Authors: Ian Frazier
Coyote V. Acme (2 page)
T
o attempt to preserve for posterity one whose wit and understanding outsped the swiftest minds in his business, and who knew better than any other the temper of his age and time slot, is a task for which any honest man must declare himself unfit. That Don Johnson should receive no chronicler approaching himself in stature is, I fear, a condition necessarily imposed by the eminence of his person. On my behalf, I present as credentials only a lively affection for my subject, coupled with a respect for the lofty qualities of his imaginationâinclinations grown many times greater in the course of an intimacy that endured, to my gratification, through a period of several weeks' time.
o attempt to preserve for posterity one whose wit and understanding outsped the swiftest minds in his business, and who knew better than any other the temper of his age and time slot, is a task for which any honest man must declare himself unfit. That Don Johnson should receive no chronicler approaching himself in stature is, I fear, a condition necessarily imposed by the eminence of his person. On my behalf, I present as credentials only a lively affection for my subject, coupled with a respect for the lofty qualities of his imaginationâinclinations grown many times greater in the course of an intimacy that endured, to my gratification, through a period of several weeks' time.
As a young man raised in Scotland, and later (after a reversal in my family's fortunes) in a Thrifty Scot motel, I longed for the intellectual pleasures of the metropolis. Like many others throughout Europe and the Americas whose interest in the arts and sciences no provincial seat could satisfy, I filled my leisure hours with fancies of Miami, Florida. And, naturally, with every thought of Miami came thoughts of Don Johnson, whose name with Miami's shall be forever
linked, and whose reputation shines as the brightest ornament of the location where he tapes. Accordingly, when I attained my majority I removed to that city, and settled myself in rented beachfront lodgings within walking distance of the Seaquarium.
linked, and whose reputation shines as the brightest ornament of the location where he tapes. Accordingly, when I attained my majority I removed to that city, and settled myself in rented beachfront lodgings within walking distance of the Seaquarium.
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My friend having but little interest in reviewing for me the smaller details of his birth and upbringing, I must rely for this account upon remarks that I think I heard him make at one meeting or another. Don Johnson was born near the midpoint of his century to a couple who also lived in that time. Like many young boys, Don Johnson was inclined to mischief. His parents either wished him to read law at university in preparation for a career at the bar or else they did not wish it or else they had no thoughts on the matter. For his own part, when his schooling was finished, or earlier, Don Johnson strengthened his resolve to brave the uncertainties of a player's life. Toward this end, he changed his probable Christian name, “Donald,” to the better and more dramatic “Don.”
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My own introduction to Don Johnson was an occasion of such moment that I refrain from entrusting it to memory's leaky barque. Instead, I refer to an entry made shortly afterward in my daily breviary:
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March 11
Dined this evening in company at Enrique's Little Havana, an eating place (with dancing). Of a sudden, came a measure
of stirring music, and through the door strode a man of good figure and erect carriage, wearing a light-colored nankeen suit and spectacles of a tint so opaque as to hide the eyes within. Instantly, I recognized the celebrated Don Johnsonâthis despite his stature, which was in appearance somewhat shorter than in the portrait at the National Gallery. At the first opportunity, I took leave of my party, made my way to his table, and, emboldened by the warmth of my sentiment, clasped him by the hand. Conveying to him my admiration in the strongest terms, I added that I had many questions that I hoped one day to discuss with him, and inquired whether I might call upon him some afternoon at his trailer. In the silence that ensued, my heart raced in anticipation of another of Don Johnson's famed epigrams, when, with a look at his companions at table, Don Johnson replied, “Hey. Who is this wing nut?”
of stirring music, and through the door strode a man of good figure and erect carriage, wearing a light-colored nankeen suit and spectacles of a tint so opaque as to hide the eyes within. Instantly, I recognized the celebrated Don Johnsonâthis despite his stature, which was in appearance somewhat shorter than in the portrait at the National Gallery. At the first opportunity, I took leave of my party, made my way to his table, and, emboldened by the warmth of my sentiment, clasped him by the hand. Conveying to him my admiration in the strongest terms, I added that I had many questions that I hoped one day to discuss with him, and inquired whether I might call upon him some afternoon at his trailer. In the silence that ensued, my heart raced in anticipation of another of Don Johnson's famed epigrams, when, with a look at his companions at table, Don Johnson replied, “Hey. Who is this wing nut?”
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Later, I was to learn that my friend's abruptness bespoke no hidden depths of ill-humor but only the natural impatience of a spirited intellect checked by society's custom. Indeed, when next we met, and I, blushing crimson and stammering out my words, yet managed to ask of him whether he did all his own stunts, he responded most willingly. I then followed by inquiring how he contrived to juggle his fame with his personal life, and so began a conversation that continued late into the evening.
To those several critics who, with but the most superficial knowledge, accuse Don Johnson of haughty and peremptory behavior, I reply that my friend has
long suffered from a recurring melancholia, brought on by the exigencies of a career that no critic could ever sustain. In addition, I submit that Don Johnson became (through no fault of his own) a man of painfully divided loyalties: on the one hand, he belonged to the city, while, on the other hand, he belonged to the night. We can only imagine the agonies of doubt this must have occasioned within him, as his mind turned first toward the one indebtedness, and then toward the other. Moreover, Don Johnson has been troubled at irregular intervals by a very rare disorder whereby the reflections of street lamps cross the lenses of his spectacles in dizzying succession and deafening airs from popular operettas fill his ears. That he has managed even the smallest degree of civility in the face of such impediments I consider a remarkable feat.
long suffered from a recurring melancholia, brought on by the exigencies of a career that no critic could ever sustain. In addition, I submit that Don Johnson became (through no fault of his own) a man of painfully divided loyalties: on the one hand, he belonged to the city, while, on the other hand, he belonged to the night. We can only imagine the agonies of doubt this must have occasioned within him, as his mind turned first toward the one indebtedness, and then toward the other. Moreover, Don Johnson has been troubled at irregular intervals by a very rare disorder whereby the reflections of street lamps cross the lenses of his spectacles in dizzying succession and deafening airs from popular operettas fill his ears. That he has managed even the smallest degree of civility in the face of such impediments I consider a remarkable feat.
Recently, I found among my papers the text of a hymn that, though unsigned, shows the unmistakable evidence of Don Johnson's authorship. As I recall, it was composed as a tribute to his friend Lord Cran-wyck, of Ayles, Lincolnshire, in celebration of the latter's marriage to a mutual friend. It reads, in part:
You did it, palâhey, it's a lock.
You got legs, Mister; you can walk.
The gig's a tough one, understand?
Count on it, buddyâask the man.
Pal, get the wax out of your ears.
We're lookin' at at least ten years.
The only thing I'm gonna sayâ
Hey, read my lips: “Flight's cancelled, Ray.”
You got legs, Mister; you can walk.
The gig's a tough one, understand?
Count on it, buddyâask the man.
Pal, get the wax out of your ears.
We're lookin' at at least ten years.
The only thing I'm gonna sayâ
Hey, read my lips: “Flight's cancelled, Ray.”
Were Don Johnson's detractors only aware of this and many other proofs of devotion which he showed repeatedly to those cherished in his affection, I am certain they would revise their opinions.
On the subject of women, Don Johnson is perhaps best known for his remark that whereas one cannot, assuredly, live with them, one cannot, by equal measure, live without them. Of his own version of marriage, to a daughter of the French-sounding D'Ar-banville family, I shall speak more at a later time. Suffice it to say that Don Johnson had the wisdom to choose for a companion an actress whose beauty, charm, talent, and sense of fun all vie with each other for preference in the eye of the observer, and one who can do an excellent imitation of a person coughing. I seem to recall hearing recently that Don Johnson and Patti had moved to separate dwellings; however, I believe someone else possibly informed me (more recently yet) that they were once again together, which later report I hope may be fact, inasmuch as I think she is nice.
At long last, the glamorous and poignant saga of Elsa Maxwell is coming to a bookshop near you ⦠. “Party Girl: The Elsa Maxwell Story” by Rosemary Kent ⦠. “Elsa knew where the bodies were buried,” said Kent.
âWilliam Norwich, in the New York Daily News
Y
ou're at an intimate dinner party. The guest on your left is under the blacktop driveway of a two-bedroom brick house in Highland Park, Michigan. How do you begin a conversation? I'm a firm believer in the old rule that one must always avoid politics and religion at the dinner table. Try instead to draw your companion out on subjects of general interestâboardedâup closets, for example. Even the dullest guest is likely to have some thoughts about them. If that fails to strike a spark, try air shafts. Chances are, you'll be talking away in no time. If it's a summer party, how about air-conditioning vents? Or, if you happen to be dining outside, the topic of wooded areas might be promising. If none of these seem to appeal, put on your brightest smile and turn to the guest on your right. After all, you've done your best.
ou're at an intimate dinner party. The guest on your left is under the blacktop driveway of a two-bedroom brick house in Highland Park, Michigan. How do you begin a conversation? I'm a firm believer in the old rule that one must always avoid politics and religion at the dinner table. Try instead to draw your companion out on subjects of general interestâboardedâup closets, for example. Even the dullest guest is likely to have some thoughts about them. If that fails to strike a spark, try air shafts. Chances are, you'll be talking away in no time. If it's a summer party, how about air-conditioning vents? Or, if you happen to be dining outside, the topic of wooded areas might be promising. If none of these seem to appeal, put on your brightest smile and turn to the guest on your right. After all, you've done your best.
What's the perfect time for a party? Any time! The
perfect place? The trunk of a 1975 brown Buick LeSabre in a deserted area of the Mill Basin section of Brooklyn! From a fifty-gallon drum at the bottom of the Gulf of sunny Mexico, to the foundations of the art-deco-inspired Chrysler Building, in Manhattan, to a shallow mound of fresh earth in Rambouillet Forest, southwest of romantic Paris, every successful party requires but one ingredient: people. A dear friend of mine in a field behind her house in Leeds, just 150 feet from her front door, once said to me, “Elsaâ” Of course I sympathized completely. All of us may feel a bit apprehensive when we contemplate giving a big social affair. The first thing I do is make a listâsomething like:
perfect place? The trunk of a 1975 brown Buick LeSabre in a deserted area of the Mill Basin section of Brooklyn! From a fifty-gallon drum at the bottom of the Gulf of sunny Mexico, to the foundations of the art-deco-inspired Chrysler Building, in Manhattan, to a shallow mound of fresh earth in Rambouillet Forest, southwest of romantic Paris, every successful party requires but one ingredient: people. A dear friend of mine in a field behind her house in Leeds, just 150 feet from her front door, once said to me, “Elsaâ” Of course I sympathized completely. All of us may feel a bit apprehensive when we contemplate giving a big social affair. The first thing I do is make a listâsomething like:
planter's punch
crepe-paper streamers
Nancy and Henry Kissinger
a crawl space
four twenty-gallon plastic bags
pretty girls
gladiolas by the armful
a remote fishing-access site
Bobby Short
Now that I've got the basic outline, I can relax and let my imagination color it in.
As I once remarked to Consuelo Vanderbilt in an unclaimed crate at the International Arrivals Building at Kennedy Airport, money and titles mean nothing to me. Character, sense of humor, charm, and dental
records are what I look for in a guest. To me, a county landfill project full of dukes and millionaires is a county landfill project full of bores. At any gathering it's the mix of personalities that makes things go. If I invite a person from the A list, I make sure to include one from the B list, one from the world of show business, one from a creek in the Bronx, one from the arts, one from a storm drain in Great Neck, and so forth. A varied crowd guarantees your party against the horrors of shop talk.
records are what I look for in a guest. To me, a county landfill project full of dukes and millionaires is a county landfill project full of bores. At any gathering it's the mix of personalities that makes things go. If I invite a person from the A list, I make sure to include one from the B list, one from the world of show business, one from a creek in the Bronx, one from the arts, one from a storm drain in Great Neck, and so forth. A varied crowd guarantees your party against the horrors of shop talk.
People often ask me, “Is it permissible to wear evening clothes to a gathering in the late afternoon?” “On which side of the salad fork should one place the posthole digger and scrap-metal compactor?” “Is a commercial strength of quicklime sufficient for my entertaining needs?” “Should I require my caterer to provide an estimate in advance?” “What's in the chimney of the pharmacy on North Lincoln Avenue?” “How many cinder blocks should I allow for each unescorted woman?” “What about the narrow passageway separating the building at 684 Ralph Avenue from the adjoining building?” “What is that odd smell?” “Should I examine a double-locked steamer trunk mailed slow freight to a nonexistent address in New Orleans?” “Should I check the refuse bins of a popular theme park? The hold of a burned fishing boat off Craig, Alaska? A vacant lot on Dean Street, between Classon and Grand avenues? A rented room on West Seventy-sixth Street? The bottom of an elevator shaft in an Ozone Park housing project? The tall grass at the entry to the Hutchinson River Parkway near
Bruckner Boulevard? Beneath the paving stones in the courtyard of the Via Veneto restaurant in Queens? In the wall of the men's room of a Brooklyn veterans' meeting hall? Under the service bay of a derelict garage in Keansburg, New Jersey?”
Bruckner Boulevard? Beneath the paving stones in the courtyard of the Via Veneto restaurant in Queens? In the wall of the men's room of a Brooklyn veterans' meeting hall? Under the service bay of a derelict garage in Keansburg, New Jersey?”
I always answer, “Warmer, warmer. Yes, my dears, you are getting warmer all the time.”
⦠she had a laugh that was like brandy by firelight.
âSomething I read somewhere
C
ourvoisier VSOP. Burning garden shed. “Hee-hee
yuk
yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk!”
ourvoisier VSOP. Burning garden shed. “Hee-hee
yuk
yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk!”
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Rémy Martin Napoleon. Kitchen grease fire. “Har har har, ha ha harr harr harr harr harr harrrrr!”
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Cordon Bleu Martell. Torched kerosene-soaked rags. “Whee-ha-ha-ha h'h'h' h'h'hee oh-ho-hoh he he he he he he he he he he he!”
Â
Mercier Prestige. Overheated car engine. “Ya-hah-ha-ha-ha. Ya-ha-ha-ha-ha. Yah-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
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Hennessy XO. Old telephone books on electric space heater. “Hih-hih-hih, hih-hih-hih, oh ho ho ho ho ho, yee-hoo hoo hoo ha ho ho ho, uh-heh, uh-heh, ha ha ha HA HA HA heh heh heh heh heh heh heh!”
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Ragnaud Reserve Special. Southern California brush-fire. “Ya-
hoo
ha ha ha ha ha ha whoop! ha ha ha ha
ha ha whee-ha hoo-
ee!
ha ha ha
uh
-oh! ho ho ho hee hee hee oh ho ho ho hee hee hee châk ch'k.”
hoo
ha ha ha ha ha ha whoop! ha ha ha ha
ha ha whee-ha hoo-
ee!
ha ha ha
uh
-oh! ho ho ho hee hee hee oh ho ho ho hee hee hee châk ch'k.”
Felipe II. Chinese-food cartons at bottom of ventilator shaft. “A-hah, a-hah, a-HAH HAH HAHHH, a-HAH-HAH-HAH HAH-HAH HAHHHH HAHHHHH HAHHHHH HAHH-HHHHHHH HAHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHH, a-hah, HAHHHHH HAHHHHH HAH HA, a-hah, a-hah a-hah!”
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Château des Plasson VSOP. Abandoned wood-frame summer cottage. “P-p-p-p-
pah!
ha ha HA HA HAAA HAAA-A-A-A-A-A HA HA HA HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE huh huh A-
HEE
HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE uh huh uh huh HEE HEE HEE HEE WHEE-HEE HEE HEE a-hee a-hee a-hee a-hah HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE!”
pah!
ha ha HA HA HAAA HAAA-A-A-A-A-A HA HA HA HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE huh huh A-
HEE
HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE uh huh uh huh HEE HEE HEE HEE WHEE-HEE HEE HEE a-hee a-hee a-hee a-hah HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE!”
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Slivovitz Old Plum. Lit match in the stuff between subway rails. “A-hilk a-hilk a bar har har hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk.”
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Fundador. Butane lighter at thirty thousand feet. “Hee hee hee ya-hah-hah-hah ho ho whee-ha ho ho hee-ya hah hah WHOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO oh-hohk, hack, hack, a, HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEEEE, oh-hohk, HACK!
HACK
! a-HOO HOO HOO HOO HEEE HACK!
HACK
!”
HACK
! a-HOO HOO HOO HOO HEEE HACK!
HACK
!”
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Christian Brothers. Tasselled restaurant-menu cord in candle flame. “A-ssshaw haw haw haw sheee haw haw haw.”
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Rémy Martin Louis XIII. Offshore-oil platform. “Ah-hah hah hah hee hee hee whhooooooeeeeeee hee hee hee hee hee oh
plea-hee-hee-hee-hee-se
hoo hoo hoo hee hee hee gimme a break hoo hoo hoo you're killin' me hee hee hee hee no stop please wha-he-ha-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah HOOOOO HEEEEE HA HA HA HA HA HA HO HO HO HO HO HO HOO HO HO HO oh man too much! HEE HEE HEE HEE HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HA HA, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah I'm
dyin
' hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee! ⦠hee hee hee ⦠a-ha ha ha ⦠. . hee ⦠. ⦠hoo ⦠. ⦠. ha ha ⦠. ⦠. ⦠ha.”
plea-hee-hee-hee-hee-se
hoo hoo hoo hee hee hee gimme a break hoo hoo hoo you're killin' me hee hee hee hee no stop please wha-he-ha-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah HOOOOO HEEEEE HA HA HA HA HA HA HO HO HO HO HO HO HOO HO HO HO oh man too much! HEE HEE HEE HEE HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HA HA, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah I'm
dyin
' hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee! ⦠hee hee hee ⦠a-ha ha ha ⦠. . hee ⦠. ⦠hoo ⦠. ⦠. ha ha ⦠. ⦠. ⦠ha.”
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