by Davis, Sammy
Billy Rowe’s voice came over the phone, heavy with sleep. “Sammy? What’s wrong? What time is it?”
“I don’t know what time it is, Billy, and I only called to let you know you can stop working ‘cause we ain’t never gonna make it.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Just my gorgeous image. It’s set in their minds that my face is The Picture of Dorian Gray and there’s nothing gonna change it. I don’t even want you to try any more.”
“Sammy, I don’t understand, what happened?”
“Nothing happened, Billy. Nothing. You and Cliff did everything anybody could do but they don’t wanta know any different than what they always knew and that’s fine with me, ‘cause from this moment on I’m living my life and they can report it any mothery way they see fit. I’m not coming to them on my knees any more; let ‘em pour it on, let ‘em tell the cat on the street what he wants to hear ‘cause I don’t care what he thinks any more. If he wants to take out his troubles on me then crazy, let him hang around uptown bitching about how I live and who I live with, but I’ve had it with apologizing and explaining myself and feeling guilty ‘cause I made it. It’s over.
“Baby, I want you to do just one thing for me: every time you meet a colored cat who works on a paper or a magazine and he’s been rapping me I want you to tell him, ‘I’ve got a message for you from Sammy!’ Tell ‘em they’re creating their own monster. Ask ‘em how come they don’t want pictures of me when I’m with a beautiful girl like Harlean Harris or any other of the colored girls I’m dating. It’s not copy, right? They wait till they see a picture of a white chick and they say, ‘Who they got here with this chick? Sammy Davis? Crazy!’ They complain about it and they rap me for it, but that’s really all they want because that’s copy. Well, you make sure they know they’re every bit as bad as the white cats who do it. Worse. When one of our guys who thinks he’s fighting for equality starts belting me ‘cause I live downtown—laugh in his face, Billy—tell that handkerchief-head he’s cutting his own throat.”
I hung up, hearing the sound of my own breathing, feeling my chest heaving, pumping the heat of my body up through my shirt collar. In the mirror behind the bar I saw my wet face, and beneath it a bronze plaque, and the words “Brotherhood,” “For Humanity” …
… I was holding a bent, twisted piece of bronze, trying to focus on the long wooden splinter that was sticking into my thumb like a dagger. The wooden back of the plaque was smashed and the corner of the bar was broken.
The cab let me off at 125th and Seventh. The street was silent, still. Iron gates were drawn and locked across the store-fronts. A woman turned the corner and passed by without looking at me and I was grateful for the acceptance. I pulled the collar of my leather jacket close around my neck, put my hands into the pockets of my levis and started walking. I looked to my left and to my right at the empty sidewalk, concentrating, until I could see the kids falling in alongside of me, staring up at me, happy just to be walking with me, and I heard the words “You’re Sammy Davis.” A statement of fact. I kept walking, to the barbecue stand. I leaned my back against the locked door and closed my eyes, seeing the faces, hearing the questions … reaching for the past.
23
When I got up I called George. “Come on. Let’s go spend some money and be somebody.”
“Sammy, I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
“Don’t tell me your troubles, baby, ‘cause I’m colored and I’ve got my own. Now, if you’re not in the middle of this lobby in half an hour your star may get so upset he’ll develop laryngitis.”
As we walked across town I stopped at an antique-silver place and gazed through the window at a large silver goblet resting on a piece of red velvet. “Hey, George. Dig.”
He shrugged. “I guess it’s okay if you’re Henry the Eighth.”
“It’s just right for Sammy the Second, too. C’mon in while I have them send it.”
We walked to Madison Avenue, and at Lefcourt’s I showed Lloyd, my salesman, the shoes I wanted to see. “In black and brown.”
George murmured, “What do you mean by that?”
Lloyd, a Negro, shot a glance at him, but said nothing. When he left to get the shoes I looked at George. “Your face is so red I can’t even see your lips.”
He was frantic. “It slipped. I should apologize. Or would that make it worse?” He slumped into his seat.
“Baby, Lloyd’s the peaceful type so you’re lucky, but some of our guys are Mau Mau’s: they cut first and ask questions later.” He groaned. I leaned in close to his ear. “You keep making mistakes like that and someday you’ll really put your foot in it and you’ll hear somebody asking, ‘Hey, man, cat got your tongue?’ and then you gonna hear another voice, mean and angry, saying, ‘Yeah, daddy, I got it right here.’ ”
When at least a dozen boxes of shoes were piled alongside me George said, “My God, isn’t that enough? Even a train stops!”
“Baby, do you mind if I get a little pleasure out of life?” A crowd was forming outside the window, watching me. I swung the show into high gear. While Lloyd was trying a shoe on me another salesman was on the run for more styles. The crowd kept growing and so did the pile of shoes until I was almost hidden by the boxes.
We walked up Madison Avenue. George said, “I thought you were so broke.”
“I ain’t half as broke as I’m about to be. Now just up the street, with a little turn to the left and a turn to the right, we have A. Sulka and Company where you will see a truly creative man destroy himself. Then we follow the yellow brick road to Gucci.”
George was almost punchy as we left there. “Six suitcases for like a hundred dollars apiece—and you’re not even going anywhere, Sammy, I’ll see you later. I really can’t stand watching you in these stores. It’s like letting Ray Milland loose in a distillery. You’re doing Lost Weekend, but with money.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m not trying to be staff psychiatrist, but whatever your reasons are you’re only causing more trouble for yourself with all this.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I’ve been making big money for a long time, I’m not exactly drunk on the novelty of it. Baby, I know everything wrong that I ever do—and I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me why I keep doing it.”
“But if you know it’s wrong …?”
“I’m not looking to be right. I’m just looking to be happy.”
He was shaking his head. “You’re too smart to mean that.”
We were at the corner of 52nd street and I saw a song plugger I know get out of a cab and waltz into “21” like he owned the place—and I knew that no matter what I ever accomplished I could never hope to go into one of those places and feel like that. It was all so stupid, so unimportant—except for the fact that I knew I would never be able to understand, to really grasp it, and that after all these years of looking in a mirror and seeing a man, I finally had to accept that it might as well be a trick mirror. I half wished it were. I looked away. “I don’t know, George. I’d like to be as wise as I am smart—but I just can’t swing it.”
Because we’d stopped walking, a few fans appeared and offered me pieces of paper to sign. One of them stared at George with curiosity. “Are you anybody?”
He scowled. “I’m a famous madam.”
I steered him away, and we continued walking. After a while he said, “I guess it’s none of my business, and I know it’s not a Lucky Strike Extra to be colored, but if there are a few places and a few idiots … well, how can you let them bother you? I could understand if the average ‘colored cat’—whatever that is—complains, but you’re a big star, people stop you on the streets, you can go almost anywhere and wherever you do go you get treated better than most people ever hope to be treated.” I didn’t answer and he continued, uncertainly. “I mean you’ve got to admit that it is a lot better for you.”
“Yeah, baby, being a star has made it possible for me to get insulted
in places where the average Negro could never hope to go and get insulted.” I was surprised by the edge of bitterness in my voice, but I liked it. “Things are so beautiful for me that maybe by 1999 I’ll even be able to rent an apartment in one of those buildings where they throw parties in my honor. But, all things being equal—and they never are—until then I’ll keep reminding myself I’m a star in the only way I know. And if you’re going to be a drag then go back to your meeting ‘cause if I need a drag I’ll call an agency.”
We kept walking down Fifth Avenue, neither of us speaking for several blocks. As we reached Saks he looked at the windows and mumbled, “My God, when I think what a wardrobe I could have if only I were colored.”
I laughed. “You’re catching on. But baby: where would you wear it?”
After the show George came into the dressing room. “There are two limousines downstairs. One says he’s supposed to take you to a benefit in Great Neck and the other one says you’re supposed to be somewhere up in the Bronx.” He was looking at me like: they’re not both right?—are they?
“Tell the guy from Great Neck to follow us to the Bronx. He can wait for us and then take us to Great Neck.”
“But this makes ten benefits this week.” His voice had the sound of a man helplessly asking a friend: Do you realize you’re drinking yourself to death? He was looking at me with compassion. “Sammy? This afternoon—all the money you spent—didn’t it help?”
I laughed, to get it light, “It’s like a Chinese dinner, baby.”
As I put my feet on the jump-seat he gave me a vicious look. “Oh? Settling down for a long winter’s rest?”
I loosened my collar. “Yes, said the little brown bear.”
As I fell asleep he was muttering “ ‘Where does he get all the energy?”
I finished the show in Great Neck, got back into the car and held the second plaque against my shirt sleeve. “George, do you think these are too big for cuff links?”
“Well! The little brown bear certainly revived himself.”
“I guess that’s where ‘he gets the energy.’ Driver, you can drop us in New York at the Harwyn, please. But don’t drop us too hard because I’m pregnant.”
George fell back against the seat. “The Harwyn? At this hour?”
“We’ve gotta swing by there for a quickie. I’ve got a few people meeting us.”
George gaped at the twenty-foot-long table running down the center of the back room. “What did you do? Run a call for a general audition?”
“Baby, bear with me. They’re just some kids from Bells Are Ringing and Fair Lady.” I sat down at the head of the table. After about thirty minutes, I spoke quietly to George, Michael, and Jane and Burt. “Let’s split and go back to the apartment.”
Burt said, “Sam, I think we’re going to go home.”
“Hey, it’s only four o’clock …”
“Well, I’ve still got the column to do and we’re getting up early tomorrow to be at the record session.”
“Holy Toledo, baby, I’m not worrying about it and I’m the one who’s got to sing.”
Jane said, “Sammy, don’t you think you should get some sleep, too?”
I gave her the withering stare. “No, Jane. I don’t think I should get some sleep. But far be it from me to keep you guys up one second later than you want to be. See you at the session tomorrow.” I turned to George and Michael. George said, “Well, it really wouldn’t hurt you to get some sleep.” Michael yawned and started to make an excuse but I cut him off. “Don’t even bother. So the family’s deserting me again. Okay, get your sleep. See you all when you have time for me.”
I tapped my glass with a fork. “Drink up everybody and it’s a definite move the party over to the Gorham.”
My eyes felt gritty, and my throat was tight. I finished the hot tea I’d sent out for and walked over to the mike in front of the window of the control room. Milt Gabler pressed his talk-back button and spoke into the studio. “Let’s go for it this time, Sammy?”
A photographer who’d been shooting pictures for some magazine kept flashing the bulbs in front of me. I waved him away. I cleared my throat. The red light went on. The orchestra started playing and I waited for my cue, my right hand cupped behind my ear to catch the sound of my voice, hoping the tea had done it some good. But one cup of tea can’t beat only three hours of sleep and I barely climbed in under the big note.
While the band ran through the next number I walked over to a bunch of the kids who’d been at the apartment the night before. “Sammy, that was fantastic. Beautiful.” … “If that’s not a hit then I never heard one.” … “Great sound …”
“Thanks, kids. We’ll see what the public wants to buy.” I went over to the group. They all smiled at me.
“It was very nice.”
“Don’t strain yourself, Michael.” George made one of those faces which says: I hated it but I don’t want to hurt him so I’ll look pleasant. I turned to Burt and Jane. Burt gave me a George Gilbert look.
“And what about you, Jane? What’s your opinion?”
“Well … I’ve heard you sound better. You are tired and I could hear it in your voice.”
“Everybody’s a critic, right? Well, it’s very strange that you didn’t like my voice because the president of Decca Records is inside that control room and he didn’t seem to mind it.”
George murmured. “That’s show biz.”
I glared at him. “What’s that, George?”
“I said, ‘I’ll have a gin fizz.’ ”
I called out to the other kids. “It’s a definite one o’clock at Sam’s place tonight.”
Burt said, “Sam, you look kinda beat. Don’t you think you oughta get some rest tonight?”
“Hey. I don’t remember asking how I look. And I have no desire to get some rest.”
I sat behind my bar watching all the action, digging the party sounds. One of the chicks from Bells was wearing levis and she had my twin holsters slung low on her hips. She wasn’t trying to draw, she just dug walking around, flinging her butt out as she leaned her hands against the guns. One of the other chicks was on the phone rounding up some of her friends. The group was sitting at the bar like there was nothing going on around them.
Jane watched me pouring a coke into my silver goblet. She said, “What is that?”
“That, my dear lady, is my glass. I’m a star, and I don’t drink out of the same sort of a glass that the common people use.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll settle for some ginger ale in a common glass.” She walked behind the bar.
“Jane! Get out from behind my bar.” She looked up, surprised. “That’s right. Out out out! You can have anything you want, but just ask for it.” I poured a glass of ginger ale for her.
George said, “That’s his toy; you know you’re not allowed to play with it.”
I nodded, sipping from my goblet. “You can go to El Morocco; I sit behind my bar. Now, if my friends, the inner circle, are through finding fault with me …”
The door bell rang and George glanced vaguely over his shoulder at the throng of new arrivals. “Anyone you know?”
I looked away from him. “Michael, it’s time for a little Stage. Order about forty roast beefs and corned beefs, will you, baby?”
He blinked. “You don’t mean you’re going to feed all these people?”
“Michael, please, just order the sandwiches, like a buddy? Don’t give me any raised eyebrows, no ‘Well, really!’ Okay?”
George came over to me as I was doing gun tricks for a group of kids. He said, “Well, it’s ‘30’ for tonight. The Big Producer is going to sleep.” Within fifteen minutes, he, Jane and Burt, Chita, and Michael had gone.
I sat behind the bar watching the chick with the holsters slithering toward me, smiling.
“Darling, whatever you’re auditioning for—you’re hired.”
I skimmed through some fan magazines, then called Arthur Silber on the coast. “I didn’t wake you, did I, ba
by? … Crazy. Listen, Arthur, I’ll be back in L.A. soon and I don’t have a swimming pool. Will you get moving on it for me? … Arthur, what in hell do I know about swimming pools? I don’t plan to hold the Olympics in it, but on the other hand I don’t want a bathtub…. Fine. And figure on a little cabana, too. You know, out-of-their-slacks-and-into-a-bikini, right? As a matter of fact you’d better make two dressing rooms with showers, one for the guys and one for the chicks. Y’know, baby, the more I think about it, we ought to make it like a Playhouse, a self-sufficient unit, so when I have parties I won’t need to worry about the kids running all over the house bothering Mama. We could do a thing where the dressing rooms are at one end, y’dig, and the rest of it is one large room, as wide as you can make it and maybe thirty feet long so we could even show movies…. Arthur, what am I working for if I can’t have a little joy out of life, the niceties. Now look, put a bedroom in there too, so in case it’s late at night and I don’t want to go back to the house I’ll be all set. Or I can use it for a guest room…. Well, then build a second floor. Hey, that’s wild. Put the bedroom over the dressing rooms, and make the main room studio-style—two stories high. And you’d better give me another bathroom upstairs so it’s a complete suite…. Hey, let me worry about that, please! I’ll get it from somewhere. As long as we’re going to do this, let’s do it right. You’d better get a pencil and write all this down: put in a slate floor and a bar with a refrigerator and all the jazz with maybe six comfortable stools, with backs and arms and leather padding, right? And you’d better use cork walls so if we’re a little noisy we don’t get heard all over the hills. And about the movie setup: I want it so I can sit on a big curved couch in the center of the room, in a smoking jacket, press a button and zzzzzz a screen comes out of the ceiling; I press the next button and the lights go out; I press another button and the guy in the projection room starts showing the movie. And get two projectors, hooked up so we go directly from one reel to the next. I don’t want one of those Mickey Mouse setups like when you’re at a guy’s home and you’re watching a picture and you have to wait around for ten minutes between reels. And find the best sound system that we can wire into every room, including the three Johns, and give them each their own volume control and turn-offs … You know the kind of stuff I dig. Make sure the Johns all have full length heaters in the wall so when people get out of the shower it’s not goose pimple time…. What’s the difference? If you’re gonna be a star be a star! And make sure the pool lights up at night.”