Yes I Can: the story of Sammy Davis Jr

PROLOGUE

They liked me.

The audience was leaning in to me, nodding, approving, catching every move I was making, and as I finished big with Birth of the Blues their applause was like a kiss on the lips.

It was November of 1954, we were playing the New Frontier in Las Vegas, and after twenty-six years we were finally getting off the ground, starting to make our move. People were beginning to hear about The Will Mastin Trio and the kid in the middle. They weren’t exactly hysterical about us yet, but everybody knew it was going to happen for us any day—we were contenders and they were rooting us in.

The applause kept building. I looked out at the people, absorbing what they were giving me, wishing I never had to walk off that stage and leave them. I smiled Thank you. Not for the applause. For making it possible for me to walk through the world through the front door.

I changed out of my stage clothes and Charley handed me my gold cigarette case, polished and filled. I nodded ceremoniously. You are indeed a gentleman’s gentleman and I shall speak of you to the King. I gave him a shot on the arm, I’ve gotta go by the room to pick up some things. See you in the car in an hour.

As I stepped out the stage door the glow from the casino was lighting up the desert, and as the doors swung open and people came out, the sound of money, laughs, and music poured past them as if there was just too much hilarity inside to stay bottled up. It was out of my way but I felt like walking through there for the sheer joy of knowing I could.

The deputy sheriff standing just inside gave me a big Hi’ya, Sam. I waved and kept moving through all the action, past a wall of slot machines, the dice tables, black jack … Hi’ya, Sammy … Swingin’ show, Sam. … Here, make room for Sammy.

Thanks, not tonight. Gotta run into L.A. Catch y’tomorrow.

I loved the way the crowds opened up for me and I circled the room twice, getting loaded on the atmosphere they’d kept us away from the other times we’d played Vegas, when there’d been a law against me, when it had been Sorry, but you’re not allowed in the casino—you understand. While the other acts had laughs and gambled, we went back to the colored side of town and we understood. But now we didn’t have to understand, and the joy of it swept through me every time I walked through that door.

Two of the chorus chicks standing at the roulette table waved and made room for me between them. I had no desire to gamble, but people were gathering around to watch my action. I dropped five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. On the red, please. An excited murmuring rose around me. Sammydavis … Sammydavis … Sammydavis … The chicks were grinning, digging the big-time move. The dealer spun the wheel. I shook my fist at him. If you yell ‘black’ at me there’s gonna be a race riot. It got a laugh. I lit a cigarette and as I took the first drag the ball clicked into the red six. The dealer matched my money with a huge stack of chips and pushed it all back to me. I split my winnings, slid one pile to each of the girls, and playing it Cary Grant-on-the-French Riviera, with a little bow and Thank you for bringing me luck, ladies, I turned and rode away on their gasps.

Walking along the corridor to my room, I intensified the satisfaction by the bittersweet of contrast, concentrating on the emotionless face, remembering the matter-of-fact voice: You people can’t stay here. You’ll have to find a boarding house in the—uh, on the other side of town. Now they wanted us enough so they were breaking their rules, we were bigger than Jim Crow. They were paying us $7,500 a week, the best money we’d ever made, but that was the least of the payoff. It was as though a genie had materialized out of show business and said, You’re going to be a star and anything you want is yours; now you’re as good as anybody, and he’d handed us a solid gold key to every door that had ever been slammed in our faces.

I sat on an easy chair in my living room, absorbing the acceptance, smoking a cigarette, enjoying the luxury of the suite and the picture of myself in the middle of it.

I showered and called Room Service for a hamburger. There was a knock at the door. One of the chorus kids was standing there wearing skin-tight blue jeans. I laughed. They’ve got crazy Room Service here. She laughed too. She didn’t understand the joke but she laughed anyway. That was a part of it all. When you’re making it you get laughs with Good morning.

Charley was waiting in the car in front of the hotel. Baby, you drive the first half while I catch a few hours sleep. I climbed into the back seat and got comfortable. As the car rolled down The Strip toward the highway I saw the big neon sign flashing my name across the desert. I could smell the brand new leather as I rested my face against it and I kissed that expensive seat with all the love I had for everything it represented.

I was glad to take over the driving. Nobody’s invented booze that’ll give you a kick like the first few times you drive your first Cadillac convertible. I pulled onto the highway and let the car swallow up the road. The sun was coming up over the mountains and I saw the night leaving and the day growing bigger, brighter every minute. It was one of those magnificent mornings when you can only remember the good things—as though nothing bad has ever happened. I was actively aware that the edge of the window was exactly the right height for my left elbow. My fingers fit perfectly into the ridges around the steering wheel, and the clear desert air streaming in through the window was wrapping itself around my face like some gorgeous, swinging chick giving me a facial.

I turned on the radio, it filled the car with music and I heard my own voice singing Hey, There. Oh, God! What are the odds against turning on the radio to the exact station at the exact moment when a disc jockey is playing your first hit? For a second I was afraid that life was getting so good that something would have to happen to take it all away. But the car, the suite in Vegas, the hit record—and all they symbolized, were the start of a new life, and nobody had given it to me, so there wasn’t anybody who could take it away. It had all come from show business and as long as God let me keep my talent it would keep on coming. We were building and any day now we’d really break wide open and I’d be a star. A real goddam star! And nobody could ever again tell me, Here, this is your corner of the world. Stay there. And that would be it, that would be goddam it!

We were on a double lane highway with two lanes going each way. A green car passed me, the first car I’d seen in ten minutes. At another time I might have raced it, but I didn’t need that jazz any more. I was on my way to record my first movie sound track. It wasn’t really being in pictures but it was closer than I’d ever gotten before. I visualized myself driving through the gate at Universal in my own Cadillac convertible. The guard was tipping his hat, Good morning, Mr. Davis. They’re waiting for you on sound stage Number One.

The green car was slowing down but it wasn’t pulling over to the right like they had to stop for a flat or something; they were pulling over to the left. I knew there were women in it because I’d noticed their hats. Whoops, stay away from them. I moved into the right lane fast but as I did she started moving into it, too, but not all the way, she was straddling the two lanes. Now what the hell is she trying to do? Oh, she’s not going to make a U-turn on the parkway! Or is she? Why else would she be slowing down? She must have missed her turn-off. Well go on, baby, if you’re gonna do it then do it. I got way over to the right to give her all the room she’d need but still she didn’t move. She stayed in the middle … then a little left … a little right … now it looked like she wanted to stop. Make up your mind, lady. She cut sharp to the left, hooking out to make a wide U-turn, then stopped, stretched out across both lanes like a roadblock. I had no choice but to use the oncoming lane to swing around her. I started to make my move but suddenly several cars were coming toward me. I was boxed in. I hit my brakes. Only a second ago she had seemed to be a mile away. I was jamming on the brake with all my strength and pulling back on the wheel as though hoping I could pull the car to a stop with my two hands. I knew I was going to hit her. I cut the wheel as hard as I could toward her rear fender trying at least not to make it broadside where the driver was sitting….

The grinding, steel-twisting, glass-shattering noise screamed all around me. I had no control. I was just there, totally consumed by it, unable to believe I was really in an automobile crash. I saw the impact spin her car completely around and hurl it out of sight, then my forehead slammed into my steering wheel.

As I felt pain and saw my hand moving I was stunned by the knowledge that I was still alive.

I heard Charley moaning in the back. Thank God, he was alive too. I felt blood running down my face and into my eyes like it had a couple of times in the army when I’d been hit over the head. I could hardly see but I knew I’d be okay as soon as the blood cleared away.

I was afraid to see what had happened to Charley. When I turned around he was trying to get up off the floor. Charley? You okay? I opened my door and got out to help him. I reached into the back seat and took hold of his arm. When he stood up I could see his jaw hanging loose and blood coming out of his mouth. Oh, God! I’m sorry, Charley. Please forgive me! I’m sorry….

Cars were stopping and people were running out of a diner and gas station. Someone said, It’s Sammy Davis. I started up the road to see what had happened to the women, but a soldier stopped me. They’re all right over there. We better get you to a hospital.

I’m okay. My friend’s hurt. I pulled the soldier over to Charley. He had both hands in front of his mouth and the blood was pouring through his fingers. I put my arm around him. It’s gonna be all right … don’t worry. It’ll be okay … He looked up at me and made a horrible choking sound, trying to speak. He pointed to my face, closed his eyes and moaned. I reached up. As I ran my hand over my cheek I felt my eye hanging there by a string. Frantically I tried to stuff it back in, like if I could do that it would stay there and nobody would know, it would be as though nothing had happened. The ground went out from under me and I was on my knees. Don’t let me go blind. Please, God, don’t take it all away….

People were picking me up and carrying me and putting me somewhere but I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move. I was half-awake, half-asleep, hanging somewhere between the past and the future. But there was no future any more. All the beautiful things, all the plans, the laughs—they were lying out there, smashed just like the car. The doors were going to close again. The people who’d been nice when I was somebody would turn away from me. None of them were going to say Hi’ya, Sam any more.

I heard a siren. There was movement under me and I knew I was in an ambulance. Can it really happen this way? Twenty-six years of working, and taking it, and reaching—was all that for nothing? Can you finally get it and blow it so fast? Was that little touch all there was for me? For my whole life? I’m never going to be a star?

They’re going to hate me again.

Part I

1

I was born in Harlem on December 8, 1925. My father was the lead dancer in Will Mastin’s Holiday in Dixieland, a vaudeville troupe in which my mother, Elvera Baby Sanchez, was a top chorus girl. Good jobs were scarce so she remained in the line until two weeks before I was born. Then, as soon as she was able to dance, she boarded me with friends in Brooklyn, and continued on the road with my father and the show.

My grandmother, Rosa B. Davis, came out from Harlem to see me and wrote to my father, I never saw a dirtier child in my life. They leave Sammy alone all day so I’ve taken him with me. I’m going to make a home for that child.

I heard my father call my grandmother Mama so I called her Mama, and this was appropriate because by the time I could speak I thought of her as that.

Mama was housekeeper for one family for twenty years, cooking, cleaning, ironing, and raising their children and me at the same time.

One day she returned to the nursery school at which she’d been leaving me. The nurse was surprised. We thought you were on your job, Mrs. Davis.

Something told me get off the streetcar and see what you’re doing with my Sammy. Now I find you put these two other children in his carriage with him and you got Sammy all scrooched up in a corner of his own carriage. I bought that carriage for Sammy. Paid cash for it. Now you got him so he can’t stretch out in his own carriage. Get those kids out of Sammy’s carriage.

She began taking me to work with her. On her days off she took me to the park and put me on the swings. Nobody else could push or touch me. When her friends saw us coming they snickered, Here comes Rosa Davis and her Jesus. Mama’s reply was, He’s a Jesus to me.

When I was two my parents had a daughter, Ramona, whom they sent to live with my mother’s family while they stayed on the road. Six months later they separated. My mother joined another travelling show, Connors’ Hot Chocolate, and my father came home to get me.

Sam, this child’s too young to go on the road.

Hell, Mama, I’m his father and I say he goes on the road. I ain’t leaving him here so’s Elvera can come in and take him away. ‘Sides, I want my son with me.

When the train moved into the tunnel and I couldn’t see Mama anymore I stopped waving and settled back in my seat. My father started taking off my coat, my leggings and my hat. Where we goin’, Daddy?

He smiled and put his arm around me. We’re goin’ into show business, son.

Our first stop was the Pitheon Theatre in Pittsburgh. I was backstage with my father all day, but at night he left me at the rooming house with a chair propped against the bed and often I didn’t see him again until the next afternoon. Will Mastin came in every morning, bathed me in the sink and made my breakfast, Horlick’s malted milk, which he mixed with hot water from the tap. We were great friends. He spent hours making funny faces at me and I loved making the same faces right back at him. One afternoon I was in the dressing room playing with the make-up, trying to use the powder puffs and tubes and pencils on my face the way I always saw my father and Will doing it. Will was watching me. Here, let me show you how to do that. I sat on his chair while he put blackface on me. Then he took a tube of clown white, gave me the big white lips and winked, Now you look like Al Jolson. I winked back. He snapped his fingers like he’d gotten an idea, and sent for our prima donna who sang Sonny Boy. Next show, he told her, take Sammy onstage, hold him in your lap and keep singing no matter what happens.

As she sang, I looked over her shoulder and saw Will in the wings playing our game, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at me and I rolled my eyes and shook my head right back at him. The prima donna hit a high note and Will held his nose. I held my nose, too. But Will’s faces weren’t half as funny as the prima donna’s so I began copying hers instead: when her lips trembled, my lips trembled, and I followed her all the way from a heaving bosom to a quivering jaw. The people out front were watching me, laughing. When we got off, Will knelt to my height. Listen to that applause, Sammy, some of it’s for you. My father was crouched beside me, too, smiling, pleased with me. You’re a born mugger, son, a born mugger. He and Will both had their arms around me.

When we arrived at our next town Will began giving out meal tickets to the troupe. Once an act had its name up on a theater, there were restaurants in show towns that would give food on credit. They’d issue a meal ticket good for a week’s food and we’d settle with them on payday. Will gave my father his ticket and then put one in my pocket. Here you are, Mose Gastin. You got a meal ticket coming to you same as anyone else in the troupe.

I took it out of my pocket and held it. Okay, Massey. I couldn’t say Mastin. Why he called me Mose Gastin or where he got that name I don’t know.

Will built up a new show called Struttin’ Hannah from Savannah. Curvy, sexy Hannah was struttin’ from Savannah to New York. On the way, she’d pass a house with a picket fence, see me playing in the yard with a pail and shovel and do a slinky Mae West kind of walk over to me. Hi, Buster. Any place around here where a lady can get a room? She’d turn to me and roll her eyes, but the audience could only see me wildly rolling my eyes back at her. Hey, are you a little kid or a midget? Then she’d wink, also without the audience seeing it, and I’d wink back hard and long.

Between shows I’d stand in the wings watching the other acts, like Moss and Fry, Butterbeans and Susie, The Eight Black Dots, and Pot, Pan & Skillet. It never occurred to me to play with the pail and shovel, they were my props, part of the act, and I didn’t think of them as toys. At mealtime, I’d sit with my father, Will, and the other performers, listening to them talk show business, hearing about the big vaudeville acts that played the Keith time. Keith was far over our heads. Shows like ours, Connors’ Hot Chocolate and McKinney’s Cotton Pickers played small time like TOBA and Butterfield but there was no end of stories to be heard about the great acts who worked the big time.

We always rented the cheapest room we could find, and my father and I shared the bed. He’d turn out the light and say, Well, good night, Poppa. Then I’d hear a scratching sound. I’d sit up, fast. What’s that, Daddy?

I didn’t hear nothin’.

The scratching would start again. I’d be suspicious. Lemme see your hands.

Fine thing when a kid don’t trust his own daddy. He’d hold both hands in the air and I’d lie down, watching them. The scratching would start again.

Whatsat, Daddy? Whatsat? Lemme see your feet, too.

He put his feet in the air along with his hands. Now how d’you expect a man to sleep like this, Poppa? The game was over then and I’d snuggle in close to him where it was safe.

We were playing the Standard Theater in Philadelphia when he said, Good news, Poppa. There’s a amateur dance contest here at the theater day after we close. Course, there’s sixteen other kids’d be against you. And all of ‘em older’n you. You suppose you c’d beat ‘em?

Yes.

I was only three but I’d spent hundreds of hours watching Will and my father work, and imitating their kind of dancing. They were doing a flash act—twelve dancers with fifteen minutes to make an impression or starve. The other kids in the contest were dancing in fox-trot time but when I came on, all the audience could see was a blur—just two small legs flying! I got a silver cup and ten dollars. My father took me straight over to A. S. Beck’s shoe store and bought me a pair of black pumps with taps.

We hung around Philadelphia hoping to get booked, but our money ran out and my father had to call Mama for a loan. She told him, That’s no life for Sammy if you gotta call me for money. I’m sending you fare to bring him home.

He told Will, Guess she’s right. This ain’t no life for a kid. Trouble is, I can’t bring myself to leave him there and travel around without him now. I’ll just have to get me a job around home doin’ somethin’ else. I saw tears in my father’s eyes. I’ll always wanta be in show business, Will. It’s my life. So anytime you need me, just say the word.

Massey picked me up and hugged me. Be a good boy, Mose Gastin. And don’t worry. We’ll be working together again someday.

Mama was waiting up for us when we got home. I put on my shoes and ran into the front room to show them to her. My father proudly explained how I’d won them. Mama turned on her player-piano and I did my routine. She smiled. My, oh my! You’re a real dancer now. She shook her head at my father. You buy him shoes when you don’t have money for food. I always knew you was smart.

My father left the apartment every morning and came back at dinner time, but after a week he was still without a job. I couldn’t bring myself to look for nothin’ outside of show business, Mama. I’ll do it tomorrow. I really will.

But each day it was the same thing. He was spending his time hanging around backstage with the dancers at the Odeon Theater. When he came home he’d just stare out the window, shaking his head. I can dance circles around them guys. I’m over them like the sky is over the world, and they’re making $150 a week.

Before I was born he’d driven cabs in New York, shined shoes, cooked, pulled fires on the Erie Railroad, and run an elevator at Roseland Dance Hall. Then he’d won some Charleston contests, met Will, and from then on there was only one way of life for him.

One night he looked over and saw Mama and me dancing. That was the first thing that brightened him up. Mama, just whut’n hell do you call what you’re doin’ with him?

We’re doin’ the time step.

He laughed. Hell, that ain’t no time step.

Mama snapped back. Maybe so, but we like it. And if Sammy likes it, then anything to make him happy.

I couldn’t stand the way he was laughing at me. I tried harder to do it the way he’d shown me but he kept shaking his head. Damnedest thing how he can do some tough ones and can’t do the easiest of all. Here, lemme show you again. He did a time step. Now you do it. I tried to copy it. Hell, you ain’t doin’ nothin’. I kept trying, harder and harder but I couldn’t get it right. He said, Here, looka this. He showed me his airplane step and some of the really hard steps I’d seen him and Will do in the act. Some day maybe you’ll be able to do that, too, Poppa. Then he went back to the window.

I heard Mama laughing excitedly. Look at your son flyin’ across the room.

I was doing a trick of his with one hand on the floor, the other in the air and my two feet kicking out in front of me. He snapped out of his melancholy and almost split his sides laughing. The harder he laughed the harder I kicked. He bent down and put his face right in front of mine. Betcha I can make you laugh, Poppa. He made a very serious face and stared at me. I bit my lips and tried desperately to keep a straight face, but that always made me die laughing.

He lost interest in me again and went back to the window, staring at the street, leafing through an old copy of Variety which he’d already read a dozen times. Suddenly he smacked the arm of the chair and stood up. Mama, I’m wiring Will to send me a ticket. I’m in the wrong business here.

She snapped, "You ain’t in no business here."

Maybe so, but it’s better to go hungry when you’re happy than to eat regular when you’re dead. And I’m good as dead out of show business.

A few days later a letter arrived Special Delivery from Will. My father pulled his suitcase out from under the bed. I ran to the closet for my shoes and put them in the suitcase alongside his. He took them out and I held my breath as he stared at them, balancing them in one hand. Then he slapped me on the back, put them in the suitcase and laughed. Okay, Poppa, you’re comin’ too.

Holding hands we half-walked, half-danced toward Penn Station, smiling at everybody.

Where we goin’, Daddy?

We’re goin’ back into show business, Poppa!

2

We rarely remained in one place more than a week or two, yet there was never a feeling of impermanence. Packing suitcases and riding on trains and buses were as natural to me as a stroll in a carriage might be to another child. Although I had travelled ten states and played over fifty cities by the time I was four, I never felt I was without a home. We carried our roots with us: our same boxes of make-up in front of the mirrors, our same clothes hanging on iron pipe racks with our same shoes under them. Only the details changed, like the face on the man sitting inside the stage door, or which floor our dressing room was on. But there was always an audience, other performers for me to watch, always the show talk, all as dependably present as the walls of a nursery.

We arrived in Asheville, North Carolina, on a Sunday, and Will gave everybody the day off. We were doing the three-a-day, from town to town, so most of our troupe spent the time catching up on sleep, which was also the cheapest thing they could do. I wasn’t tired so I wandered into the parlor of our rooming house. Rastus Airship, one of our dancers, was reading a paper, and Obie Smith, our pianist, was rehearsing on an upright. I started doing the parts of the show along with him. Rastus left the room and came back with Will and my father and I did the whole hour-and-twenty-minute show for them, doing everybody’s dances, singing everybody’s songs, and telling all the jokes. People were coming in from other rooms and from the way they were watching me I knew I was doing good. When I finished our closing number, Will said, From now on you’re going to dance and sing in the act. My father picked me up, Damned if he ain’t, and carried me around the room introducing me to everybody we’d been living with for the past year. This is my son. Meet my son, Sammy Davis, Jr.

She was much prettier than any of the girls in our show. I started to shake hands with her but she knelt down and hugged me and when she kissed me her eyes were wet.

You cryin’?

She touched her eyes with a handkerchief. I’m happy to see my little boy, that’s all.

My father told me this was my mother and that I wouldn’t be doing the show that night so I could spend time with her. Then he left us alone in the dressing room.

I looked up at her. I can dance.

No kidding. Let’s see.

I did one of my father’s routines but she started crying again. Don’t you like the way I dance?

Darlin’, I love everything you do. I know that dance and you did it real good. As good as your daddy.

That was more like it. I did half our show for her. Then we went outside and she held my hand while we walked.

You like show business, Sammy?

Yes.

You happy?

Yes. From the moment we’d left the theater all I could think of was my father and Will would be doing the show without me.

She asked, How’d you like a nice ice cream soda?

No, thank you.

We came to a toy store. Let’s go in and buy you a present. I didn’t want a present. I just wanted to get back to the theater, but she bought me a ball. Outside, she said, Let’s see you catch it, darlin’. I’d never done it before and I put my hands up too late and it hit me on the cheek. It didn’t hurt but it scared me. I just watched it rolling away.

Get it, Sammy.

I don’t want it. I was sorry as soon as I’d said it.

We walked a few more blocks. Is there anything you’d like to do? I didn’t tell her, but she understood.

I ran ahead of her into the dressing room. My father was putting on his make-up. You do the show yet, Daddy?

Nope. You’re just in time.

I ran for my costume. My mother started to leave but I grabbed her skirt. Don’t go.

As I danced I saw her watching me from the wings, and smiling. She liked me and I hadn’t even done my tricks yet. When I went into them I could only see her out of the corner of my eye, but she wasn’t smiling any more. I wasn’t able to turn around again and when I got off she was gone.

My father picked me up. He was hugging me very tight, patting my back, as he walked toward the dressing room. Your mother had to leave, Poppa. She said to tell you she loves you.

For no reason I could understand I started to cry.

Mama smiled at the truant officer, Yes sir, I’ll bring him over tomorrow. But when he’d gone she told me, You’re five years old and they want you at the school but I don’t want you to go. You’ll meet all classes of children and I don’t want you playing with nobody’s children.

From then on she watched at the window for truant officers. The first time she spotted one she told me, Sammy, now we’re gonna play a game called Fool the School. There’ll be a knock on this door but just sit in your chair and don’t make a sound. We can wait long as he can knock. Mama stayed at her post near the window until she saw him go down the street. Then, she put a roll of music on the piano and we danced to celebrate how we’d fooled him.

That night, she told my father, You gotta get him a tutor when you’re on the road ‘cause the bulls are going to lock me up sure if they catch me!

I stayed around the apartment listening to the radio while my father and Will were at the booking offices looking for work. Sometimes I sat at the window watching the kids skating or throwing a ball around but I had no desire to join them. I didn’t think of things like skating and football or any of the sports kids played, nor did I miss them. They just didn’t fit into my life.

Whenever they could, Will and my father found someone around the theater to tutor me in how to read and write. We’d go into the dressing room between shows and work, and nobody else was allowed in until it was time to dress for the next show.

We moved from New England into the Midwest, working steady, covering most of Michigan in theaters, burlesque houses, and carnivals, changing the size of the act to as many as forty people depending on what the bookers needed. We were in Lansing doing a Four and a Half—Will, my father, two other dancers, and me as the half—when a woman came storming backstage with the theater manager. There he is. It’s shameful. She was pointing at me. She knelt down and put her arms around me. Everything’s going to be all right now, and, glaring at Will and my father, You Fagins! You should be in jail for what you’re doing to this poor, suffering child.

I had no idea what a Fagin was, but I knew for sure that I wasn’t suffering. My dancing was getting better, the audiences liked me, and I was always with my father and Massey—I had everything I wanted.

The manager paid Will off that night. Sorry, but I can’t fight her. She’s too big. If she says the kid’s too young to be on the stage then he’s too young even if he was fifty.

Will asked, How about if Sammy don’t work?

He shook his head. With the kid you’re a novelty, but I’m up to my ears in straight dance acts.

Weeks passed as we hung around the parlor of our rooming house hoping for some booker to call, but my benefactor was powerful enough to have closed off all of Michigan to us and all we heard was the landlord telling us: You owe me twenty-eight dollars now.

We went to dinner at our usual restaurant and Will looked at the menu hanging on the tile wall.

The Special is beef stew.

That’s what I want, I said.

My father went to the steam table and brought back a Special. I’d half-finished it when I noticed that they weren’t eating. Our stomachs are a little upset, Poppa. But you clean your plate. You needs food to stick to your ribs in this kind of weather.

They watched me eating my stew and the roll that came with it. My father snapped his fingers. Hey, Will, maybe a cup of soup’d do our stomachs some good. He finished his soup and crackers. Then he wet his finger, ran it around the inside of the cracker paper and licked off the crumbs that stuck to it. He took a small piece of my roll. Maybe I’ll just mop up a little of your gravy, Poppa, to see if it’s fresh cooked.

The next night the Special was chicken and rice but they only had coffee.

You still sick, Daddy?

I’m just not up t’snuff, Poppa.

Massey, too?

Now Poppa, just eat your dinner and don’t worry none ‘bout us. It’s just bein’ out of work and not doin’ nothin’ for so long, well, we older men don’t need food ‘less we uses up the energy at somethin’.

The landlord sprang out of the parlor just as we hit the stairs. No point tryin’ to get into y’r rooms. You’re locked out! I’m holding your things ‘till you pay up.

Will was stunned. In all my years in show business nobody ever had to hold my clothes to get paid….

Well, I’m holding ‘em now. I’m sick of you show business dead-beats. Maybe you wanta go through life happy-go-lucky without doing a day’s work t’get a day’s pay, but I’m a businessman and I mean t’be paid for my room. If you’re not here with my money in a week I’ll sell your things for junk. Now get outa here before I have y’locked up.

We stood on the sidewalk outside the rooming house. The temperature had dropped below freezing. Will said, We’ll go over to the railroad station. It’ll be warm there.

While I slept on a bench wrapped in my father’s overcoat they took turns walking around the waiting room pretending to use the telephone and asking the station patrolman questions like: You mean there’s no train out of here ‘til morning? so we wouldn’t be arrested for vagrancy.

My father was shaking me, gently. Wake up, Poppa. They’re lockin’ up for the night. We’ll go over to the bus station. When that closed at midnight we started walking, looking for any place that would be warm and open, stopping in doorways every few minutes for a break from the fierce wind. Finally we saw a building with a lighted sign, and we ran until we were in front of a small hotel.

My father said to Will, Lemme handle this. He sauntered over to the room clerk. Good evening. I’d like to rent two of your best suites for the night.

The clerk didn’t look up at him. We don’t have rooms for you people.

My father was pointing toward me. Look, I have a six-year-old boy—can we at least stay in the lobby?

You can’t stay here.

How ‘bout if we just leave the boy for a few hours? It’s freezing cold outside.

My father patted my head. They don’t like show people here, Poppa. He picked me up. How’d you like a free ride? He unbuttoned his overcoat and closed it around the two of us.

Outside, a woman came running up to us. Excuse me, my name is Helen Bannister. I was in the lobby and saw what happened. I’m on my way home and you’re welcome to come with me, if you like.

She cooked bacon and eggs and as we all sat around the table Will explained that we were in show business and told her about the trouble we were having. She said, I have an extra room you can use until you get on your feet.

Two days later Will burst into the house holding up a handful of money. We’re booked in Atlanta, Georgia, and I’ve got an advance. He tried to pay Miss Bannister at least for our food, but she wouldn’t accept anything. What happened to you the other night was inexcusable. I’m embarrassed by it. We’re not all like that. I’m happy that I was able to help you.

As we left my father said, Once a year we oughta say the name of Helen Bannister. That lady saved our lives.

We were playing a roadhouse in Hartford, Connecticut. My father said, Tell y’what, Poppa. We got the day off, whattya say we take in a movie?

Halfway through the picture he leaned over and whispered, You stay here and watch the picture, son. I’ll just be next door at the bar gettin’ me a few skull-busters. Be back for you like always.

The picture was going on for the third time when I felt his hand on my arm. You ready to go now, Poppa?

We stopped for dinner, then he took me back to the hotel. See you later, Poppa. I’ve got some things to do.

I knew he was going out drinking. He’d been doing it for some time.

The next day, in the dressing room, I asked Will why. Your daddy’s lonely, Sammy, that’s all it is. There’s no one he cares about and it makes him feel bad. The whiskey makes him feel better.

Don’t he care about me?

He cares the whole world about you, Sammy. But he needs a woman to love, too. You’ll understand some day…. He took hold of my hand and made me stand up. Take off your clothes and hang them up. Never sit around in what you wear on the stage. We’ve always had the name of the best-dressed colored act in the business and we’re gonna keep that name.

I undressed immediately, embarrassed because I’d known better. One is about all we ever had of anything but you’d never see wrinkles in our pants or make-up on our shirts and we shined our shoes every time we came off so they were ready for the next show.

As I started my big number my father slipped out into the audience and on cue, a half-dollar flew toward me and clanged noisily onto the stage. I danced to it, picked it up, flipped it in the air, caught it, put it in my pocket and nodded. Thank you, without losing a beat, and it started raining money.

My pockets were so heavy with coins that I could hardly dance in our closing. When we got to the dressing room I dumped the money onto a table, Hey, Poppa, this looks like our best night yet. He stacked the nickels, dimes, and quarters. Twelve eighty-five! You realize this is as much as we get in salary for a whole night’s shows? He swung me in the air, laughing. You’re the breadwinner, Poppa. Damned if you ain’t. You, I, and Will are gonna bust loose tonight. We’ll put on our best clothes, go over to the Lobster Restaurant and have us some real full-course dinners.

Our party was going full blast when my father was suddenly very drunk. I tried not to let him see I’d noticed but he snapped, Why’re you lookin’ away from me? All the laughter was gone and he was glaring across the table at me. His eyes narrowed. You’re holdin’ out money! Before I could deny it he slapped me and I fell off the chair. I’ll teach you to cheat your own father…. I lay on the floor waiting for something to happen. I opened my eyes and looked up. He was standing over me, crying, his arms hanging loose at his sides, staring at me, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. He knelt down, picked me up, and carrying me in his arms walked out of the restaurant hugging and kissing me. Oh God, I’m sorry, Poppa. I didn’t mean it. Honest I didn’t mean it.

I didn’t hold out money, Daddy.

I know, Poppa, I know.

In the middle of my big number the next night I saw him watching me from his place behind me. He looked sadder than I’d ever seen him. I kept trying to let him see me smiling at him so he’d know it was okay.

When we got off Will took me aside. You didn’t have your flash tonight. And you weren’t dancing, neither. Now I know you’re troubling and you’re worried about Big Sam, but you can’t take any thoughts onstage with you except the show you’re doing. That’s the first rule of show business. Always be thinking when you’re out there or the audience’ll start to out-think you and then you’ll lose them.

I knew I’d done badly. I’m sorry I lost ‘em, Massey.

He put his arm around me. We all have troubles sometimes, Mose Gastin, but those people out front don’t want to know ‘em. No matter how bad you’re hurting, leave your troubles here in the wings, and come on smiling.

I’d seen a lot of show business by standing in the wings watching the other acts in theater after theater and I couldn’t fail to learn from them. I’d been on the stage for almost four of my seven years and I was developing a feeling for timing. I could watch other acts perform and anticipate when a gesture, a fall, or an attitude would or would not work. I remembered everything I saw. If anyone in our troupe missed a cue or forgot a line I’d remind Will and he’d have it put back in.

I was seven and we were in New York when Will started taking me with him to the booking offices. I want you to listen carefully to everything that’s said, Sammy. There’s two words in show business, ‘show’ and ‘business,’ and one’s important as the other. The dancing and knowing how to please the audience is the ‘show’ and getting the dates and the money is the ‘business.’ I know you like to dance and sing and be on the stage in front of the people but if you don’t get money for it, then you ain’t doing nothing but having a good time for yourself. You have to know how to make deals, which to take and which to let go by.

The man behind the desk, Bert Jonas, said to me, You’re learning the business from the right man. Follow his ways. His handshake is all the contract anybody needs. He looked at Will. I’ve got a great spot for you with Minsky in the Liberty Theater here on Forty-second street but I didn’t realize Sammy was still so small. I’m afraid he’s going to be a problem. The Geary Society’s got that law that no kid under sixteen can sing or dance on the stage.

My father laughed slyly. Don’t give no thought to that, Bert. We been workin’ Sammy under the cork. We blacks him up, he’s got a Jolson suit and we bills him as ‘Silent Sam the Dancing Midget’ and the way he dances there’s no chance of anyone catching wise.

As we started to leave, my father gazed longingly at the large diamond ring Mr. Jonas was wearing, and sighed wistfully, One day I’m gonna have me a ring just like that.

Two women and three cops climbed onstage, over the footlights. My father yelled, It’s the Geary Society. Go to Mama. I slipped between the cops and was halfway home before I stopped running. As soon as I was with Mama, surrounded by the safety of our apartment, I burst into tears.

Mama looked me in the eyes. What’s wrong, Sammy? Somebody hit you? I shook my head and sat down in my chair. Then why you crying? I didn’t say anything. Well, wash up for dinner and stop crying because if there’s nothing wrong then there’s no need to be crying. I walked toward the bathroom. Sammy, where’s your father?

I couldn’t keep it from her any longer. I don’t know, Mama. We were doin’ the act when some cops came …

Will walked in and Mama turned on him. Mastin, is Sam in jail?

Well—uh, yes, Mrs. Davis.

What’d he do?

Well, it’s a long story….

I think it’s a short story. I told him don’t take Sammy downtown on that stage. That’s a burlesque theater you’re in and he’s right in the center of attraction with people packed in on both sides waitin’ to see those naked girls and this little child….

An hour later, my father came in smiling, but one look at Mama and he sat down and stared at the floor.

So you finally got yourself locked up, Sam. That’s lovely. That’s fine things to show a little child. That’s really good bringin’ up.

Come on, Will, we better get outa here. He turned to me, Start gettin’ your stuff together.

I stood up. Mama snapped, Don’t you do it, Sammy. I sat down again, fast. Sam, where do you think you’re going?

Hell, Mama, they wants me in front of a judge tomorrow, so I’m gettin’ as far outa New York as I c’n get. And I’m taking my son with me.

You ain’t takin’ Sammy nowhere, or I’ll have the Thirty-second Precinct bulls on you. You got no booking, you got no money, you got no nothing. You think I’m gonna let you take this child running from the bulls, wandering to beg food with no place to sleep? Not while I’m willing and able to work. I don’t want him hungry and naked.

Mama, you got no say. Sammy’s my son and I say he comes with me.

Well, he ain’t going to be your son. I’m takin’ him from you. And from Elvera. She put her arms around me. You’ll have to kill me before I let him go with you like this!

The judge glanced around the courtroom. Where’s the mother?

Mama stood up. No tellin’ where she is, y’honor. She’s chorus girling somewhere.

Who are you, madam?

I’m the child’s grandmother, Mrs. Rosa B. Davis, sir.

Oh yes. I received a telephone call from your employer. I’m told you’re a fine woman and you have a nice little boy. She said you’ve cared for her children for years and she feels you’re capable of raising this boy, too.

Yes, Judge, I love him and I can do it. I want to give him a home like a child should have and keep him out of show business where he doesn’t eat every day and sometimes has no place to sleep, but I can’t do that ‘less he’s mine.

Back at the apartment Mama laid down the law to Will and my father. You heard with your own ears. The judge said his own father and mother ain’t capable of raising him and he gave Sammy to me. Legal! So, from now on, you can’t just pack up Sammy and go to this place and that place and just leave me a note.

My father didn’t say anything. He just looked miserable. Will cleared his throat Uh—Mrs. Davis, I just got us a fine booking up in Boston next week. Naturally it’s your say if we can take Sammy along with us.

Mama looked at me and stroked my head. I wanted desperately to go with them. After awhile she said, All right, Sammy. I know you want to sing and dance and be in show business more than anything, so you can go. Mastin, you and Sam sit there and listen to me tell you how you’ll take care of this child. You won’t let him eat no hot dogs, and no hamburgers neither. Give him chicken and be sure and give the leg, not the breast, it’s too dry. And don’t let him eat close to the bone. And when he says he’s had enough don’t you tell him There’s food on the plate.’ Let him leave it. He’ll eat as much as he wants and that’s enough. And don’t give him no pork chops. You and Sam can eat all the pork you want and all the pigtails but don’t you give none to Sammy. If you can’t get him chicken legs, then give him a piece of beef. Don’t you upset his stomach. If he gets sick on the road, you won’t have the money to call a doctor and you’ll kill my child.

All right, Mama, we’ll do just like you say.

She handed him a bottle of Scott’s Emulsion. Always keep a bottle of this and give it to him three times a day ‘til he’s sixteen. There’ll be times you don’t have heat in the room and this’ll keep him from catching cold….

After dinner Mama gathered up the dishes and washed them. I helped her dry them. She seemed tired. You work hard, don’t you, Mama?

Yes, I do.

I work hard, too.

But you make more money than me. Let me ask you something, Sammy. Does your father take your money to a table where he puts it down and sometimes he can’t pick it up?

Sure, Mama, he gambles.

That’s what I thought.

But he gives me what I want.

While you’re on the road—you ever been hungry?

No. Daddy and Massey been hungry, but never me.

She nodded, satisfied. But the first day you come home and tell me you been hungry then that’s the end of show business. And don’t let nobody sew up nothing for you or put patches on you. You understand what I’m talkin’ about? If there’s a little hole in your stocking, then you tear it and make it such a big hole that nobody can sew it up for you. You don’t need to wear nothing mended. I’ll always buy you whatever clothes you need. You’re my little boy now, Sammy, and I love you like I always loved you and I’ll always be here ‘til you don’t need me no more.

I tugged at my father’s arm as he, Massey, and I approached Grand Central Station. Where we goin’, Daddy?

We’re goin’ to the railroad station.

But where else we goin’?

He winked at Will. Well, let’s see … from there we’re catchin’ the smokey to Boston.

"I know that, but where else?"

He hoisted me onto his shoulders, laughing, We’re goin’ back into show business, Poppa. Back into show business.

3

My father came into the dressing room and before he even said hello to me he spoke to Will, I just got word that Timmy French give up the ghost. Let everybody go and he’s runnin’ a elevator at some hotel.

Will sat down and slowly twirled his hat on the tip of his finger. It slipped and fell to the floor but he didn’t reach down to pick it up. He spoke, but to neither of us, Timmy had a good show.

There was a silence in the room, the same sad and hopeless kind of quiet that I’d been hearing since we’d come to town. Vaudeville was dying. Wherever we went, for meals, or between shows in the Green Room, backstage, there was none of the usual atmosphere of clowning around that had always been so much fun. Everybody seemed afraid and they spoke only of acts that had been forced to quit the business.

A performer from the next dressing room looked in and saw me brushing our high silk hats. Not much point in that, he said, there’s hardly anyone out front to see ‘em. They’re all across the street at the goddam talkies.

I put down the hat, half finished. Will turned to me. Sammy, brush that hat ‘til it gleams. He was speaking with controlled anger. And remember this like it’s your Bible. If there’s one person or one thousand sitting out there, you gotta look as good and work as hard for that one man as you would for the one thousand. Never sluff off an audience. They paid their money and you owe them the best you got in you.

My father and Will burst into Mama’s in the middle of the afternoon. C’mon, Mose Gastin, you’re gonna be in the talkies. My father took my suit out of the closet. Ethel Waters is doin’ a two reeler called ‘Rufus Jones for President’ and you’ve gotta audition ‘cause they’re looking for a seven-year-old who c’n sing and dance to play Rufus. And that’s gonna be you.

We filmed it at the Warner studios in Brooklyn. The idea of the picture was that Rufus Jones falls asleep on his mother’s lap and dreams he’s elected President. When Rufus Jones attended a Cabinet Meeting, there were signs saying Check Yo’ Razors at the Door. He appointed a Secretary in Charge of Crap Shooting and a Secretary of Agriculture to Make sure the watermelons come in good and the chickens is ready fo’ fryin’.

I made another movie right after it with Charlie Chaplin, Jr., who was about my age. His mother, Lita Grey, starred in it. On the last day of shooting she told my father, Mr. Davis, the way more vaudeville houses are changing over to movie theaters every day you soon may have no place left to do your act. I adore Sammy. If you’ll agree to let me adopt him legally, I’ll take him to Hollywood and I promise you I’ll make him a star.

Mama made the decision. "Sammy’s my son now and I don’t want nobody telling me I can’t see my own son."

That’s how I feel, my father said. We come up together as pals. Movies’d only pull us apart.

I went downstairs to the candy store below our apartment to buy comic books. Some kids from the neighborhood were sitting at the table in the back. I walked over to them. Hi. They were looking at cards with pictures on them. I watched for a while. What’re those?

One of them looked up. You kiddin’? I didn’t answer. Boy, anyone don’t know what these is must be pretty dumb.

Well, it ain’t dumb just ‘cause I never saw somethin’ before! I looked around the table hoping to find someone who’d agree with me but they all just shook their heads like I was too stupid to live. I was dying to walk away but I knew if I said, Well, so long, nobody’d answer.

These’re baseball cards, dopey! Where y’been all your life?

The most any of them had was about a dozen. I had a ten dollar bill in my pocket. The bubble gum the cards came in was a penny apiece. I bought a hundred of them.

They all stopped talking. I played it big, pulling the cards out of the packages, piling them into one tall stack. The boy who’d first called me dumb came over and looked eagerly at my cards. Y’wanta trade?

Sure. Whattya wanta trade?

He picked out three. I’ll take these.

Okay, but what’ll you give me for ‘em? I didn’t care but I didn’t want to look dumb again. He handed me three of his cards and I looked at them as if I knew one from the other.

Fair ‘nuff? he asked. I nodded. He shouted, Trade’s off ‘n no trades back! and all the other kids burst out laughing. He grinned. Boy, you really are dumb. Anybody who’d give up a Babe Ruth or a Lou Gehrig for less’n five cards—boy, that’s the dumbest thing I ever saw.

This time I even felt dumb. I ran out of there leaving my cards on the counter. I closed the door to my room and played a record, loud, so Mama couldn’t hear me crying. I sat on my bed, mad at myself for running out like that and for letting them get the best of me in the first place. And to make it worse I hadn’t gotten the comic books. I hated to face them again but they weren’t going to