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

by Davis, Sammy

  The car seemed to be moving up Sunset on its own. What was I supposed to do until then? I’d stopped for a light and I found myself staring at greying walls and the unlighted front of a building on which a cheaply painted sign advertised: Available for Bingo and Banquets and as the maze of thought cleared I realized I was looking at Ciro’s. I tore my gaze away, not wanting to see the club dead but it was too late and I saw the phantoms of a great couple of years: people who had once stood in line along that block, the image of myself on that stage, a figure with hope, strong and alive with the vigor of success, energized and propelled by the love of being loved. The light was still red but I pressed my foot on the gas and as the car roared away the image of what I used to be was joined by a Halloween-like figure jerking convulsively up, down, sideways, racing furtively in a circle which kept growing smaller and smaller….

  My father was shouting and staggering around the living room, loaded again. Peewee was on the couch, crying. Another argument, another fight, the same atmosphere I’d felt a hundred times. He turned from Peewee and started toward Mama, his hand raised.

  “If you touch her I’ll kill you.” He looked up, shocked by the roar of my voice. I was on top of him before he could open his mouth and as big as he is he might have been a piece of paper I was shoving toward the front door of the house, “Get out of here, get out of here.” He looked at me and ran out the door. I followed him to the street still screaming as he went down the road. “If you come back I’ll break your arms … don’t ever raise your hand to Mama as long as you live!”

  I went back into the house. Mama was crying, Peewee was crying, Sandy and Suzette were crying. It was horrible and ugly. How could he pick on Mama? On Mama of all people. I picked up a table that had been knocked over, slammed the door to my bedroom, and sat on the bed, shaking. If it wasn’t my father, it was Peewee and Mama fighting over who’d use the kitchen. I’d built Mama a separate kitchen but it didn’t help. There was always something. I lit a cigarette and just sat there smoking, trying to calm down. After a few minutes I threw the cigarette into the fireplace. Peewee was alone in the living room. I patted her on the arm. “I’ll go get him.” The road was dark except for the small street light. I started running, afraid he might walk into a car coming around a curve.

  He was sitting on the curbstone at the bottom of the hill, crying, “I didn’t mean it … I didn’t mean it …”

  “Dad, come on. Let’s you and me go for a walk, huh?”

  The air was cool and clean smelling and I could hear him breathing deep, trying to collect himself as we walked up the hill. “Poppa, all the fights … all that stuff … it’s all my damned fault. I knows I got a good life but I wakes up every morning and I got nowheres to go, nothin’ to do … hell, I don’t even come up with the house money the way you’re still splittin’ with me and Will.”

  “Dad, that’s ridiculous. Lots of men retire.”

  “But on money they put aside for themselves, Poppa. I’m not my own man. I wasn’t going to tell you this but while you been on the road I been goin’ down to the Playhouse every day, workin’ out, gettin’ back in shape. I got the idea watching television, seein’ they don’t dance today like we used to. I worked out a good routine for a single and I thought up the name Sam Time—after how you never could do a time step.” He smiled nostalgically, “Anyway, I put this little act together and I figured some of the places we used to work might give me a break as an opening act. I called the ones I knew to be friends and told ‘em I had to use the name Sam Time ‘cause I didn’t want to trade on your name, plus I didn’t want people to say you cut me off, and damned if I didn’t set up my first date in Minneapolis. Five hundred a week, two weeks, with an option for two more. I planned the way I’d tell you was I’d send you a copy of the newspaper ad for ‘Sam Time’ and I was gonna mark it ‘That’s me, so stop sendin’ the checks, son. I’m off your hands.’

  “Anyway, I got to town and went over to the club and there was this sign for ‘Sam Time’ but underneath in foot-high letters it said ‘Sammy Davis Jr.’s Father.’ ” He looked away, “I took the next train home.”

  I put my arm around his shoulder and we walked in silence, then he said quietly, “All I knows is show business, Poppa. I goes to the track to kill the day and then I gets drunk to forget all the money I lost and it goes ‘round and ‘round and I guess I takes it out on Mama and Peewee and even the kids. God knows I don’t mean to …” He stared blankly up the road. “I guess there ain’t nothin’ can help a man when he’s seven’d out.”

  26

  The day we got to Vegas Will told me, “Sammy, I’m quitting the act. I had another examination in L.A. and the doctors say I can’t keep up. Truth is they told me I should stay home and rest but I’ll keep traveling with the act as manager.”

  I’d expected it and I’d planned we’d open an office in L.A. or in New York and save the $20,000 a year in travel expense for him and Nathan. “Massey, maybe you should listen to what they say. If they think you should stay home …”

  “No. Doctors don’t know everything about a man. They don’t take into account that if I had to stay away from show business I’d have nothing to live for …” Abruptly he snapped himself out of it. “Everything’ll be the same as always. We’re still the Will Mastin Trio except I won’t be on the stage. You’ll be doing a single.”

  It should have been the greatest day of my life, despite the ludicrous billing, but no outside force could make things better or worse, no pleasure I might have had could survive the constant question: But for how long?

  I was starting to drink. For the first time in my life I was using hard liquor, trying to get drunk. I tried Frank’s drink, Jack Daniels, and it was working. If nothing could help me make it with the audiences at least there was a way to forget them, to remove myself from the pressure of shows which I couldn’t make come alive no matter what I did.

  I was in the middle of a dance when my legs felt tired and I had to switch to a comedy piece to give myself a rest. It happened because I’d stayed up all night but it made me feel I was getting old; going without sleep had never affected my performance. A few nights later I was doing a jump-up onto a piano—it was just a baby grand, only about four and a half feet high and I’d always made an “effortless” leap in the middle of “Me and My Shadow” and finished with a soft-shoe on the piano top. I went for the jump and my toes landed barely an inch or two past the edge and I had to dig in to stay up there. I was lucky and made it look graceful and nobody noticed it, but I knew how hard I’d strained and that there’d come a night when I’d miss. I cut it out of the act.

  Age catching up with me was frightening because I’d created my own monster—perpetual motion. I’d thrived on “Wow, where does he get the energy?” Now I had no choice but to slow down the act, and it was the ultimate threat; if I didn’t die one way I’d be devoured another.

  And the papers kept grinding away: “Sammy Davis Jr. has been warned by top Chicago gangsters that if he ever sees that blonde movie star again both his legs will be broken and torn off at the knee.” … “The boss of a certain moom pitcha company has a photo of SD Jr. on his office wall. Flings darts at it.” … “Sammy Davis owes—”

  The rumors and innuendos trailed me across the country, but these things, which would have bothered me at another time, were like mosquitoes buzzing around a man being pulled down by quicksand. Everything was drowned out by the drone of the tapes as they continued telling the only story I cared about, “Sammy Davis is losing his talent … losing his talent … losing his talent.”

  Mickey Rooney was at a black-jack table. He didn’t see me. I stood back waiting for the seat next to him to open up, remembering the good times we’d had together, how he’d really started it for me eight years ago. Eight years. It seemed so very much longer. A woman seated next to him gathered her money and walked away. I put my drink on the table and dropped a $25 chip on the line. “Hello Mick.”

  He looked up
from his cards, there was a flash of pleasure at recognition, then it was subdued and there remained just the trace of a smile. “Hello, Sam.” He continued playing his cards.

  I touched his shoulder. “It’s great to see you, Mick.”

  He nodded. “I see you’ve started drinking.”

  “Yeah. Hey, how long’ve you been in town?”

  “I came in a few days ago.”

  “You’re joking. Why didn’t you call me? Let me know you were here? That’s a hell of a thing to do.”

  He took a slug of his drink. “What the hell, you’ve been busy … I know how it is.”

  “Busy? You’ve gotta be kidding. Too busy for you?”

  He smiled, tentatively. “I called a few days ago but I guess they didn’t give you the message.” He took another card from the dealer, went over, turned his down-card up and looked at me.

  “Mickey, I swear to God I never got a message. I didn’t even know you were in town until I saw you sitting here.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not important.” And as I played my cards quickly, to get it over with, I caught a glimpse of my wrist watch, the platinum gleaming out from under the rich silk cuff of my shirt, and I could feel Mickey looking at my clothes, my jewelry, at the pile of big chips in front of me. When I turned to him again he was smiling at the corners of his mouth, nodding his head slowly, his eyes seemingly removed from the moment. “Remember the old days, Sam? When we used to pal around together?” His voice lost the softness of nostalgia. “I read a story about how you got your start. Funny, I didn’t see my name. Well, you’re a big star now, you’ve got important friends … you don’t need me any more.” He hid behind the mock-hurt bit, “It’s okay, Sam. It’s great. I’m happy for you. Glad to see you doing so well …” He was playing it like a joke and there were people around so I laughed—but I wanted to cry. There were new cards in front of me but I couldn’t play them. I excused myself and went outside and walked around the pool. How could I have let this happen to me and Mickey? Here was a friend, a man who’d fought for me with his position as a star as well as with his fists, yet during all these years when I’d been aware of the troubles he was having I’d never thought to pick up a phone or send him a post card just to let him know, “I remember all the good and kind things you did for me.” With his talent he’d always land on his feet, he didn’t need me, but it might have been comforting occasionally to hear “you were my friend and I’m yours.” I looked down into the water of the swimming pool and stared at my reflection, seeing ugliness that no mirror could reflect.

  My father had come in from L.A. for the weekend and I knew by the way he closed the dressing room door that it wasn’t going to be: Great show, son.

  “Poppa, I’ve gotta show you what they’re writin’ about you in our papers. Mama saw this one and it made her feel real bad.”

  “Sammy Davis, Jr. once a pride to all Negroes has become a never-ending source of embarrassment. The legend of Mr. Davis’ amours trips gaily from one bedroom to another, leering out at us from the covers of endless scandal magazines, dragging us all through the mud along with him. Perhaps Errol Flynn can prosper from this sort of publicity but on one of us it doesn’t look good. Mr. Davis has never been particularly race conscious but his current scandal displays him as inexcusably unconscious of his responsibility as a Negro. Look in the mirror, Sammy. You’re still one of us.”

  I dropped the paper. “I don’t need a mirror to remind me I’m colored. There’s nobody in this whole godamned world who’ll let me forget it.”

  Will stood up and glared at me. “All my life I did a clean act, but the way you’re rolling around in the mud there’ll come a day when people are going to stop bringin’ their families in to see us.” He walked out of the room, shaking his head.

  “Poppa, I …” there was a long silence. Then, “Hey, whattya say we go get us a little somethin’ to eat? Maybe some Chinese food, just you and me?”

  “I’m not exactly hungry, Dad.”

  “Well … I guess I’ll stop by the casino….”

  He was standing at a crap table. His face brightened. “Glad t’see you, son.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay for me to be in here, now? I mean, you don’t think maybe the papers’ll get upset and call me Uncle Tom or nigger rich?”

  “Sammy …”

  “Catch y’later, Dad.” I wandered over to the cashier’s window. “Baby, let me have five thousand.” I sat down at a black-jack table and put $500 on the line.

  At least fifty people were gathered around me, groaning as I went down hand after hand. “Baby, you’d better send over for another five thousand for me.” I signed the slip and kept playing. It all seemed so silly: I go to a window, I sign my name, a man gives me a stack of chips, I put them on a table and another guy takes them away. “You’d better get me another five, baby.” A cocktail waitress came by, “Coke, Sammy?”

  “That’s last year’s publicity, darling. It’s Jack Daniels now.”

  I walked over to the crap table and tapped my father on the shoulder. He turned around and smiled. “I thought you’d like to know, Dad. I just lost thirty-nine thousand dollars!” I waited for him to be shocked or get angry but he just looked sad, his eyes got watery and I wanted to kill myself. “I’m sorry, Dad.” I touched his arm and walked away.

  I did my second show, got boozed up in the Lounge, and stumbled into my car half-stoned. When I didn’t feel like driving any more, I got out of the car and looked around. The lights were blazing, music was coming at me from all directions, I was in front of the Silver Slipper.

  I pounded the bar top. “Innkeeper! Wine for my horses and nothing for my men!” Oh, fine—I was in rare form, using lines from the act.

  The bartender grinned, “What’ll it be, Sammy?”

  “A little Daniels, old buddy, a little double Daniels for old Sam to make up for lost time.”

  The show had ended and the girls were coming out front. Hmmmmmm, which wench will ye have m’lord? … One of them was walking toward me. The body looked familiar … but I couldn’t place the face.

  “Hello, Sammy.”

  I tried to focus on her but she kept moving. I was bobbing my head back and forth trying to get in rhythm with her. “Don’t I know you … I know I know you … oh, for God’s sake, hello Loray, what’re you doing here?”

  “I’m working here. I hope you didn’t drive over in the shape you’re in.”

  “Nobody was driving, officer, we were all in the back seat singing. How’ve you been, Loray honey?”

  “Fine, Sammy. How about you?”

  “Swingin’. Crazy! Don’tcha read the papers?”

  “I’ve been reading about you for years.”

  “I’m a big star, huh, Loray?” She nodded. “I’m ‘bout as big as anyone can get, right?”

  “Just about.”

  “Have a drink, Loray! Whattya drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass of champagne.”

  “That’s right. Now I ‘member. Barkeep! Champagne for the lady, and more red-eye for old Sam.” I grinned. “Hey, where’ve you been, Loray?”

  “Right here at the Slipper. I played some places in South America …”

  “Rio, or Mississippi? Oh God. C’mon, we’ll find a table in the lounge and get comfortable. Y’wanta gamble?”

  “No, Sammy. I don’t think you should gamble either.”

  “Hey! Hold everything. No one tells me when to gamble. I’m a star, remember?” I took out a roll of bills. “Y’see this? Thousands!” I winked at her. “I feel lucky tonight.” I gotta be lucky, tonight. Something’s gotta be going for me. I gave her a handful of bills and steered her over to the crap tables. “Let’s be somebody.”

  I got on a winning streak right away but I couldn’t get interested. “C’mon, Loray, this is a bore.”

  She gasped. “You’re crazy. You’re hot”

  “I’m hot and hot-blooded.” I gathered the chips that had piled up in front of me and stuffed t
hem into my pockets. I looked down at my legs. “Godamned tight pants bulge.” I took out some and handed them to her. “Buy a hat.” She gazed at the money. “Tut tut, wench. A mere farthing. I’ve a thousand acres of the finest cattle land, as far as the eye can see….”

  We went back to the bar. “Y’know, you’re a beautiful girl, Loray. You’re one swingin’ chick, y’know that? How come we stopped going around together?”

  “That’s something you know better than me, Sammy. You just disappeared.”

  “Yeah, I remember. What a lousy thing to do to a nice chick like you. We had a good little thing goin’ for us. Nothing fantastic—but it was kinda nice, right?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Sure …” Oops! It suddenly came back to me. She had thought so. She couldn’t play it for laughs and catch-you-next-time-around. I’d smelled a cottage small by a waterfall and I’d run like a thief, left town without even calling her.

  Maybe that was stupid … maybe a wife’s what I’d needed all the time, maybe that’s what I need now. If I had a wife, I’d belong. I could relax, the papers would get off my back. I looked at Loray. She’s beautiful. Better looking than ever. Hey, this is a beautiful chick, Charley. She understands the business, she’s a lady, she knows how to dress. I bet she still digs me.

  “Y’know, Loray, if I had any sense I’d marry you. Hey, this is no joke! Y’think I tell that to everyone I meet? Y’know I don’t have to do this jazz to get a chick. I’ve got ‘em comin’ out of my ears. Never been more serious in my life. Just ‘cause I made a mistake once doesn’t mean I have to keep making the same one all my life, does it? Does it?”

  “I don’t mean to be ungracious but you’re drunk, Sammy.”