Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (5 page)

Some of the girls my age were sitting at the table having cokes. I tried to concentrate on the comic books in the rack but I could hear them giggling and I could feel them looking at me. My ear itched. After I scratched it the back of my neck itched, but I didn’t go for it. When I turned around one of them smiled, “Hi.”

As I walked toward them they all scrambled for a piece of yellow paper they’d had on the table, like they were trying to hide it, but it
tore apart and they all got hysterical and ripped the pieces smaller and dropped them under the table. Then they ran past me holding their hands over their mouths so I wouldn’t see them laughing.

I got under the table and gathered up all the pieces of yellow paper.

I laid them out on my bed like the parts of a jigsaw puzzle. Eventually I got enough of it together so I could see that it was a picture one of them had drawn, a picture of me. I closed the bedroom door and worked for an hour putting the last pieces in place. I stood in front of the bed looking at it. The face was like mine, except the nose was flattened almost completely across it. She’d drawn my head the same size as the whole rest of my body and made it look like I was only about two feet tall. And she’d made my arms so long that my fingers hung down to my shoes. On the bottom it said, “Ugly!”

I tore each piece of paper into such tiny slivers that nobody could ever put them together again, and I threw them into the toilet, flushed it and watched them go down. A few pieces fluttered back up and I flushed it three more times.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My head wasn’t that big. Maybe it was a little bigger than it ought to be, and my arms weren’t that long, either. I was short, though. Shorter than any of those girls. I turned, looking at myself from all different angles. I hated the way I looked.

I saw Mama in the mirror, watching me, and I had a feeling she’d been there for a while. “Mama, whattya think of how this suit fits me?” She stroked my head. “The suit’s nice, but I like what’s in it. That’s really something good t’look at.”

I fell into her arms and cried.

I didn’t go back to the candy store any more. I preferred playing pinochle with my father and listening to him talk show business, and I couldn’t wait until we got back on the road. Nobody in show business had ever said I was dumb, or ugly.

One night as I was dealing the cards he asked, “You got any money, Poppa?” I shook my head. He sighed. “Well, I’m out too, so we’ll hafta play Smut”

He got a bag of cinders from the chimney and mixed them with a jar of vaseline. “Now, this is smut. And the way we play is, if you lose then I gets to smear it all over your face and you gotta sit there with it on you for a hour and let everybody see you.”

“Do I get to smear the smut on you?”

“Hell, yes, Poppa. If you wins. This is a fair game. What’s good for one is good for all.”

Soon I was sitting there with smut on my face, hating it with all my heart. Night after night, it was always the same. Then, one night I was way behind when I noticed he was dealing me seconds. I jumped up. “You’re cheating, Daddy. I saw you, I saw you …”

He sat there righteous and fatherly. “That’s right. And I’m mighty glad you caught me.” I looked at him suspiciously. “Yes, son, I been doin’ it for your own good. I been cheatin’ you so’s to teach you the tricks of the game. That way when you grows up and I’m not around t’protect you there won’t be nobody can suck you into a crooked game without you knowin’ it. I’m doin’ you a favor, son, so sit down and let’s finish up.”

I sat down and he did me a favor for another three hands. Then he smeared the smut on me.

We’d used some of the movie money to buy a victrola, and I spent hours every day winding the machine and listening to the big names—Cab Callaway, Chick Webb, The Dorseys, Duke Ellington, and Jimmy Lunceford. I played a Chick Webb record for Mama and told her I wanted a set of traps like he played, but she didn’t understand and she bought me a toy drum. With that as a start I built a set of traps with bottles, tin pans, half-filled glasses of water and anything else that would make the sounds I wanted, and sat in the front room playing along with Chick Webb, trying to capture all his licks.

My father came roaring in. “Hell, Mama,
damn!
He don’t never stop playin’. He’s drummin’ and the neighbors are goin’ knock knock knock—he’s gotta cut it out!”

“You don’t like it? Move out. Sammy’s got to practice.”

“Practice for
what
? To be in a show business there ain’t gonna be?” He slammed his door. Mama turned to me and smiled. “Sammy, you just keep practicin’.”

At last, Will arrived at the apartment with the news we’d been waiting for. Mama rushed in from the kitchen, a bunch of greens in her hand. “What’s all this ruckus about?”

Will took off his hat. “We’re booked, Mrs. Davis. Six weeks firm and maybe more after that.” We all sat around him while he explained,
“I’ve been trying to fight the talkies, trying to sell the bookers on how much show business we can put on a stage with our big shows, but I had to face up to the fact of the talkie being the attraction today. What the theaters need is small acts that can do the vaudeville half then go back out and give ‘em another eight or ten minutes while the stagehands are setting up the sound horns for the talkie. It’s gotta be a simple act with no props and scenery, but fast and flashy enough to hold the audience even with the work going on. And that’s us. I’ve cut down to just the three of us.” Then the excitement left his face and he turned away. “There’s no more
Holiday in Dixieland
, no more
Shake Your Feet
or
Hannah from Savannah
… I’ll miss our big shows … those were really shows.” He looked at me and smiled. “How come nothing’s ever what it was ‘til it’s gone?” I knew I wasn’t expected to understand or answer. He smacked his knee. “Well, that’s all past now. The business has changed, so we’re changing with it.”

I couldn’t read much but I knew my name when I saw it and this was the first time I’d ever seen it on the front of a theater. Will read the sign out loud: “Will Mastin’s Gang, Featuring Little Sammy.” I asked, “What’s ‘featuring’ mean?” My father said, “That means you’re something worth seeing. Ain’t many eight-year-old kids got their name out front like this.”

Will said, “From now on it’s just the three of us. We’re a trio and we’ll split our money three ways. You’re an equal partner now, Sammy, and we’re counting on you. Your daddy and me will open strong to form the impression. Then you’ve got to go out there and keep ‘em going. Start strong to get them, then pace yourself so you hold them, but save yourself for your big finish. There’s only two things to remember in show business: making an impression and leaving them with it.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Do
your best, Mose Gastin, but don’t ever worry ‘cause whatever you do your daddy and me’ll come on and it’ll be okay.”

The three of us shook hands and went inside to dress for our first show.

I was in the middle of my big number when a drunk began heckling me. I kept dancing but it threw me so badly that I lost all my flash and only went through the motions until my number was over. I closed the dressing room door against the mild applause, half of what I usually got, and burst into tears. I didn’t know what the drunk had been saying but I knew I’d done a bad show because of him, and the audience hadn’t liked me enough. I couldn’t face my father or Will. When they came in, I stuck my head into my lap and kept crying. My father patted my shoulder. “No need to cry, Poppa. Not over one fool drunk.”

“They didn’t like me.”

“Well that just shows they don’t know nothin’.” He picked me up in his arms and wiped my face with his handkerchief.

Will said, “Sammy, something good happened to you tonight. You gave a bad performance, but now you’ll never let yourself get thrown that way again. One thing you can’t ever forget: if anybody out there gets to you, ignore him and wait ‘til you can make a clean exit.”

My father rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’d say I’m kinda in the mood for the glen plaid with the pearl grey shirts.” He’d chosen our best clothes for our first look around Joplin, Missouri. Will and I nodded and we started getting dressed. The three of us always dressed identically. My clothes were exact miniatures of theirs, with breast pocket handkerchief, vest, gold watch and chain, spats and a cane. My father set the pearl stick-pin into my necktie and we went downstairs to the bulletin board where there was always a card with the name of a nearby restaurant that had good food.

My father nudged me and Will. “Look who’s here.” Vern and Kissel, a good act, and friends of ours, were coming up the stairs from the Green Room. They were on their way to eat, too, so we all went together. “How you been makin’ out against the talkies?” … “Great. We just played some time for Dudley in Detroit.” … “Hey, you guys look like ready money….” We walked down the street, happy to be working, talking show talk, laughing
all the way to the restaurant. It was a big square room with a completely round counter. “Sammy’s a full partner now and pullin’ his weight. Wait’ll you see him doin’ my African Zulu Charleston Prance …”

The counterman smiled, “Evening folks. You niggers’ll have to sit on the other side.”

The counter-top was painted white halfway around and brown on the other half. He was pointing to the brown section.

Vern said, “But we’re together …”

“Sorry, bub, you ain’t together in here. Black ‘n white don’t sit together in here even if you’re brothers.” He grinned, “Although ‘tain’t likely.”

Vern was on his feet “Let’s get out of here.”

The muscle in Will’s cheek was moving up and down. He looked at his watch. “No point in spoiling your meal. If we leave here you won’t have time to find some place else.”

The counterman shrugged. “Fact is it’s no different elsewhere ‘n these parts so you might as well make do.”

My father stood up, took my hand, and he, Will, and I moved over to the brown side. Vern and Kissel moved to the seats next to us on the white side where the line ended. The counterman nodded. “That’ll do fine.” Nobody said much anymore. We finished eating very quickly and went back to the theater.

Vern and Kissel were talking to the stage manager. They were angry, pointing down the street, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. My father and Will stood with me on the stairs waiting for them. The stage manager was listening and shaking his head. Then he hit the palm of his hand with his fist, strode over to the bulletin board, tore the restaurant’s sign down and came over to us. “I’m damned sorry about this Mr. Mastin, Mr. Davis….”

My father said, “I’d as soon not discuss it now.” He moved his eyes toward me. They walked away and all of them stood near the door talking low. I inched up a little closer, but Will saw me and took my hand. “C’mon, Sammy, we’ll go upstairs and get ready for the show.” My father called out, “I’ll be right up, Poppa.”

Will didn’t say a word as we got undressed.

“Massey?”

“Yes, Sammy?”

“What’s goin’ on?”

Again the muscles of his face tightened and started moving. “Nothing for you to be worrying yourself over.”

“I’m not worryin’. I’m just wonderin’ what happened. We were havin’ fun and then everybody got mad and now downstairs they’re talkin’ about it….”

“Talk-
ing
, Sammy. Say the word the way it’s supposed to be said. Don’t be lazy.”

“What’s a nigger?”

Will walked over to his make-up chair and sat down. “That’s just a nasty word some people use about us.”

“About show people?”

“No. It’s a word some white people use about colored people. People like us whose skin is brown.”

“What’s it mean, Massey?”

He faced me. “It don’t mean nothing except to say they don’t like us.”

“But Vern and Kissel like us, don’t they?”

“Yes. But show people are different. Most of ‘em don’t care about anything except how good is your act. It’s others I’m talking about. Some of the people outside—someday you’ll understand….”

My father walked in. “Don’t you even think about it, Poppa. That man was just jealous ‘cause we’re in show business and he’s gotta be pushin’ beans all his damned life. Don’t you even give it a thought.”

I started getting dressed but I was all the more confused. Vern and Kissel were in show business and he hadn’t called them niggers. The way Will and my father were so angry and hurt I knew the word must have meant just us and it must have been terrible. The closest I could come is that somehow it meant we were different from other people in a way that was bad. But that didn’t make any sense at all. I wasn’t any different from anybody else.

“Betcha I can make you laugh, Poppa.”

My father was crouched in front of me making his poker face. I fought it, as I always did, but within a minute I was rolling on the floor, laughing.

My father handed me a package. “Play this on your machine, Poppa, and see how a
headliner
sounds.” It was Louis Armstrong’s new record: “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead You Rascal You.” I
played it a dozen times and then tried to sing it making his sound. My father was lying on the bed reading a newspaper. He jumped up and got Massey from the next room. I did it again, thrilled by how much they liked it.

“Don’t that hurt your throat, Poppa?”

“Feels fine.”

Will said, “Then that goes into the act.” He smiled, “I’ll introduce you as Satchmo himself, and you’ll come running on carrying the brass trumpet and big white handkerchief like he does.”

Bill Robinson was playing at The Plymouth Theater while we were in Boston. He and Will were the best of friends since a poker game years before when somebody pulled a gun on him and Will saved his life. Between our shows Will brought me along to the Plymouth so I could stand in the wings and watch. I’d heard about “Bojangles” all my life but I’d never seen him work and it was shocking to see how different his dancing was from ours or any I’d ever seen. We’d exhaust ourselves trying, arms and legs flying six ways to the moon and come off limp and wet. But Mr. Robinson had his hands in his pockets and he was going up and down a flight of stairs and around the stage like he was taking a stroll set to music. He wasn’t even trying to get the audience, yet I’d never seen anyone go over so big. As he came off and passed by me I knew I’d just seen the biggest dance act in the business, but his face wasn’t even damp.