to the level he wanted and poured a drink. There’d been so many people around us at the club that it was the first time we could really talk. “You’re doing great, Charley. There’s nothing I can tell you about the dancing and the impressions, but about the singing: you’ve got to get yourself your own sound, your own style. It’s okay to sound like me—if you’re me. I’m only flattered that you like what I do well enough to be influenced by it, and your ear for making other people’s sounds isn’t helping any, but it’s a dead end. No matter how good it is, no copy of anything ever sold for as high as the original.”

  It was almost light out as I started up the hill but as I pulled up to the house it was all I could do to find a parking space. The place was swinging with performers from clubs all over town. I made my entrance. Some of them were drinking, listening to music, some of them were half asleep—but they all were waiting. I moved around the room. “I’m awfully sorry. I got hung up, couldn’t help myself.” They waved away my apologies like they understood. Dave was careening around the room doing charming-bits with half a dozen of the best-looking starlets in town. As he passed me on his rounds he gestured across the room. Jimmy Dean was huddled crouched in his usual corner, legs crossed under him, glasses down on his nose, wearing an old sweatshirt, levis and sneakers. “He doesn’t talk much but you’ve gotta admit he dresses good.” He lowered his voice. “What’s with this kook?”

  “Why ask me? Ella Logan brought him backstage, he’s breaking into pictures, he did East of Eden and I think he’s making another one.” Jimmy saw me looking at him and smiled and waved.

  Dave whispered, “Hey, folks, it moved. Another week in that spot and he’ll take root. He doesn’t even make a move for a chick.” He sighed. “Oh, well, all the more for me.” A couple of new girls came in the front door. Dave winked. “Take two, they’re small,” and zoomed toward them.

  I turned up the hi-fi set and played my bongo drums. I looked around because I felt somebody staring at me. It was Jimmy, giving me the over-the-glasses jazz from the corner. I walked over and sat down next to him. “Hey, lemme ask you something. What the hell are you watching every night? You never talk to anyone, you don’t look like you’re having laughs … what’re you doing always sitting in the corner watching people? Why don’t you get a girl or something? Have a little booze and be somebody!”

  “Man, the only thing I want is to be an actor.”

  “So be an actor. But you don’t have to be dead the rest of the time. You a little shy? Is that it? You want me to fix you up with one of the chicks?”

  He smiled pleasantly but shook his head. “Man, all I want is to be a good actor.”

  “Whoops. This is where I came in. See y’around.” I got up, buckled on my quick-draw holster and walked over to one of the guys who was working in TV westerns. I did all the fancy moves and spins with the gun and dropped it into the holster.

  “Sam? Can I try your gun?”

  “Jimmy, anything just to stop you doing that creepy peepy bit.” He buckled on my holster, pushed his glasses up on his nose and tried to draw. “Don’t go for the speed. Just get it right, first.”

  He tried and dropped the gun. It hit the floor, hard. I folded
my arms, Oliver Hardy style. “Every move’s a picture!”

  Dave grabbed me by the arm. “I don’t know how I forgot this! You got a call from Judy Kanter. She wants to throw a party for you Wednesday night.”

  “Crazy. No, wait a minute. She’ll have to make it Thursday. Thursday between five and eight.”

  “Sam! Her husband’s a vice president at MCA and her father’s the president of Paramount Pictures. Don’t get her angry. They could make me a star.”

  “Sorry, old buddy, but I happen to be very big on Wednesday. I’ve already got two parties being thrown in my honor.”

  He was looking at me wistfully. “It must be fantastic to make it like this.”

  “Yeah, I’ve gotta admit it. The world is my oyster, and I’m the little black pearl!”

  He didn’t speak. He just stood there, not conscious of the way he was smiling at me, transplanting himself into my life, enjoying a glimpse of what he wanted so badly.

  “Listen, Dave, I’ve got a wild idea. I mean if you’d be interested. Why don’t you come on the road with me as sort of a secretary-buddy? I need somebody who’s hip and who I can trust. You’ll be able to make some money, you’ll be around the business, maybe you’ll meet somebody who’ll do you some good—I’ll certainly help you with anything I can. At least you can put off going back to the blouse business. And we’ll have a million laughs besides.”

  “You just hired a secretary-buddy. When do I start?”

  “Right now.” I gave him a shot on the arm. “The first thing you can do is take care of our rooms in Chicago. It’s your home town. Get us the best two-bedroom suite in the best hotel there.”

  “Hey, that runs into money.”

  “Dave. You’re working for a star! And if we ain’t goin’ First Cabin then the boat ain’t leavin’ the dock.”

  I sat on the floor in the center of the crowd. Somebody handed me a coke. A couple of chicks were giving me smiles but I couldn’t have been happier that Dave was keeping them busy. I was so tired I couldn’t even concentrate on the conversations going on around me.