Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (14 page)

Somehow, I have the feeling that if I met Sammy, I could break through his agents and that entourage of his and convince him he ought to take off with me and get the complete rest he deserves. I don’t want any ten per cent, I don’t want any glory; I just feel I owe it to him. Sure he’s got commitments, but once and for all he’s got to stop and consider that it’s one time around, and no one can keep up that pace of his forever.

The first thing I would do is get him out of Vegas. There is absolutely no way he can get a few months’ rest in that sanatorium. I would get him away from Vegas, and I would certainly steer clear of Palm Springs. Imagine him riding down Bob Hope Drive and checking into a hotel in the Springs! For a rest? The second he walked into the lobby, it would all start. The chambermaids would ask him to do a chorus of “What Kind of Fool Am I,” right in the lobby, and, knowing Sammy and his big heart, he would probably oblige. I think I would take him to my place in New York, a studio. We would have to eat in, because if I ever showed up with Sammy Davis at the Carlton Delicatessen, where I have my breakfast, the roof would fall in. The owner would ask him for an autographed picture to hang up next to Dustin Hoffman’s, and those rich young East Side girls would go to town on him. If they ever saw me walk in with Sammy Davis, that would be the end of his complete rest. They would attack him like vultures, and Sammy would be hard put to turn his back on them, because they’re not broads.

We would probably wind up ordering some delicatessen from the Stage, although I’m not so sure that’s a good idea; the delivery boy would recognize him, and the next thing you know, Sammy would give him a C note, and word would get back to Alan King that Sammy had ducked into town. How would it look if he didn’t drop over to the Stage and show himself? Next thing you know, the news would reach Jilly’s, and if Frank was in town—well, you can imagine how much rest Sammy would get. I don’t know if they’re feuding these days, but you know perfectly well that, at minimum, Frank would send over a purebred Afghan. Even if they were feuding.

I think what we would probably do is lay low and order a lot of Chinese food. I have a hunch that Sammy can eat Chinese takeout food every night of the week. I know I can, and the Chinese takeout delivery guys are very discreet. So we would stay at my place. I’d give him the sleeping loft, and I’d throw some sheets on the couch downstairs for me. I would do that for Sammy to pay him back for all the joy he’s given me down through the years. And I would resist the temptation to ask him to sing, even though I would flip out if he so much as started humming. Can you imagine him humming “The Candy Man”?
In my apartment?
Let’s not even discuss it.

Another reason I would give him the sleeping loft is that there is no phone up there. I would try like the devil to keep him away from the phone, because I know the second he saw one he would start thinking about his commitments, and it would be impossible for the guy not to make at least one call to the Coast. So I’d just try to keep him comfortable for as long as possible, although pretty soon my friends would begin wondering what ever happened to me, and it would take all the willpower in the world not to let on that I had Sammy Davis in my loft and was giving him a complete rest.

I DON’T kid myself that I could keep Sammy Davis happy in my loft for a full couple of months. He would be lying on the bed, his frail muscular body looking lost in a pair of boxer shorts, and before long I would hear those fingers snapping, and I would know that the wiry little great entertainer was feeling penned up, and it would be inhuman to expect him to stay there any longer. I think that when I sensed that Sammy was straining at the leash, I would rent a car—a Ford LTD (that would be a switch for him, riding in a Middle American car)—and we would ride out to my sister and brother-in-law’s place in Jersey. He would probably huddle down in the seat, but somehow I have the feeling that people in passing cars would spot him. We’d be lucky if they didn’t crash into telephone poles. And if I know Sammy, whenever someone recognized him he wouldn’t be able to resist taking off his shades and graciously blowing them a kiss.

The reason I would take Sammy to my sister and brother-in-law’s house is not only that it’s out of the way but also because they’re simple people and would not hassle him—especially my brother-in-law. My sister would stand there with her hands on her hips, and when she saw me get out of the Ford with Sammy, she would cluck her tongue and say, “There goes my crazy brother again,” but she would appear calm on the surface, even though she would be fainting dead away on the inside. She would say something like “Oh, my God, I didn’t even clean the floors,” but then Sammy would give her a big hug and a kiss, and I’m sure that he would make a call, and a few weeks later she would have a complete new dining-room set, the Baby Grand she always wanted, and a puppy.

She would put Sammy up in her son’s room (he’s away at graduate school), saying she wished she had something better, but he would say, “Honey, this is just perfect.” And he would mean it, too, in a way, my nephew’s bedroom being an interesting change from those $1,000-a-day suites at the Tropicana. My brother-in-law has a nice easygoing style and would be relaxing company for Sammy, except that Al does work in television and there would be a temptation on his part to talk about the time he did the “Don Rickles Show” and how different and sweet a guy Don is when you get him offstage. If I know Sammy, he would place a call to C.B.S.—with no urging from any of us—and see to it that Al got to work on his next special. If the network couldn’t do a little thing like that for him, the hell with them, he would get himself another network. Sammy’s that kind of guy.

One danger is that my sister, by this time, would be going out of her mind and wouldn’t be able to resist asking Sammy if she could have a few neighbors over on a Saturday night. Let’s face it, it would be the thrill of a lifetime for her. I would intercede right there, because it wouldn’t be fair to the guy, but if I know Sammy he would tell her, “Honey, you go right ahead.” She would have a mixed group over—Italians, an Irish couple, some Jews, about twelve people tops—and she would wind up having the evening catered, which of course would lead to a commotion when she tried to pay for the stuff. No way Sammy would let her do that. He would buy out the whole delicatessen, give the delivery guy a C note, and probably throw in an autographed glossy without being asked.

Everyone at the party would pretend to be casual, as if Sammy Davis wasn’t there, but before long the Irish space salesman’s wife (my sister’s crazy friend, and what a flirt
she
is) would somehow manage to ask him to sing, and imagine Sammy saying no in a situation like that. Everyone would say just one song, but that bighearted son of a gun would wind up doing his entire repertoire, probably putting out every bit as much as he does when he opens at the Sands. He would do it all—“The Candy Man,” “What Kind of Fool Am I,” tap-dance, play the drums with chopsticks on an end table, do some riffs on my nephew’s old trumpet, and work himself into exhaustion. The sweat would be pouring out of him, and he would top the whole thing off with “This Is My Life” (“and I don’t give a damn”). Of course, his agents on the Coast would pass out cold if they ever got wind of the way he was putting out for twelve nobodies in Jersey. But as for Sammy, he never did know anything about halfway measures. He either works or he doesn’t, and he would use every ounce of energy in that courageous little show-biz body of his to see to it that my sister’s friends—that mixed group of Italians, Irish, and Jews—had a night they’d never forget as long as they lived.

OF course, that would blow the two months of complete rest, and I would have to get him out of Jersey fast. By that time, frankly, I would be running out of options. Once in a while, I pop down to Puerto Rico for a three- or four-day holiday, but, let’s face it, if I showed up in San Juan with Sammy, first thing you know, we would be hounded by broads, catching the show at the Flamboyan, and Dick Shawn would be asking Sammy to hop up onstage and do a medley from “Mr. Wonderful.” (He was really something in that show, battling Jack Carter tooth and nail, but too gracious to use his bigger name to advantage.)

Another possibility would be to take Sammy out to see a professor friend of mine who teaches modern lit. at San Francisco State and would be only too happy to take us in. That would represent a complete change for Sammy, a college campus, but as soon as the school got wind he was around, I’ll bet you ten to one they would ask him to speak either to a film class or the drama department or even a political-science group. And he would wind up shocking them with his expertise on the Founding Fathers and the philosophy behind the Bill of Rights. The guy reads, and I’m not talking about “The Bette Davis Story.” Anyone who sells Sammy Davis short as an intellectual is taking his life in his hands.

In the end, Sammy and I would probably end up in Vermont, where a financial-consultant friend of mine has a cabin that he never uses. He always says to me, “It’s there, for God’s sakes—use it.” So I would take Sammy up there, away from it all, but I wouldn’t tell the financial consultant who I was taking, because the second he heard it was Sammy Davis he would want to come along. Sammy and I would start out by going into town for a week’s worth of supplies at the general store, and then we would hole up in the cabin. I’m not too good at mechanical things, but we would be sort of roughing it, and there wouldn’t be much to do except chop some firewood, which I would take care of while Sammy was getting his complete rest.

I don’t know how long we would last in Vermont. Frankly, I would worry after a while about being able to keep him entertained, even though he would be there for a complete rest. We could talk a little about Judaism, but, frankly, I would be skating on thin ice in that area, since I don’t have the formal training he has or any real knowledge of theology. The Vermont woods would probably start us batting around theories about the mystery of existence, but to tell the truth, I’d be a little bit out of my depth in that department, too. He’s had so much experience on panel shows, and I would just as soon not go one-on-one with him on that topic.

Let’s not kid around, I would get tense after a while, and Sammy would feel it. He would be too good a guy to let on that he was bored, but pretty soon he would start snapping those fingers and batting out tunes on the back of an old
Saturday Evening Post
or something, and I think I would crack after a while and say, “Sammy, I tried my best to supply you with a couple of months of complete rest, but I’m running out of gas.” He would tap me on the shoulder and say, “Don’t worry about it, babe,” and then, so as not to hurt my feelings, he would say he wanted to go into town to get some toothpaste. So he would drive in, with the eye and all, and I know damned well the first thing he would do is call his agents on the Coast and ask them to read him the “N.Y. to L.A.” column of a few
Varieties.
Next thing you know, I would be driving him to the airport, knowing in my heart that I hadn’t really succeeded. He would tell me that any time I got to the Coast or Vegas or the Springs, and I wanted anything,
anything,
just make sure to give him a ring. And the following week, I would receive a freezer and a videotape machine and a puppy.

So I think I’m just not the man to get Sammy Davis the complete rest he needs so desperately. However, I certainly think someone should. How long can he keep driving that tortured little frame of his, pouring every ounce of his strength into the entertainment of Americans? I know, I know—there’s Cambodia and Watergate, and, believe me, I haven’t forgotten our own disadvantaged citizens. I know all that. But when you think of all the joy that man has spread through his night-club appearances, his albums, his autobiography, his video specials, and even his movies, which did not gross too well but were a lot better than people realized, and the things he’s done not only for his friends but for a lot of causes the public doesn’t know about—when you think of all that courageous little entertainer has given to this land of ours, and then you read that he’s trying, repeat
trying,
to get a few months off for a complete rest and he can’t, well, then, all I can say is that there’s something basically rotten in the system.

1974

DONALD BARTHELME

THE KING OF JAZZ

W
ELL
I’m the king of jazz now, thought Hokie Mokie to himself as he oiled the slide on his trombone. Hasn’t been a ’bone man been king of jazz for many years. But now that Spicy MacLammermoor, the old king, is dead, I guess I’m it. Maybe I better play a few notes out of this window here, to reassure myself.

“Wow!” said somebody standing on the sidewalk. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” said his companion.

“Can you distinguish our great homemade American jazz performers, each from the other?”

“Used to could.”

“Then who was that playing?”

“Sounds like Hokie Mokie to me. Those few but perfectly selected notes have the real epiphanic glow.”

“The what?”

“The real epiphanic glow, such as is obtained only by artists of the calibre of Hokie Mokie, who’s from Pass Christian, Mississippi. He’s the king of jazz, now that Spicy MacLammermoor is gone.”

Hokie Mokie put his trombone in its trombone case and went to a gig. At the gig everyone fell back before him, bowing.

“Hi Bucky! Hi Zoot! Hi Freddie! Hi George! Hi Thad! Hi Roy! Hi Dexter! Hi Jo! Hi Willie! Hi Greens!”

“What we gonna play, Hokie? You the king of jazz now, you gotta decide.”

“How ’bout ‘Smoke’?”

“Wow!” everybody said. “Did you hear that? Hokie Mokie can just knock a fella out, just the way he pronounces a word. What a intonation on that boy! God Almighty!”

“I don’t want to play ‘Smoke,’ ” somebody said.

“Would you repeat that, stranger?”

“I don’t want to play ‘Smoke.’ ‘Smoke’ is dull. I don’t like the changes. I refuse to play ‘Smoke.’ ”

“He refuse to play ‘Smoke’! But Hokie Mokie is the king of jazz and he says ‘Smoke’!”