A Conversation with the Mann (59 page)

A coffee shop in the Village. Not like back in the day. Not a place for poets and artists and beats. A chain joint with fifty
variations of Folgers, and wannabe actors hanging around complaining about the state of their non-lives.

I recognized Allison the moment she walked in. She was a handsome woman, maybe just shy of forty. Maturity looked good on
her. But what made her recognizable was something in her eyes, some of Sid.

We traded hellos. We sat at a table, and for a moment we said nothing to each other. What was there to say? Two strangers
who had only the dead in common. Then from the pocket of her coat Allison took a legal-sized envelope. Bent, discolored, it
looked years old.

“Before Uncle Sid died, he gave this to my father, told him to keep it safe and told it to him in a way that made him know
it was important. The same way my father told me before he died. I guess my uncle knew … at least he always hoped you would
get in touch one day.”

Allison held out the envelope. Written on it was one word in Sid's scrawl: Jackie.

I took it. I opened it. Inside, a letter:

Jackie,

My hope is that you will never read this letter, that the things I want to say to you I will be able to say face-to-face.
But, if that's not the case, then this letter will have to do my talking for me.

Jackie, I can't tell you how badly I wanted to be there for you the night of your Sullivan appearance. I know how important
that show was to you, to your career, and after all we'd been through together, even from the shadows, I wanted to share your
night with you. But it was
your
night. I thought better to just leave it alone. Instead, I watched the show from the apartment. When you were cut off, I
was stunned and angry about the dumb luck that would bring about some technical problem at the top of your set after all you'd
done to get where you were. Then I was kind of happy for you. I knew Sullivan would re-book you, and the glitch was sure to
get you some press. Only, they didn't re-book you, and you didn't get any press, and I couldn't figure out what in the hell
was going on.

I asked around. I found out.

I don't know what the circumstances were, I don't know why you picked that moment out of so many opportunities, but, Jackie,
I can't tell you how proud I am of you for doing the “San Francisco” set. The way I hear it, you were terrific—poised, in
control, and funny. You were the comic I always knew you could be. I see where comedy, where the country, has gone in the
last decade or so, and I think: Where would Jackie be now if some guy hadn't pressed a button and erased his jokes from history?
But if you ever wonder if you did the right thing or not, if it would've been better to do some other bits than get tossed
aside, quit wondering. You stood up for yourself, Jackie. You did what you had every right to do. You were your own man, and
at the end of the day they can take every other thing away from you, but they can't take from you who you are: a funny comic,
and an exceptional person. Thank you, Jackie. Thank you for having let me represent you. And thank you for having been my
friend.

Sid.

By the time I'd gotten to the “my friend,” and the signature, a steady leak of tears was running down my face, dripping on
the paper. I tried to play my crying off, just sort of rub away the wetness. You can't rub away a river. I quit trying. I
broke down. I buried my face in my hands and my hands on the tabletop; the whole of it shook with sobbing. Over my own sucked
and heaved breaths I could hear the whisper of people who watched my remorse act. Let them whisper. I was saying good-bye
to a friend.

I felt a hand on my back. Allison. I heard her voice in my ears. A mourner's Kaddish, a prayer of both strength and forgiveness.
In Hebrew, I understood none of it. But her touch, her sound, it sent my crying into overdrive. She sat with me until I had
emptied myself.

Allison asked me if I was all right.

Guilt, over time, had compounded in me. It crushed me with a weight I could hardly bear, but couldn't purge. Sid's letter
freed me of all that. The load gone, I felt as if, for the first time in nearly twenty years, I could take a breath blameless,
deep and clean.

I told Allison yes, I was fine.

“It was very good to have met you, Jackie. Take care.”

Allison left me.

Very, very carefully folding Sid's letter, I put it back into the envelope and the envelope into my pocket.

After a time I flagged a waitress and ordered some cheesecake with strawberries. The waitress brought me cheesecake. No strawberries.
Whipped cream. Politely, I sent it back and had her bring me what I'd asked for.

I
WORK SOME, STILL
. When there's work to be had. The comedy boom that started in the eighties—a club in every strip mall, a stand-up show on
every cable channel—went bust by the early nineties. The art itself, and I'll call it an art, had gone full circle. Comedians
had stopped setting fires and were almost to a man as uninhibited as store-bought mayonnaise, having have-you-ever-noticed
themselves out of relevance. That, or they demonstrated an acute ability to slyly, deftly, comment on the state of society
by swearing over and over and over again for no good reason except that they could.

Be real still. You can hear the gyrations coming from Lenny's grave.

Anyway.

The venues that are left have little to no use for an old man, his time long gone, cluttering up their stage.

… But there are casinos.

America is gamble crazy, and there are casinos everywhere now. Theme casinos, Indian casinos, riverboat casinos. And every
casino has a lounge, and every lounge needs an act. A guy of my years who's got roots in Golden Age Vegas; I can pull a decent
audience—most times my age or even a little older, trying to relive the past. Sometimes younger, kids who want to soak up
the “Rat Pack” vibe wherever they can find it, any way they can find it: sipping highballs and martinis, smoking cigars, but
not knowing those were just the extras that guys like Frank, Sammy, and Dino accessorized themselves with. For The Summit,
cool was a state of being.

Whatever.

I work. I do my shows like always. Like always, but, post Sid's letter, different from before. Before, being onstage had always
been about getting ahead, getting over, being famous. Being someone. It was a means to an end. Nothing more.

Now …

Now it's about the simplest of things, what it should have always been about but never was, using the little gift God gave
me to give people a good time. Make people laugh.

So I do that now. Ten people, a hundred; I go up onstage and enjoy the moment. Most times the shows are good. Usually entertaining.
And sometimes, for whatever reason, because I'm hitting a groove, or maybe the audience is on my wavelength, or maybe it's
a combo of those and a thousand other things starting with a butterfly flapping a wing over in China, sometimes I'm on. I'm
really on. The jokes are just as crisp and the laughs are coming just as strong as anytime I ever played the Sands, the Copa,
or Ciro's. Sometimes I'll say a line, and like back in the day, I'll have to stop and stand and wait for the audience to finish
wringing every last laugh they can out of themselves. And somewhere married up with their laughter and applause …

You can say I'm corny. You can say I'm just a sentimental old man. In my day I've been called everything there is, so you
want to call me names, go on. See how much I care. But somewhere in the laughter and applause I hear my mother's voice saying
to me like she was right there beside me: “You're a special one, Jackie Mann. Don't let nobody ever tell you otherwise.”

Maybe age has just made me comfortable with myself, but after all these years, what that voice is telling me, I'm finally
starting to believe.

In memory
of
Etta Jennings

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