A Conversation with the Mann (16 page)

Weighted with reality, slow motions took Fran back to the booth. She paused, breathed deep, then signaled the engineer.

The tape rolled.

Fran stepped to the mike. … Real quick she waved the engineer off.

The tape stopped.

Fran left the booth for the hall with no destination in mind.

The session boys did some eye rolling, some head shaking. Their every expression said, and said with much aggravation: “C'mon,
girl. Just sing, girl. Lay your freaking track so we can go home, girl.”

Sid and I stepped into the hall. At the far end was Fran standing very much by herself smoking a bummed cigarette. I don't
think I'd ever seen her with a cigarette before, but she worked it with a level of intense concentration as if, right then,
smoking that stick was the most important thing in her life. Even at that, with all the effort she put into the action, it
seemed she wasn't participating in what she was doing. She rolled the cigarette in her fingers, stared at it without really
seeing it, same as you can stare at your hand and not notice your flesh. She was in some whole other place.

I started for Fran.

A hand gripping my arm pulled me back. Sid, telling me without saying so it was no good talking to her. What Fran had to work
out she had to work out on her own. There was nothing Sid, or me, or anyone else could say to her, nothing we could do for
her except leave her be. This was her session. This was her moment, and her moment was tearing her apart.

Dragging hard, Fran killed her smoke. She jammed the butt into an overflowing ashtray, spilled its contents onto the floor
adding to the collected remains of cigarettes smoked in frustration, fear, and deep thought. My previous question was answered.

Fran came striding up the hall and once more into the recording booth. Strong, sharp eyes leveled at the boys. She said: “Follow
me, and don't get lost.”

They straightened up. Their looks went from “C'mon, girl” to “Yes, ma'am.”

There'd been nothing in that cigarette except tobacco, but the smoke, the time with herself, the time to get straight, was
all that Fran had needed. This was her session. This was her moment, and she wasn't about to give in to it. She was going
to own it.

A nod to the engineer.

The tape rolled.

Fran stepped to the mike. Fran sang. She sang like she was singing for the very first time, full of virgin joy. She sang like
she'd been singing all her life, rock-solid confident, flowing through the song as loose and easy as she'd previously been
tight and constrained. What was missing, what Fran had been lacking before, was there now with every word of every verse.
She felt the music. She didn't work it, didn't force it, she just felt it, the groove and the vibe, and let us—the listener—share
the sensation. Eyes closed, you could hear her sly smiles and sense the dance of her hands in the air as she conducted herself
through the phrasing smooth as drawn butter, as effortless as running water. Just standing there listening, you could feel
her delight.

Done, last riff played, we all broke out in claps and whistles.
That
was the one.
That
was the one by a long street. The boys, the previously jaded session players, couldn't give Fran enough cheek kissing. They
knew soulfulness when they heard it. From Sid she got a bear hug, and the same from me. In my arms I could feel the whole
of her trembling.

Sid palmed me some cash, whispered: “Get her home. I'll take care of things here.”

Arm still around Fran, I walked her from the studio to the street. Each step she gave me more and more of her weight. By the
time I hailed a cab, the grip of my hands was the only thing that kept her from melting.

“Williamsburg,” I told the driver.

We didn't make two blocks before Fran folded into me, broke down into tears. What once were trembles turned into sobs. For
nearly five hours she'd given everything she had. The last track had taken everything she had left. You don't carve off a
hunk of yourself and not feel it. From the West Side all the way home she kept up her crying. From the West Side all the way
home I held her.

At her parents' apartment I eased her from the cab, walked her up the steps of the brownstone to the building's door. Fran
looked to me. The bad light made her drained face all the more pale, her washed-out eyes puffed and blurry.

She said: “That last one was good, wasn't it?” I don't remember Frances ever sounding so lost and desperate.

I put a hand to her cheek. “Better than good. That was the best I ever heard you. The best.”

Fran worked at a smile, gave a kiss and a thank-you for my words. But truthful as I was, my saying she'd been great didn't
make her believe. Yeah, she'd sung beautifully. Yeah, she'd bled song. But even at that I knew she wondered if she couldn't
have given just a little bit of a percent more. Her singing meant that much to her. She loved it, and the love hurt. That's
the price she paid—one of them— for being born different.

Fran faded into the building.

I got back into the cab and it took me to Harlem.

T
OMMY WAS HEADLINING
at Bon Soir. She was closing up her run, so I went down to catch her act. She was great as usual, great sounding and lovely
and all that. Last night of a stand was always pay night, so we had to wait for the waitresses to tip out and the club manager
to do his count and the paperwork before Tommy could collect her money. While the manager was doing his business we hung out
in the showroom—me and Tommy, the act who opened for her and the backing musicians, the bartender and die waitresses. Maybe
a couple of others. The wait got to be a while, so the piano player—his name I don't remember, but I think it was Scott—got
onstage and started fooling around some, playing little bits of this tune or that. Somebody, one of the bar backs, called
for “Let's Fall in Love,” and he played it and then someone else called for “Lazy River,” and that got played; then he started
on “A Sinner Kissed an Angel,” which was real popular just a few years prior, and people started to sing, but no one was sure
of the words and we all started making up funny lyrics until finally Tommy went up onstage to set us all right but ended up
hamming up die number—doing it Ethel Merman–style—and we all fell out laughing because none of us had ever heard Tommy purposely
trash a song before, and she did it hysterically, big and broad and brassy and so funny that people started calling out songs
for her to goof on. She did a couple— Scott's boyfriend and the bass player backing—then swapped the mike with the other act,
then one of the waitresses … anyone who wanted to hit die stage and do a send-up of Judy Garland or Julie London or anybody
else who rated a laugh. The manager came out of his office, count done, but by that time no one was in a hurry to get paid.
Our little group had taken on size. One of the waitresses' boyfriends had come by to walk her home, a couple of people had
called friends and told them to come down, a reefer got lit, next thing there's a party going on. The manager must've been
feeling it because he opened up die bar and started pouring liquor on the cuff and then we were all drinking and smoking and
singing and laughing and Tommy took the stage again, did another number, and somebody started going: “Jackie, get up there,
Jackie” like I could sing, so I just begged off, but Tommy came down off the stage and took me by the hand and yanked me back
up with her. Good luck refusing that. We spent a second trying to figure out what number we could duet before Scott just started
playing “That Old Black Magic,” which I barely knew the words to. My contribution to the song amounting to little more than
That old black magic ba da da a spell/ That old black magic something something so well … I had to do vocal gymnastics to
keep up with Tommy, who tutored me to a fallout finish. Then the two of us started in on “No Count Blues” and got as far as
the third verse before we couldn't keep from busting up and our audience couldn't keep from busting up and started clapping
and whistling and hooting and hollering and Tommy and me milked some hammy bows as I announced that the two of us would be
performing a limited engagement at the Copacabana with, as special guest opening act, Mr. Frank Sinatra … provided his audition
for me and Tommy went well. More laughing and clapping, and then me and Tommy gave up the stage, sat wrapped up in each other,
blowing hot in each other's ears, and watched another round of songs that went on until well past morning when all of us finally
tumbled out of the club smiling and laughing and feeling good. Back at her apartment, still smiling, still laughing and feeling
good, me and Tommy tumbled into bed.

“S
CREW OFF
,” I told the boss man, the guy who ran the moving company—large guy, furry with hair. If you'd been of the mind, you could've
used him for a human-skin rug. “Screw off,” I told him.

In my head.

I'd been fantasizing about quitting the company since the day I first started working there. I had the scene conjured down
to the detail: me walking into big boss man's office, thanking him for the long hours and lousy pay, telling him how the next
time I had anything to do with him would be when his little outfit was moving me from uptown to downtown, or from Harlem to
Hollywood. Then I'd be out the door, no looks back.

No more daydreaming. I was striding over to Seventh Ave., the company office, to hand the boss man back his job. Didn't need
it. My life was in a comfortable groove. Thanks to Sid and his mini-miracles, I was working clubs regular. I was getting spots
earlier. My act was getting stronger. I was making money. Not great money. Steady money, but that made it good money. Good
enough the clubs were the only work I needed. By that time I was going into the moving company only three days out of five,
and the little dough I'd lose not going in at all would be missed zero.

So, boss man, “screw off.”

In my mind I said that.

What I actually said when it came time, all I had nerve enough to say was I wouldn't be coming in anymore, and followed that
up with a very polite request as to if it would be all right to have my last check. Sir.

I went away hands empty.

Before I left the place altogether, I stopped down to see Li'l Mo. He was in the garage with the trucks, big machines, backs
open and empty, waiting to go out on a job and get filled. The filling would take a lot of long and hard hours.

Screw off, trucks.

I caught up to Mo, told him I was out.

He nodded his head to the news, said nothing.

I tried to tell him, to share with him my enthusiasm over how things were working out for me in the clubs, how Sid was really
helping me to—

“So what, you're quitting. You don't hardly ever come around anymore anyhow. You ain't working, how you gonna be quitting
anything?”

“I'm just saying this is a good thing. I've wanted this as long as I can remember.” I tried to get Mo to grab on to some of
the excitement I was pitching around. “If you knew what it was like to be up onstage … You remember back in that logging camp,
how I got even those rednecks to bust up? When people who are supposed to hate you are clapping and—”

“I'm glad for you,” he strained. “All right? You go tell your jokes. I gotta go move the man's shit.”

Mo crossed to one of the trucks, crossed quick like he had something important to do. From the way he stood around when he
got there, it didn't seem he was doing much but getting away from me.

I couldn't understand the way Mo acted, couldn't understand why he should be resentful of my doing well.

The other thing I couldn't seem to do was collect enough energy to care.