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Authors: John Lahr

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BOOK: The Autograph Hound
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“Eh, Benny,
che succede!

I wish he'd speak English. The assistant chefs—Anthony and Victor—keep making faces. Anthony clowns around. “Sophia Loren … Monica Vitti … Rossano Brazzi …” Everyone thinks he's funny, but the stars are no laughing matter.

I put the plates down and start to scrape. One of the waiters comes rushing back. Ike and Tina Turner are at station 4. I can't hardly believe it. Victor and Anthony want to know who Tina Turner is. They spend their lives listening to Mantovani and Liberace. I sing a few lines of Miss Turner's latest hit. It's number 64 on the charts, but rising:

“I'm a bad, bad woman—ooh

And I need a bad, bad man …”

Anthony and Victor—those mambo dancers—laugh at the song. Ignorance is bliss.

I can see the party of seven through the window of the kitchen door. Six men and Miss Turner. Ike's hair is very smooth and shiny. You can tell he's the leader. The others have the same style clothes, but he's the only one in green. Their hair is matted and high like the guys who hang out and harmonize around my house on 102nd Street. But Ike and his friends are a team, not a gang.

Tina's wearing a pants suit. Except for Marlene Dietrich, Garcia almost never allows women in slacks into the restaurant. But nobody sasses Tina. She's got Garcia tipping his ten-gallon hat. He doesn't want an incident. Black people are getting angry. It's in all the papers. The Homestead never had these sit-ins or strikes. We've served blacks from the beginning—Sammy Davis, Jr., Harry Belafonte, Sidney Poitier, Roy Campanella. If Garcia insulted Tina, there's no telling what could happen. Demonstrations. Riots. And all because Garcia won't keep up with the times. But he's smiling at her. He's letting Ike twirl the six-shooter. On my block, blacks and Puerto Ricans don't get on this good.

Garcia's spurs jingle as he hurries back into the kitchen. He goes over to Chef. Zambrozzi's pushing side orders onto the counter. His face is shiny with sweat.


Siete
fried chicken,” Garcia says, holding up seven fingers.

Zambrozzi pretends not to hear.

“And home fries.”

Zambrozzi throws his hat on the floor. “Veal
piccata
. Veal
parmigiana
. Veal
zingara
. I learn cooking since I was ten. I win prizes. I no change my menu for Carlo Ponti.”


Cágate en tu madre
.”

“Zambrozzi's no short-order cook. Remember that, Garcia.”

“They're up and coming in
Cashbox
this week. They bring business. Publicity. We can put their picture in the window.”

“I no come here to work a hash house.”

Garcia stares at Zambrozzi. I know that look. So does Zambrozzi. He picks up his chef's hat and mumbles something to his helpers. He turns back to the stove. Zambrozzi thinks he's an artist, but his cooking couldn't gross $212,000 in two weeks at the Dunes, the way Ike and Tina did this Christmas. He may be the best cook in midtown Manhattan, but I don't see people waiting on line four hours to get into the restaurant. Ike and Tina earn whatever they ask for.

Garcia sees me by the door. “Get out there, Walsh. The Turners need bread and water. They got no napkins!”

Garcia slaps his hands at me. He thinks he's Desi Arnaz.

I take my pad out of the freezer and put it under the roll basket on my tray.

From the window, I see they're laughing. Ike holds out both hands—very flat, very straight. They all slap his palms. It's the best time for information. When the stars are relaxed, they talk freely. They don't notice you, you can hear what they say and write it down on the spot. I put their words on the back of their autograph. That makes it more valuable.

Ike's saying, “They got more bread than sense. This dude wants us to sign with Epic. We produce our own thing. They promote. We sing. Three hundred Gs, if you please.”

Everything Ike says turns out poetry. “Do the deal! That's better than Janis Joplin on Columbia or Jimi Hendrix on Reprise.”

“Whatchou say, boy?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Don't jive wit' us, baby.”

“I think it's great, Ike. I think you're great. I love the custom-made guitar table in your living room. I wish you all the success in the world.”

“Give us the bread and butter. And get lost.”

“Would you sign my autograph book?”

“Man, not in our food. Dig it, Ike, that book's in our food.”

I laugh back. I hold out my hands—very flat, very straight. They don't slap them.

“You messin' wit' the King and Queen of Soul, jim.”

“I know. Could I have your autograph?”

One of Ike's sidekicks pushes up from the table. He pokes me in the shoulder with his finger. “Get lost, motherfucker.” My shoulder feels like there's a hole in it.

“I happen to be a fan of Miss Turner's. I know her whole story, Ike's too. Annie Mae Bullock, Brownsville, Tennessee. Ike Turner, Clarkson, Mississippi. Ike discovered her one night at a club where he was playing the organ. She was with her sister. The drummer handed the microphone to Tina's sister and asked her to sing. She wouldn't. Tina grabbed the mike and started to sing. Ike was shocked. After that he asked her to join the group. Listen to this—

“Thrill me

Kill me

Fill me

With your love—uumh

Your sweet love …

“That's what Tina sang. It could've made the charts.”

The man shoves me. My pad drops on the table. A glass of water spills on Miss Turner.

“Sheeit,” she says.

Ike's friends try and mop it up. I'd stay and help, but I hear Garcia coming.

Garcia orders me into the pantry. He glares at me. His silences are worse than his noises.

“I tell the Boss …”

“But, Mr. Garcia …”

“Ass-wipe,” he says. “Go to station twelve. I want Fosburg on four.”

His mouth's full of gold teeth. His Sen-Sen breath makes my nose itch.

“I want to serve the Turners.”

“Fosburg takes the Turners.”

“He's only been here a week. He used to work at Nedick's. Station twelve's roller derby stars and theater parties. I've been here longer than you, Mr. Garcia. I know this place.”

“Bite the bullet, Walsh.”

He bangs the door open with the square toe of his boot and walks back to his post.

Black fingers on my shoulder.

I put my tray back on the stand. I hold it with both hands. “Hey, baby, sorry for jivin' witchou. That flaky cowboy's a heavy trip.”

“He says I'm not allowed to talk to customers.”

“Eleven o'clock tonight. Fillmore East. It's on Tina.” A yellow ticket slides on my tray.

In the kitchen, Victor and Anthony are joking. They must've seen. Anthony puts two potatoes in his T-shirt. “Sign my spuds, bud,” he says to me in a high voice. Anthony rubs against my shoulder with his potato chest.

“I'm a bad, bad Boogie

And I need my big, bad Benny, man.”

“Hey, Benny, get much?” laughs Victor.

“Yes,” I say and show them the ticket.

The good thing about subways is they run all night. It's too expensive to get to the Fillmore East by taxi—anyway, who do you see in a cab but yourself?

I took a cab once and asked the driver if he ever carried any big names. That driver was a real nut. He kept singing songs to himself—“Swinging Down the Lane,” “I've Got the World on a String,” “Chicago.” After every song, he'd turn back to me and ask, “Don't you think I look like him?”

“Who?”

He put on a felt hat and tilted the brim over his forehead so he could hardly see. He kept showing me his profile while he drove, asking me to guess. It was dangerous. Finally, at a traffic light, he turned back and crooned with his hands held out like a dead fish. He looked like Mickey Mantle running to first base. He kept singing. He gave me clues. “F. S.,” he said.

“I give up.”

As we pulled up to my stop, he gave me a rough look. “Frank Sinatra, schmuck.”

I didn't give him a tip.

“Don't you have anything for the driver?”

I took out my penknife and slashed his seats. I ran out of the cab down into the subway.

As Ziegfeld said, “Talent will out.”

It's very quiet underneath the city at this hour. I can sing to myself and hear the echo. I can play the gum machines and read what's been written over the GET OUT OF VIETNAM stickers. I look good in my Mets cap, I've broken in the crown just right. Anthony and Victor think I could pass for Yogi Berra (as a catcher, not a coach). I'm short and heavy. I've got thick hands for the knuckleball. I'm not afraid of getting dirty or hurt—after all, I'm a New Yorker. When nobody's around, like tonight, I can put my face close to the mirror over the candy machine and practice how I'd coax Tom Seaver on the mound. I was in the bleachers while he was up and coming. I worked hard for his victories. “Fire it in there, Tom, big fella! How you chuck! Put some spaghetti on it, Tom baby—let it dangle!” He's got my sign. Here's the pitch. Strike three. The Mets are one closer to the pennant.

The crowd goes wild.

The doors of the subway slam shut.


This is your subway car. Keep it clean. When you leave, take all papers with you. Over and out
.”

My only paper is my brown bag, and that's for the autograph book. I'm not leaving it anywhere.


Thirty-fourth Street next stop. Pennsylvania Station. Madison Square Garden. Change for the QB and the F. Have a pleasant journey
.”

The door opens. A man with a wooden board for legs rolls himself into the car. He steers with his hands. There's only half of him left. He stops at each passenger and clanks his cup.

I pretend to be reading my paperbag. He won't go away. They should lock these types in the slammer. They should keep them off the streets, make them work for a living.

“Change, mister.”

I show him what I have in my pockets—two tokens and a ticket.

“Change.”

“Seaver's going for number fourteen tomorrow. The miracle Mets. They're a sure bet for first.”

He rattles his cup.

“Put your money on the Mets. At seven to one you could make thousands.”

“May God have mercy on you,” he says, and pushes his raft down the aisle. Ungrateful.

Out at Eighth Street. Cool air smelling of incense and onions. Crowded streets. I like uptown better—you meet a more mature class of person. Here they bump you. Kids mainly—weirdos dressed like Indians or Hunters or African Warriors or Buddhist types who look you in the eye and sing to you. None of them famous.

One Buddhist comes up to me. He holds out a seashell filled with calling cards. “Krishna consciousness,” he says. “The Empire State of ecstasy. It works as advertised.”

I take a card.

“It's like going to the top by elevator instead of the stairs. You hit the sublime in no time.”

He dances away, singing.

I toss the card into the gutter. Nothing good comes easy.

The Fillmore East is no Winter Garden. The ushers are grown men with beards, not nice old ladies in white collars. They don't show you to your seat, they just point. They don't tip you off to the big names in the audience.

On Broadway you see women—at the Fillmore, girls of all ages. They won't behave. A program and a seat's not enough. They walk up and down the aisles in the darkness. They brush against you. They don't care. Their bosoms jiggle. Their nipples poke up like pug noses.

I'm fifth row on the aisle. It's safer sitting down.

An arm reaches over my shoulder. Warm breath and a bottle. “Have a swig, Benny.”

“Moonstone. It's a public place.”

“I can't handle that uptown hustle every day, man. Sypher wanted me to hang out at the Opera opening. He promised a fifty-fifty split. A lot of heavies—Leontyne Price, Nureyev, Leonard Bernstein, Rudolf Bing … I mean I can't take that shit, Benny. I mean it's the Age of Aquarius. I'm only collecting the ones in my orbit. I wanted the real juice tonight.”

“Forget about Bernstein, he's always around.”

“Don't get me wrong. You guys have taught me a lot. But there's a time to work and a time to play. Dig?”

“You'll never be big if you don't concentrate.”

“A brandy high's the only thing for Tina. Smooth and sweet. Gets the buzz going.”

“You can't drink in the theater.”

“Belly up to the bar and have a few. It's party time.”

He shoves the bottle at me. I push it away.

“Rock stars come and go, Moonstone. They're not stable. You can't put all your time into flash-inthe-pans.”

“That's the beauty part, man. I dig change.”

“You're crazy.”

“Why are you here?”

“Tina gave me a ticket.”

“Sure. Paul McCartney sent mine special delivery from Apple.”

“McCartney's in New York, Moonstone.”

“Where?”

“The Plaza.”

“How do you know?”

“Read
Variety
. Europe to New York. Pay the fifty cents, it's worth it.”

“The old time, Benny. There's got to be new rules. I mean it's so corny. I'm into people, not grosses.”

“You gotta have the whole picture. They say the Beatles may split.”

“Yeah, and Snow White snorts C. Don't be a downer, Benny. Tonight it's Tits 'n' Ass.”

“Show some respect, Moonstone.”

“If I was seventeen again, I wouldn't have dropped out.”

“You're only twenty-four. The world's your oyster.”

“I wouldn't have joined up with Uncle Sam. ‘See the world,' my ass.”

“At your age, you could do anything. I was still slaving in the composing room of the
Asbury Park Press
at twenty-four.”

BOOK: The Autograph Hound
13.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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