Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (33 page)

I nodded and watched him leave. Will isn’t the type that goes for coffee. He has it with his meals and he doesn’t have anything in
between. He was going to take care of something he didn’t want me to know about, probably paying the bill. He did those things quietly, never making a big thing out of it to remind me I should have saved my money. If he wanted to do that he’d come right out and say, “You should have saved your money.” He’d never try to make me feel beholden to him. I could appreciate the quiet, sure, way he’d taken care of everything all week. I remembered a lot of things I’d often forgotten. Despite our arguments and problems, Will had always been there when I needed him, in the way that he could be there. And I’d needed him a lot.

What could be going on in his mind? Isn’t he happy that maybe we’re about to move into the real big time? Had I been wrong? Did he fear the same things I did? Even so, that couldn’t bother him this much. He’s been on a seesaw for fifty years. He must be in his sixties and at least fifty of them have been spent hoofing in every broken-down toilet from one coast to the other. I remembered him telling me Bill Robinson made $3500 a week, as if it were all the money in the world. Now, at an age when logically an act should decline, Will’s moving into a bigger big time than he could ever have imagined. So, why isn’t he happy? Maybe it doesn’t mean as much to him as it does to me and my father. He doesn’t spend his money. He doesn’t care about big hotel suites or a new car. What
is
the big time to him? His pleasure has always come from the business itself and from being respected in it. I think if he had his choice of a million dollars a year working in a store, or room and board in show business, he wouldn’t give it a minute’s thought, he’d put on his shoes and start dancing.

He’d been completely thrown by the new Vegas offer. He’d thought there was a mistake in the telegram and he was insulted that they were offering us only twenty-five hundred. He’d checked with Western Union and then with the Morris office before he’d been able to believe it was really twenty-five thousand.

Had I hurt his pride with that horrible scene the other day? Has he begun to feel insecure now that I’m carrying him? Does he think I could possibly forget all the years he carried me? Is he wondering if some day I’ll say, “From now on I’m doing a single,” and he’ll be back in the three-a-day again? Except there is no three-a-day any more.

How can he possibly enjoy his new position in the business if he’s worrying that any day I might squeeze him out? And he has every
reason to fear it. We have no contract, no blood ties, there’d be no way he could stop me, nor would he try. He’d keep his dignity and say good-bye. But it would kill him.

The injustice of it was overwhelming. To work your whole life for something and finally get it, but with a string attached, a string that could yank it away from you at any time—he’d earned far better than that.

He came back, smiled hello and walked over to the window.

“Massey?” He turned around. “Massey, I’ve been thinking. We’re moving into a new phase of our careers, you know, the offers we’ve been getting …” His shoulders tensed, almost as though he were thinking, “Here it comes.” That wasn’t what I’d wanted. I hadn’t meant to scare him. I’d intended to make a nice little speech but now I had to rush it. “We should have a contract, Massey. You, me, and Dad. We’ll split everything three ways, like always, and you’re the manager like always with the same billing and everything, but we should have it in writing.”

He spoke slowly. “We don’t need a contract.”

“Massey, it should be in writing.”

He didn’t answer right away. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Sammy?”

“That’s what I want.”

He walked to the side of the bed and I saw the look of gratitude and relief from the tremendous fear that good man had been carrying. It flashed across his face and he turned away for a second. But now he was looking straight at me. He put out his hand and the touch of it, the feel of his strength, carried me back through all the years we’d been together.

I turned my pillow for the tenth time. When its cool freshness had become warm and soggy I sat up in the dark room and lit a cigarette. Would we really be bigger than ever, or would we go down the drain? I listened to the sounds of the hospital, the sure, everything’s-going-to-be-all-right sounds, the anesthesia for reality. Hospitals are so safe. You’re exposed to no one but well-wishers, friends who come loaded with pocketsful of optimism, doctors and nurses who speak in carefully worded encouragements, and who can stop the pain of almost anything but the future. It had been so easy to decide I’ll perform like always, so pleasant to daydream that we’d be bigger than ever, that I’d be better than ever, so easy to be a hit while I was
safely in bed where all problems hung suspended and harmless and where success could be enjoyed just by planning it. I’d been so sure I could go out and just walk onto the stage and dance my head off, I’d already heard the applause. Now I was afraid to sleep, dreading the passing of every hour that was bringing me closer to the moment when I’d have to step outside and do it.

Dr. Hull came by early in the morning to say good-bye. “I want you to drive the car yourself at least part of the way to Los Angeles. You’ll be afraid, particularly when you can’t judge distance as well as you used to. But you can drive safely if you’re careful, and you must conquer the fear. In all things. The driving is only symbolic. You must walk out of here a whole man.”

I dressed slowly and tried the patch over my eye at different angles. Arthur walked with me while I said good-bye to all the other patients I’d gotten to know. I did bits with the nurses, like, “Anytime you wanta be in pictures, baby …” That kind of humor. They laughed, but they knew I was scared. Maybe it happens to everyone who walks away from death.

There was no way to stall any more. I walked downstairs and out the front door. My father and Will were sitting in the back seat of a new Cadillac convertible, a duplicate of the one I’d smashed up.

I sat in the driver’s seat. The upraised knob in the center of the steering wheel looked so harmless. I tapped it with my finger. “Well, here we go, folks. Double or nothing.” Nobody laughed.

I turned the key in the ignition. My hand trembled as I put the car in gear. I looked at the car parked ahead of us. It seemed to be about fifty feet away, but I couldn’t be sure. I took my foot off the brake and the car started moving forward.

“CAN SAMMY RUN AGAIN?” Alongside the story was a two-column picture of me wearing the patch. “Sammy Davis, Jr. is scheduled to begin a four week engagement at Ciro’s in mid-March. The announcement by Herman Hover causes one to speculate as to whether the Sammy Davis, Jr. who’ll open at Ciro’s can possibly bear any resemblance to the dazzling figure of perpetual motion whose career only two months ago loomed as one of the brightest in show business….”

The rehearsal room was empty except for some chairs, a long mirror across one wall and an upright piano with a record player on top of it. I didn’t want Morty or anybody around so I’d brought some records. I wasn’t too worried about the singing or the impressions. My balance and sense of depth had become pretty good for normal
things but dancing was going to be something else. I put “Fascinating Rhythm” on the machine and lowered the needle onto the record.

It was as if I’d never danced before. My legs shook, I had almost no wind at all, every turn brought a knife-stab to my eye, the tempo seemed faster than it had ever been and I was fighting to keep up with it. I kicked myself in the leg and tripped. I saw myself in the mirror, sitting on the floor, one hand protecting my eye, gasping for breath, my shirt wet and clinging to me. I pictured myself falling like that in a club. I’d have landed on somebody’s table. I can’t come back like, “Gee, isn’t it great how hard he’s trying.” That’s death. When I come back there can be no “He’s almost as good as he ever was.” I’ve got to be
better!

The needle was scratching on the label of the record. I got up, picked out a slower record and started dancing again. My eye burned and throbbed but I didn’t dare stop.

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.