A Conversation with the Mann (55 page)

I turned to the eighth page of the bundle of documents. At the bottom was a line just waiting for me to scrawl Jackie Mann
across.

Just waiting.

Chet asked me again: “Something wrong?”

“No, there's nothing … I've never had to sign anything like this before.”

Once more from the woman: “Just legal things.”

“Really, it's all standard,” the no-name agent said again.

“If you'd like us to get you a lawyer to look it over …”

“I know it's standard, agency papers an all that. It's just kinda weird for me. I've never had to sign—”

“And you're a little nervous?” Chet asked.

“This place is so big. You've got so many clients …”

“You're afraid you'll get lost in the shuffle. That's a legitimate concern. For any other act it is, but you're very unique:
a Negro comedian who's acceptable to white audiences. Think of how many … how few, I should say; think of the Negro talent
that is also popular with whites. You can list them on one hand. Davis, Belafonte, Cole, Poitier. That's an exclusive club,
I'll be honest, you're no good to us unless we put you in it. All of us are here for you, Jackie. From me all the way up to
Abe. So if you're afraid of getting lost, no; no you won't. You stand out too much.”

Some smiles at Chet's double-meaning phrase.

Chet's little talk made me feel better, made me see he was right about things. Still, I just sat there.

“It's up to you, Jackie. I, we, don't want you doing anything you don't feel one hundred percent—”

“I don't have a pen.”

Everybody did nothing for a second, then we all busted out laughing. Jackie didn't have a pen. Ain't that just the funniest
thing?

Chet dug one out of his pocket, handed it to me.

Across the blank line went Jackie Mann. That was that.

There were handshakes and goodwill all around. We all chatted awhile, and when the talk fell flat, I excused myself, let them
get back to work. Might as well. They were working for me now. I shook hands with the secretary, with the no-name agent, and
Chet walked me to the elevators.

Chet told me he would be in touch shortly, that he was working up a game plan for me and wanted to get me started on it right
away.

The elevator rang, and I began to get on.

“Jackie?”

I turned back.

“My pen?”

P
HILLY
, C
LEVELAND
, two weeks in Reno, Tahoe …

My life was in replay. My life was in clubs and show rooms and dinner theaters. I was where I had been, which was not on television.
Not on the Sullivan show. I didn't expect—didn't allow myself to hope—that I would land the show straight off, even with all
the might of WMA pushing me. I figured it would take time. I figured right. I just didn't figure how much time. Two months
turned into four. Nineteen sixty-two turned into sixty-three. I remained Charlie Road-Comic. Maybe I was making a little more
at each stop—seventy-five extra at this club, a hundred, hundred and fifty at that one—but other than that…

San Francisco, L.A., a week in Vegas …

And little by little, month into month, the crowds were getting smaller. The empty sections of the club were getting larger.
People were staying home. Frank C's prophecy was coming true: The future was television.

Cats without television were dinosaurs heading for the tar pits.

I talked to Chet about it, me and Sullivan and me not being on Sullivan. He told me he was lining things up, that he was
this
close to landing an audition. It would all happen in time.

Time crawled on. As it did, gradually, seemingly, I found myself talking with Chet less and less. Just getting him on the
phone was turning into a magic trick. And Abe? Forget it. More and more I was doing business with Marty, who used to be the
no-name agent. Marty was turning into my day-to-day guy, the guy who would handle my bookings, make sure everything was okeydoke
at all my shows. He made sure everything was okeydoke from New York or L.A. Not once did he ever make sure that everything
was okeydoke from where I was actually playing.

I was being passed off. I was being handed over same as a baton in a relay race, only instead of rushing me forward, it felt
to me like these guys were just standing around on the track. If not strolling backward. My fear was the next person to get
their hands on me was going to be that secretary girl.

Marty told me not to worry about things. Marty told me that Chet had told him that he was very close to nailing down that
audition for me. Very close.
This
close. In no time at all I was going to have my shot at Sullivan. Until then …

St. Louis, Minneapolis, Milwaukee. Chi—

Chicago. I was doing a week in Chicago. So was Tammi, Her stand lapping over the tail end of mine. Had to happen sooner or
later, us working the same city at the same time. I'd figured it would happen, but I never figured
what
would happen. What I hoped would happen was that she might call me. She might hear I was in town and call just to let me
know that at the least she didn't hate me with every part of her there was to hate a person with.

But she didn't call. Days passed. My gig ended. Time for me to split town, and she hadn't rung up. Me call her? That took
guts I didn't have.

All I could do: I went to see her show. I went to see
her
. I went but ended up standing around outside the club, unable to go in and sit and watch her.

But I was unable to do anything else.

I paid my money, got seated, waited for the show to begin. Short of breath and quick-hearted, I was a man waiting for his
own execution. Same thing. Sort of. I knew seeing Tammi was going to kill me. It amounted to nothing more than penance, self-torture.
I wanted to hurt me
for
her, the way I needed to be hurt for what I'd done
to
her.

The lights went down. The show started. She took the stage. Never mind the years that had passed. I saw Tammi and I was seeing
her again for the very first time in that dingy, smoke-choked cellar of a joint back in the Village that she filled with light
and beauty, the moment as fresh and as vivid but tinged with the knowledge … with the knowledge that I had fucked everything
up. There is no other way to say it. The truth of it, the vulgarity of it, was that real. I had fucked up.

It wasn't but sixty full seconds of looking at Tammi, of listening to her, before I couldn't take any more. I pulled myself
from the club and into a cab and back to my hotel.

My hotel.

I wasn't completely sad. I didn't feel as if I wanted to break down and bawl. As I lay on the bed, one hour into another,
staring at the ceiling, I felt very little other than the rent in my soul that was as fresh as when Tammi First left me. On
the radio: Ruby and the Romantics. “Our Day Will Come.” The four walls of the room. Other than that, I was alone.

A knock at a door.

I lay still. Was it my door? Was it down the hallway? Was it even a knock or just a—

A knock again. A knock at
my
door.

I got up, walked for it, hesitant. I was scared. I was alone and I was scared, afraid a ghost had come calling. Hand on the
doorknob, slipping under my sweat-slick palm.

I opened the door.

Oh, sweet Jesus …

Tammi. It was … it was my Thomasina.

I clutched at her. I clutched at her as I slid to the ground. I was on my knees before her, crying. Sobbing. Useless for anything
but.

She took my head in her hands, pressed it to her stomach. From above me, in a whisper: “It's all right, Jackie. I'm here now.
I'm here, and I love you. I will always love you. Nothing else matters.”

Her love, love that I had been empty of my entire life, came raining down on me. It filled the want for any other thing required
to survive. All that I needed to live and to be and to exist was Tammi.

She was there. She was there with me,
for
me, but why? Why should she give me her gift of grace when the only thing I'd done was carve across her heart with my deceptions?
Why … ?

“Why me?”

Her hands lifted my face. My tears made her shimmer.

She said: “You're special. Jackie Mann. You're special, and don't ever let anyone—”

I jumped awake. My hands gripped the covers of the bed. My face was sheened with sweat.

I was alone.

The phone was ringing.

I looked over at the clock. The night had passed to forty after nine in the morning.

I answered. “Hello?”

“Jackie?”

“Chet?”

“We're going to have to pull you off the road a bit. We've got you the Sullivan audition for as soon as you get back. Call
me when you hit the city.”

Chet hung up.

T
HE SINGERS DIDN'T HAVE TO DO IT
. Neither did the rock and roll bands. Not the dog acts or the variety acts. Just the comics. The comics had to go over to
the Delmonico Hotel, go up to the eleventh floor to a six-room suite where the Sullivans lived, and put on a show for Ed himself.
Ed and Robert Precht, Sullivan's producer. Ed had to see the comics because Ed didn't trust the comics. Comedians by nature
were freewheeling and unpredictable. Full of surprises. Ed didn't like surprises. Ed liked to get exactly what he paid for
and nothing more. So comics had to do what singers and rock and roll bands and dog acts and all the rest didn't; they had
to please the king before they were allowed to perform for the kingdom.

I went to the Delmonico. The eleventh floor. I did my set. I did my set for two people. I don't care how long you've been
a performer, you take away the other hundred and ninety-eight people you're used to joking for and the deal becomes a whole
new thing. No laughs to mark your rhythm, to let you know how you're doing. Just nods from Ed and Robert. Occasional smiles
like they're digging your bits. Maybe they're digging your bits. Maybe they're just smiling not to let on how much they hate
you. Hard to tell. Ed never had much of a smile to begin with, and had even less of one after a car smash-up bashed in most
of his puss. Sunken-eyed and sullen-faced, he had the look of a professional pallbearer.

With the nodding and occasional smiling, my five-minute set got whittled down to four and change.

I finished.

I thanked Ed, Robert, and stepped outside the suite into the hallway. Chet was there, waiting for me, decked in his standard
blue suit. He asked how I did.

How did I do? Two guys grinning and head-bobbing. How should I know how I did?

We hung around a couple of minutes.

Robert stepped from the suite. Bob, he asked me to call him. He was a youngish guy, groomed straight-arrow clean, but the
way he talked—the quick edit he did of my act, taking out this joke and moving around that one—made me think he got to be
the show's producer because he was sharp, not because he'd married the boss's daughter. Although, he'd iced things by doing
that as well.

Chet led the Jackie Mann parade doing “Isn't he something” bits. “Didn't I tell you the kid is terrific. Good-looking, well
spoken, presentable …”

“And funny,” Bob added, almost as if reminding Chet of that.

“And funny. The funny goes without saying. What I am saying is that Jackie makes for a neat package, a real neat package.
TV's going to like this kid, Bob. I'm telling you, TV's going to love him.”

“A week from Sunday we've got an opening in the comedy slot. Ed wants to have you on then, Jackie.”

“Perfect,” Chet answered for me.

Bob just sort of smiled at Chet's enthusiasm. He was well used to agents. “So, you'll give me a call, work out the details.”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Jackie.” Bob gave me his hand. “Great stuff. You're going to be sensational on the show.” Back into the suite he went.

Chet said: “This is a really, really … You know, Sullivan pays better than any other variety show on the air.”

“It's not about the money.”

“It's not about the money. No. No, it's not. But the money don't hurt, it doesn't hurt a bit.”

“Thank you.”