This is Part 2 of a True Story...
Scroll Down and read Monday, Sptember 23rd for Part 1.
We take off, and Dean falls asleep. I slept too. Dean slept the whole flight.
When we land in Honolulu, Frank’s car is waiting for us. Frank’s driver, Angie, is at the wheel. Angie, as you may imagine, is a big fella, which helps with the fact that driving isn’t the only duty in his job description. Having a side of beef like him around doesn’t hurt when things get dicey, which when you hang with the Pack, is not too unusual.
On the way to the venue, Dean asks Angie what gun he brought to Hawaii. Angie says he decided to keep it simple and stick with his .45. Dean brought a .38 snub, one of many, many guns in his collection. In Dean’s house, there’s a special room dedicated to guns. Dean always wanted to know what piece you were carrying, and if you had a new one, he wanted to see it.
Normally, if you ask a guy to see his gun, he’s going to point it at you. Most of the guys in those days knew about Dean, though, and nobody seemed to take it personally. I know there were even a few guys, like me, who had received a gun as a gift from Dean at some time or other.
We get to the venue and Frank is working, so we have to wait around. David Bowie is in Frank’s dressing room with smudged lipstick all around his mouth. Dean-o is busting his balls, asking whose cock he’s been sucking and all that. Bowie says Mick Jagger, and everybody laughs. Who knew?
Dean wants to know what gun Bowie brought to Honolulu, and Bowie admits he’s not packing. This seems to send Dean into a bit of a funk, and he lectures Bowie about songwriting. Apparently nothing on Aladin Sane is floating Dean’s boat; he likes Rebel Rebel. Bowie tries to defend himself, but Dean puts him in a headlock until Bowie’s face turns completely red. It was a little embarrassing, but you have to remember this was before he got big in the eighties. He was a good sport.
Frank comes in and he’s got lipstick all over his shirt collar. That must have come from the ladies with him: Jaclyn Smith, Cindy Williams, and Rosalyn Carter. Cindy is pie-eyed and her shirt is on inside-out; Rosalyn’s helping her walk. Rosalyn was such a sweetheart, her and Jimmy both.
We all hung out and visited. I think at one point Frank pulled me aside to talk about some business or something, and he asked me to keep an eye out for Cindy (only he called her “Shirley”- I’m not sure he knew her name was really Cindy).
“Keep an eye out” meant that he wanted to keep her around so he could be alone with her after the show, but he was worried that she might be too fucked up. My job for the night was to judge whether it was safe to keep her out, and get her back to the hotel if it wasn’t. By the time Sammy went on it was clear she wasn’t going to last. Furthermore, Dean and I hadn’t checked in yet, so I brought her back to the hotel and checked us in while Dean stayed at the venue sucking pimentos and trying to get a piece of the First Lady.
When I got back to the venue Sammy was off and Frank was on. Bowie and Jaclyn Smith were actually backstage listening, so the dressing room was empty. No sign of Dean, Sammy, or Rosalyn. They came back during the encores, and they were all sweaty and disheveled. You might as well know, I missed out on the First Lady’s good stuff!
The show ends and the dressing room fills back up. Frank busts the balls of some local promoter and Press types, and when it’s time to clear everybody out, I notice Jerry has appeared from somewhere. shit. Not that I care about lying to him, it’s just that he’s such an asshole. If I wanted assholes, we got them back in LA.
The promoter and Press types file out, and here’s who is left: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Fucky Gaylord, David Bowie, Redd Foxx, Leonard Nemoy, Donald Sutherland, Cap, Angie the “Driver”, First Lady Rosalyn Carter, Jaclyn Smith, Jane Fonda, Charlene Tilton, Dinah Shore, Suzanne Sommers, Marlo Thomas, a pair of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, Frank’s Girls, and a hula dancer. Oh, and Jerry Lewis, the Asshole.
We go back to a suite at the hotel and the party starts. It goes real good for awhile. The hula dancer is a riot, and the cheerleaders do a special cheer for Frank (until he tells them to clam up). Dean amuses himself by giving Bowie some good-natured shit, and Bowie takes it like a man. But here’s where the trouble starts.
Jerry wanders over to where Dean is dishing it out to Bowie. Every word out of Dean’s mouth, Jerry is laughing real loud like, well, like Jerry Lewis. Very annoying. The wind goes out of Dean’s sails and he gives Bowie a “sorry, what-are you-gonna do?” look. Dean wraps it up, excuses himself, and wanders over to me, leaving Bowie to fend for himself.
I ask Dean if he’s sure that’s a good idea, leaving Bowie defenseless against Jerry. “Kid’s gotta learn sometime,” is Dean’s reply. He starts talking about how Bowie is a good apple and all that, leaning in close and almost falling on me. I’m trying to help him keep his balance and there’s a crash on the other side of the room.
Bowie has broken a wine bottle in half and is wielding the jagged neck in Jerry’s direction. He’s shrieking; a high, tortured sound that makes Aladin Sane sound like Rebel Rebel. Jerry is nervous and sweaty (surprise, surprise) but laughing. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a Derringer. I personally think it’s insulting to bring a Derringer to Hawaii. Save it for St. Paul, you prick.
In a truly faggoty gesture, Bowie lobs his jagged bottle at Jerry and hits him in the hand. The Derringer goes off into the ceiling, and THERE GOES YOUR ONE BULLET, ASSHOLE. Now that a shot has been fired, Angie, Sammy, and I rush over to make sure it doesn’t get out of control. I’m not too worried, because Bowie isn’t packing. I wish he was, though.
I never even had time to wonder what started the fracas, but I’m pretty sure that Jerry has never once been in a fight where he didn’t deserve to get his ass kicked. It only took a second, but it was clear that these two were going to fuck, and they weren’t going to take it outside.
Watching David Bowie and Jerry Lewis raise their fists to each other was beautiful and strange. I never saw a grown man pull hair in a fight before, and Jerry combs his hair with buttered toast so it’s not easy to do, but Bowie is a magical fellow and he managed to get a handful. He was punching Jerry in the face over and over again and I was wishing I had some popcorn. Jerry did get a few licks in, but when you get right down to it, Bowie is nuts and you can’t beat somebody like that unless you really know what you’re doing.
I could’ve stayed all night watching Jerry getting pummeled by a dandy fop, but David was getting a little too into it and he socked Jerry in the throat. That’s when Angie stepped in and lifted Bowie over his shoulder like a farmer carrying a scarecrow. I was sorry to see that the fight was over, because I knew what was coming next. Frank was going to want us to take Bowie outside and dust him up a little for fighting inside, but since he had taken the throat shot we were going to have to make it a little worse.
Jerry was on the floor checking for his teeth. Despite having discharged his gun and fighting indoors, we all knew that getting beaten by David Bowie in front of the First Lady was to be the extent of his punishment.
“Who’s going?” Frank asked. I volunteered. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to make sure Dean didn’t get too rough. Sammy came too. The three of us followed Angie outside, and he let Bowie walk instead of being carried.
We tuned him up a little, but our hearts weren’t in it so we kept it light, and naturally we didn’t go near his face. Dean and Sammy piled on him, and I joined in. Angie knew better than to risk crushing anybody, so he just watched. I took the opportunity of the hog-pile to give Dean a few hard kidney punches. I pretended they weren’t meant for him but we both knew better. Don’t kid yourselves; he loved it.
Before the hog-pile ended we managed to get one of Sammy’s shoes off and Dean threw it as hard as he could across the parking lot. When we let up Sammy walked back into the party with one shoe missing, laughing and drunk. Angie made sure Bowie got to his room okay.
I saw him again in 1984, when I was a presenter at the Grammys. I was flattered that he remembered me and we joked around a little. I was worried that he’d hold a grudge, but he was a class act. In my nervousness, I forgot to ask him exactly why he’d fought with Jerry that night, but when you’re talking about Jerry Lewis, I guess the reasons are all pretty much the same.
The End.
