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

by Davis, Sammy

  “Sammy, this Utopia you mentioned, do you think it will ever come?”

  “I’m sure it will. I’m sitting here talking to you on the radio about it, right?”

  “It’s remarkable that despite the racial abuses you must have suffered, you haven’t turned around and hated right back. You’re really an optimist.”

  “I have a right to be. I don’t want to do Pollyanna bits, I’ve been knocked down by white people—but I’m not about to forget that every time it happened the hand that was reaching out to help me up again was white. But more important, I’m not a bigot. No Negro can intelligently lump all white people together like They’re all no good.’ Wouldn’t that be everything we don’t want people to do to us?”

  In the cab to the Harwyn Michael looked at me. “And where did all that come from? My God, you sounded like Harriet Beecher Stowe.”

  I nudged George. “And what about our producer? Doesn’t he have some kind word for his star who just turned out to be a public speaker?”

  “I was trying to remember if I’ve ever told a racial joke.”

  “Baby, the fact is, half the racial jokes I hear I get from colored guys. Who sits around twenty-four hours a day wondering ‘What’ve I done for the racial situation?’ But the beautiful thing is when somebody starts thinking about it, then he’s not about to go out and tell any more racial jokes, right?”

  “Racial jokes! I’ll even be afraid to listen to Amos and Andy from now on. When I think how much I used to like Step’n’Fetchit and Willie Best …” He sighed. “Little did I know what I was doing. Every time I laughed I probably sank a ship.”

  The Harwyn’s doorman held open the cab door. “Nice to see you, Mr. Davis.” He moved quickly to open the front door for me. I let Johnny. D.D., George, and Michael go in first.

  As I took off my coat, a tall, good-looking man extended his hand. “Sammy, my name is Ed Wynne. Thank you for coming in.”

  The dance band started playing Mr. Wonderful; people all over the room were smiling and waving at me; Ed led us to the only unoccupied table in the room and called over the table captain. “Mac will see that you have everything you want.” A waiter brought a bucket with champagne bottles in it. “Compliments of Mr. Wynne.”

  I leaned back against the soft banquette and smiled at the group. “That’s how it is when you’re with a star, folks. It’s a definite First Cabin all the way.”

  Mac was handing out menus. I could see they were in French. I waved it away. “Thanks, but I know what I want, a steak about an inch thick….”

  A vaguely familiar-looking guy, one of those faces you see around Vegas and New York, came over to the table. “Whattya say, Sammy?”

  “Hi, baby. How y’doing?”

  “I’m gonna come by and see your show.”

  “I hope you will. And be sure to come backstage and have a drink with me.”

  “Hey,” he smiled, “thanks, Sam. I will. How’s Thursday?”

  When he’d left George asked, “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know, he’s a guy.”

  “And you’re going to have drinks with him?”

  “I’m not going to spend the night with him. But what’ll you bet he’ll be at the box office tomorrow? And what’ll you bet he’ll bring friends? Now, am I Mr. Wonderful or not?” He looked pleased. “You see, George. Colored people aren’t really lazy.”

  When I called for the check the waiter said, “Compliments of Mr. Wynne.”

  I leaned toward George. “Baby, give me a twenty for the waiter and ten for the captain, will you? I’ll catch up with you Friday.”

  Ed walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming in, Sammy. Now come back soon. Please. Think of this as your home.”

  We left Johnny, D.D., and Michael getting a cab and George and I started walking toward Park Avenue. When we were far enough away from the club I grabbed his arm and hung on it like a half-hysterical nitwit. “Do you want to know about a small Negro lad from Harlem who just saw his first chic supper club and the owner told him, ‘This is your home’?” I did a few Bill Robinson steps up the stoop of a private house.

  George shrugged. “Now really. What’s the big deal?” But his face was bursting with concealed pleasure for me and I danced back down the steps and gave him a shot on the arm. “You rat fink, take that.”

  “Ow.”

  “I’m a star and it’s in my contract that I can hit my producer any time I feel like it.”

  “Listen, if it’s going to affect you like this you’d better stay home from now on. And let’s get a cab, my ears are freezing.”

  As we pulled up to the Gorham the meter read fifty cents. I whispered, “Give him a deuce.” He looked at me, shocked. I nodded. “A deuce, baby. I’m a star.”

  The elevator stopped at his floor and he said, “Well, thanks for walking me home.”

  “Hey, it’s only two-thirty. Come on up, have a nightcap.”

  George sat down at my bar, shaking his head. “I actually gave that cab driver a dollar-fifty tip for a fifty-cent ride.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. It’s a little brokesville. I’ll straighten out with you.”

  “I don’t care about that. But that cab driver, Mr. Mancusi, he’ll be tailing me from now on.” He became serious. “Do you really mean to tell me that you’re broke? Sammy Davis, Jr.?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly mean to tell you. But it’s not so unfathomable. While we’re doing the show, all the Trio can afford is a $500-a-week salary for each of us. And I’ve got a few old bills hanging around, so before I get my five it’s gone.”

  After a while he said, “Do you realize you’ve got a bill at the box office for nine hundred dollars worth of tickets? I can’t imagine why you should be paying for all those tickets.”

  “Most of them are for people who can do us some good but who don’t come under the heading of press. Somebody calls and says, ‘Hey, I’d like to see your show.’ Let’s say it’s the president of a picture company. Am I going to be a piker for eighteen dollars? You can’t be a star only when it’s autographing time.”

  “But why don’t you let it come out of the Trio?”

  “Baby, Will Mastin won’t go for spit. I mentioned it once and his great answer was, ‘What’s a movie company got to do with us?’ ”

  “But …”

  “George, I can’t let myself get bogged down by these things, I’ve gotta worry about getting out on that stage and being adorable. Now let’s talk about something nice. Do you want to do ten minutes on how five different people come over to say, ‘Hey, I’ve got to come and see your show’?”

  “Well, we can use them. We’re selling out the balcony and the mezzanine but we still have seats in the orchestra. And that’s a switch.”

  “You’ve seen what happens when we walk down a street: the cats who wave and yell hello are the guys driving trucks and cabs. My fans are the people, the man on the street, which happens to be the best thing that can happen to a performer.”

  “Well, I wish you had a few fans who own limousines.”

  “Hold everything, ‘cause if that’s your problem old Sam can fix that, too.” I reached under the bar and deposited a stack of invitations in front of him. The top one was an invitation to a cocktail party at Park Avenue and 68th Street, being given for me by one of our investors. I showed him the Tiffany & Company engraving on the inside edge of the envelope. “Baby, there was a time when I used to go to parties where all the booze and the food and the furniture put together didn’t cost as much as this invitation.” I shuffled them like a deck of cards. “Yes, it’s a definite socializing with the upper crust and filling up the limousine section for you.”

  “For me? When I walk down the street nobody calls me Mr. Wonderful.”

  “And as long as I’m going to be Charley Social Lion with the personal appearances, tomorrow we’ll go to Cye Martin’s and work out some sartorial splendor—something a little suave, a little distingué—for old Limousine Section Sam.
And I’d better open an account at the Harwyn ‘cause it’s a definite every other night drop-in there.”

  He poured himself another drink. “But let’s bring along somebody else to leave the tip.”

  George put on his sunglasses as we left the Gorham and we started walking briskly toward Seventh Avenue. A cab driver waved, a guy unloading a Horn and Hardart truck on the corner smiled hello. George waved back and mumbled, “All these people staring at me … my public.” We crossed Seventh, over to Broadway and turned downtown. A man with a gait like he was in a walking race—arms pumping, long strides—was a few yards ahead of us. George hurried forward and fell in step a few feet behind him—arms pumping, taking the same long strides. He tired of that, and tapped on the plate-glass window of an automobile showroom. A salesman left a customer and came to the door. George smiled. “The cars look lovely. You’re a credit to Broadway,” and kept walking. He stopped at the corner and waited for me.

  “Baby, I’m a star and you’re a nut. I can’t be seen with a nut. It could get in the papers.”

  “Oh, speaking of that …” He reached into his coat pocket and held out a column from one of the afternoon papers.

  “Do you really believe that a big star should be seen standing on Broadway in broad daylight reading about himself?”

  “Well, I thought you ought to see this.” I glanced at the item. “… Who’s the luscious blonde Sammy Davis, Jr. was tchtchatting with at the Harwyn? …” He was peering at me through his dark glasses, disturbed. “Why would anyone want to make it sound like you were with a … a blonde date?”

  “The word is ‘white,’ baby. They’ve got me down as Charley White Chicks Chaser, and that’s it, so just get used to the fact that every time I sneeze, there’s somebody gonna say ‘And a white girl gave him a handkerchief.’ ”

  When we got to Cye’s, I walked to the back of the shop and sat down where Rocco was working. “I’ve got some ideas and I know now it’s going to be a definite shake your head and argue with the customer but do me a favor: humor me, treat me like I’m a nut.” He nodded, already looking at me that way. “Thank you. Now, I want my jackets to have four buttons down the front.”

  “You’re going to walk in the streets with four-button suits? Like from the old days?”

  “Rocco … remember, I’m a nut. The suits will be like in the old days, but I’m going to wear them now. The main thing is the pants. How many inches around at the knee are my pants now? I mean what’s normal?”

  “Maybe twenty-two to twenty-four. For you I’d say twenty-two.”

  “Make them sixteen inches at the knee.”

  “You said sixteen inches?”

  “Maybe less. I have to see it before I can be sure. The point is I don’t want yards of extra material flapping around me. I want a sort of modern Edwardian suit. If you make the jackets very trim they’ll be distinctive, they’ll have my own look. And I want the pants so tight that I can barely sit down in them. You get what I’m trying to do?”

  “Sure, now that you explain it.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “What you want is a flannel suit with leggings.”

  We left and walked down Broadway. “Now I’ve got to have shoes made that’ll work with the suits. Something that’ll disappear under the cuff so there’s an unbroken line, and my socks won’t show when I move.”

  George shrugged. “I always thought it’s sexy to show a little sock.”

  I gave him a look. “A high shoe, but not with laces or buttons, sort of a modern Congress gaiter like Lincoln used to wear.”

  “That’s a very nice tribute. After all he did for you it’s the least you can do.” He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s a little late, folks. I’m going up to the hotel for the weekend and I’ve got to pack a few things.”

  I stopped walking. “You mean you’d leave your star in the middle of the street … well, don’t worry about me, baby, Johnny and D.D. invited me over for Sunday dinner, so you go right ahead and have fun in the country. I have other friends who’ll be looking after me.”

  “My God, I’m only going away for thirty-six hours. I’ll be back Sunday.”

  “That’s okay, baby. Don’t give me a thought. See you in the spring if I can get through the mattress.”

  He got into a cab and I walked to Fifth Avenue, then up, thinking about D.D. and Johnny, remembering the surprise of seeing his name, John Barry Ryan III, in Cholly Knickerbocker, and learning that a guy who worked as a stage manager and dressed like he couldn’t afford to get his name in the phone book, was Charley Social Register. He’d said it would be an informal dinner. With anyone else that would be levis and hamburgers, but with them it might be a sit-down dinner with only three forks instead of five.

  I walked to Tiffany, glanced at the window display: a golf club poised in mid-air, ready to swing at a large diamond resting on a tee—and pushed the revolving door slowly, trying to get my bearings before I was inside. A store detective standing inside the entrance smiled. “Hello, Mr. Davis.” The showcases sparkled as though every time a customer touched one a hand came out and polished it.

  As I stepped off the elevator, into the silver department, a saleswoman approached me. “Mr. Davis, so nice to have you in the store. May I help you?”

  “Thank you, yes. I’m interested in two things …” I selected a beautiful silver water pitcher to bring Johnny and D.D.

  “You said there was something else, sir?”

  “Yes … it’s a favor I’d like to ask of you. Just between us, I don’t know the first thing about the different kinds of silverware and I want to learn. I thought about looking it up in Emily Post but then I figured that she must have learned it here.”

  She laughed, pleased, and lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t know an oyster fork from a bouillon spoon. Come along, Mr. Davis, it will be my privilege to show you.”

  21

  I slept late Sunday, had some juice and coffee, and took the package from Tiffany out of the closet. I slid the string off the outer wrapping and opened the large blue box. The pitcher was in a flannel bag. I rewrapped it exactly as it had been. A few dozen roses would be more appropriate for one dinner, but Johnny and D.D. had been great to me on the road and I wanted to give them something nice. I could always play it as though it were in return for the books on fine art they’d given me. I dressed in a gray tweed suit, an eggshell shirt, and a black knitted tie, put on a vicuna polo coat, and left the apartment.

  A strong gust of wind from the East River almost knocked the box out of my hand as I stepped out of the cab in front of River House. I gripped the box securely against me and walked toward the building. As I reached the front door, a doorman stuck his head out and pointed to the left. “Delivery entrance is up the street.” He closed the door.

  My phone was ringing as I got home. When whoever it was gave up, I called the desk and asked that no calls be put through. George was back and had asked them to let him know when I came in. I told them to ask him to come up, “But be sure to tell everybody else that I’m out.”

  George breezed in. “Am I crazy or weren’t you supposed to be having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. John Barry Ryan III, cha, cha, cha.”

  “Something came up, baby.”

  He sat on the couch and glanced idly at the box that was with my coat on a chair. “Who lives in there?”

  I put it into the closet. “It’s just something I bought.” I looked through my mail and autographed some pictures. After a while, he stood up and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you later. I don’t dig funerals.”

  “Come back here, you nitwit.”

  He grinned. “Oh? We’re feeling a little better, aren’t we?”

  “George, you’re rotten to the core.”

  “That’s more like it.” He came back and tapped an empty glass on the bar. “Scotch.”

  He was peering across the bar at me, smiling owlishly. “Well? What happened to Mr. Wonderful?” He twirled
his glasses around by one stem, like a yawn. “I’m only asking so I’ll look interested. Is there anything we want to tell Sergeant Gilbert? They say—whoever ‘they’ are—that these things feel better when you tell them to somebody … I mean, you tell it to me, and I’m not even listening, but you hear how unimportant it is …” He mumbled self-consciously, “Whatever all that means!”

  I poured a coke. “I learned a long time ago that if you’ve got a problem and no one can help you with it, then keep it to yourself.” I looked up and was touched by the tenderness in his face. “Baby, if it was something you could do,” I smiled. “Like if I needed some money …”

  “Oops, wrong number.”

  I smiled back at him and walked to the window. “Y’know something. Despite all my years of living with prejudice, so help me God, I’m incredulous every time it hits me in the face. I never one day of my life woke up thinking I’m colored, or I’m anything other than just a guy. And then every day somebody reminds me.” I strummed my hand up the Venetian blinds. “I guess I’m lucky that I can start fresh every morning.”

  George walked into the dressing room and did a Donald Duck take, gaping at a line of bulky sweaters hanging along an iron pipe rack. “My God. What is that?”

  “They’re for the kids.”

  He inspected one of them. “You bought seventy-dollar sweaters to give away? For no reason?”

  “I’m not giving them away, I’m going to wear them onstage, a different one every night, to help keep the kids from getting bored.” I heard Johnny Ryan’s voice in the hall. I got busy showing one of the sweaters to George.

  “Sam? Are you okay? You weren’t sick last night?”