A Conversation with the Mann (45 page)

“That's wrong.”

“That's … Lying to her is good, but allowing her to sing is bad?” I snapped.

Giving a broad yawn Lilian made her boredom with my outrage obvious. “You are
not
not marrying your girlfriend for her sake. It is for your sake; it is for your freedom so that you may do as you please,
live as you please.…”

“You're wrong.”

“I'm never wrong.”

“Says your ego.”

“No, it is not my ego. Not regarding men and their motivations. A woman chooses one of two things when she is beautiful: to
be aware or to be stupid. A stupid woman is happy believing a man loves her for something more than her tits, and that the
good things that come to her are not trailed by the hope of sex. And such a woman is very, very content in her convictions.

“But I am not such a woman. I am aware. I know that I am
zhust
time and sagging skin away from loneliness.” Liliah drew a finger across her cheek. “I am
zhust
one horrid scar away from solitude. I know this. I know all of this, and sometimes the things I know make me want to … they
make me …”

“You came to me,” I reminded her. “In my dressing room, at Ciro's. It wasn't like I tried to pick you up. Never in a million
years would I have thought I could. You came to me.”

“Yes. I came to you. And you have a woman who you love. So, would you even be with me if it were not for these?” Her hands
slid over her breasts. “Or this?” Her hands below her waist now.

“That doesn't make—”

“Do you even care for me as a person,
Zhaqué,
or am I to you
zhust
a … an object of sex?”

Did I care for her as a person? Beyond the cursory jazz we engaged in before and after we made hey, what did I know of Liliah?
Where she was from, her family, what she dreamed of as a child, or what she would do in life if she weren't doing what she
did.

Nothing.

Right then I became aware that all the disaffection and coolness I'd for so long read in Liliah was something besides the
aloofness of a goddess. It was the sadness of her state of being.

Liliah
was
aware.

She was painfully aware. And right then I wanted to take her and hold her and kiss her, my motivation, for the first time,
something more than lust. And the truth of that made me very ashamed.

Liliah got out of bed, dressed her naked body. I asked her not to go.

“It's all right,” she said. Her voice calm and reassuring. “I will be back. You and I, we are not yet finished.”

She gave me a light kiss and left.

I sat for a while.

With nothing better to do, I went down to the casino and let Las Vegas have a piece of me.

A
BLURT
. In one excited spasm it all came spilling out of Sid: “We got you television!”

“Sullivan?”

Might as well have punched Sid in the stomach for all the wind I took out of him. “… Fran's show.”

I had mixed emotions on hearing that. Part of me thought: It's about time, not blaming Fran, knowing that CBS hadn't been
excited about showcasing a relatively unknown black comic on their freshman program. My other feeling was of great disappointment.
I wanted Sullivan. After the Copa, the Sands, Ciro's, I figured I rated Sullivan. Yeah, it'd be a boost to do Fran's show,
but at the end of the day it was Sullivan that mattered.

“It's good exposure, Jackie.”

“I know.”

“Fran's show is doing good, and television, any television, is a good break.“

“Sid, I know.”

“Yeah, and I know you're disappointed—”

“How am I going to be disappointed about doing my best friend's show,” I lied. If it took, it would be a miracle. Sid knew
me like a brother. Even over the phone he could read the feelings in my voice.

“They've got you scheduled in three weeks,” he said flatly. “I'm lining you up some dates in the city, let you work on your
routine. You've got to have a sharp five.”

“Sure. That's great.” I put effort into sounding as if I meant it. “And keep a night open for dinner.”

“At least one.”

Sid hung up.

I hung up.

“O
RGANIZATION
. That's the key. Individual activity is righteous in a way. It shows whites that what's going on in the black commuity—the
civil unrest—isn't confined to just one area, one region. But limited individual activity only has limited results. The key
is organization.”

Andre was talking. Andre was a black man, black besides just his skin. He wore a black leather coat, black pants, shades despite
being indoors. And his lingo, delivered in cadence that was very dark. I'd never met him before. He was brought 'round to
my New York apartment by Morris, the former Li'l Mo, who just sat off to one side, giving me a quizzical staring like it was
him, not Andre, who was unfamiliar with me. Morris was different. More than just his hard attitude and his distant nature,
he was physically different. Things besides the passing of years had made him so. His face was scarred, the most obvious defect
being an indentation on his temple near his left eye that looked to have been molded by a policeman's billy club.

Andre: “The sit-ins we've had this year all across America have been effective. Woolworth's has had to open their lunch counters.
Black Americans everywhere have been able to sit down and eat just like white folks. That's the power of organization. You
don't appeal to their hearts, you attack their pocketbooks. They start losing money, you best believe they'll start opening
their doors. And next May with the Freedom Rides—”

“What?” I asked.

“Integrated buses,” Morris said from his corner. He said it very quietly so as not to disturb the careful staring he was doing
at me.

“Blacks and whites riding together,” Andre clarified. “We start in Washington, D.C., and ride down to Birmingham. Sit where
we want, use whatever facilities we want, like the law says we're supposed to be able to. But all that takes organization,
Jackie. That's what I'm talking about: organization.”

“And what is it… I mean, why are you coming to me?”

“We're coming to you for support. We're coming to you to lend your name. Look, we have a protest or a march, it gets written
up as: Black agitators cause trouble. We get someone like you involved, all of a sudden it's Jackie Mann leads demonstration
to end segregation.”

“You talk like I'm a star.”

“Star enough. Every time I turn around, I'm seeing your name somewhere.”

“I'm not that… People don't know me that well.” I could hear the squirm in my voice.

Andre looked to Morris as if for confirmation that the dodging he was witnessing was for real.

Morris screwed his lip.

Andre: “They know you a damn lot more than they know any of us.”

“But it's not… I'm not Harry Belafonte. I'm just a comic.”

Morris came at me with “So's Dick Gregory.”

“But that's his thing. You know. He's more of a … Yeah, he's a comic, but he's more of an activist.”

“And what you are, a non-activist?” The crack was sharp enough it could've come from a whip.

Andre tried to mediate. “We're not asking you to march on the front lines. We're just looking for help, at fund-raisers at
least. You show up, a crowd comes along.” A beat. “You can do that, can't you?”

Could I do
that
? Could I get involved with political groups whose politics I'd just been introduced to? Yeah. I could. Except it'd taken
a good long time to get on Fran's show—my own friend's show—just as a black man. How long would it take me to get on the Sullivan
show as a race agitator?

I hesitated with my answer to Andre's question. Just a second. That was a second too long for Morris.

“Damn, man.” He was up out of his chair, swinging hands in my direction, swatting away the stink of me. To Andre: “Told you
coming to him was a waste of time.”

“How's it a w-—”

Rolling right over me: “All he cares about is livin' on the easy. Don't want to do nothing to upset massa.”

“You come around once every couple of years, telling me how I'm letting down the race, and then I'm supposed to throw away
my career on your say-so?”

“Your career as a house nigger?”

“Yeah, I'm a house nigger. You know why I'm a house nigger? 'Cause I worked my ass off to have a house to be a nigger in.
I'm a house nigger, I'm a big-Cadillac-driving nigger, I'm an expensive-watch-and-fine-clothes-wearing nigger. And the only
thing worse than all that is being the I-ain't-got-nothing nigger who comes to me for favors.”

Funny lines, but I hoped they hurt. From the you-make-me-want-to-spit look Morris sent me, I was sure they did.

What he said was: “If I'm an ain't-got-nothing nigger, it's 'cause of brothers like you. Instead of getting involved, you're
too busy getting over. You're too busy staying in your white hotels and eating at your ofay restaurants to even know what
time it is.”

“It's called integrating. I'm doing exactly what you're protesting for—staying where I want, eating where I please.”

Morris asked: “How many other blacks you see at your hotels and restaurants except the ones clearing the tables? When you're
the only one getting in, that's not integration. That's selling out. If you ever once knew what it was like to be black” —he
rubbed at the indentation on his temple—” you'd know the difference.” To Andre he said: “There's nothing here,” and was out.

Andre lingered, ready to go but not wanting to storm off, hoping, maybe, in the time it took him to get to the door I might
change my mind about things.

My only offer was to make a donation, write a check. I wrote it. Andre took it and left.

To hell with him. Him and Morris both. Especially Morris and his stoved-in head, coming around acting like I was doing nothing
besides living high. Acting like I didn't know how it was to be black.

I got hot right then. I filled up with anger I hadn't known in years. I remembered being on a lonely dark road in Florida.
I remembered facing my own extinction. When you're solo in the night in the South, standing against three rednecks and their
collected hate … that's when you find out what it means to be black. But all my indignation was wasted. I was alone in my
apartment, and as usual had picked an impotent moment to be self-righteous.

So what? I had other concerns. I wasn't going to let Morris drag me down when there was so much else to lift me up.

I
WAS LATE
. The Broadway traffic that was snarled to a standstill was doing nothing but making me later. I told the cabbie to pull over,
tossed money at him, and took off on foot without waiting for change. I traveled at a run/walk pace, wanting badly to get
where I was going without working up a sweat while getting there. Couldn't afford to be sweaty. I was late for a date with
my girl. Tammi was in town.

B'way and Fiftieth. I got to Lindy's. Moving quickly through the door, eyes rolling. Spotting Tammi, I swept past the maitre
d'. I moved for her, all light and smiles. As I went to kiss her, she turned her head so that I caught only cheek. Her eyes
lowered. I followed them down to the tabletop, to what lay there: the Amsterdam News— a black newspaper. It was folded open
to an article headlined: TOO FAMOUS TO BE NEGRO? It read: