You know, my wife doesn't generally accompany me on the road. There are a couple of reasons for this. She has a job as the Director of Historical Resources in our town. As such, she is sort of the head honcho at the museums here and oversees the myriad programs that these institutions conduct. She's really good at it, too. I'm proud of her. But she puts in a lot of hours. Second, when she’s able to string a few days off together, she doesn't much fancy spending them on the road with me, where she’ll have to sit in a smoke-filled bar night after night.
Oh, don't get me wrong. She likes seeing and hearing me perform, all right, but not for nights on end. This especially comes home to her at the end of any given evening. My show is over, and she follows me into the bar where I’m being garrulous—having a couple of drinks and getting real intelligent and clever and bulletproof, and I start oozing good will. What a charmer. Well, instead of sitting there listening to all this, I think she'd rather have root canal work done. So it stands to reason that by way of these two factors, she doesn't come along often.
On those occasions when she does come with me, we've found that things work better if we try to make it somewhat special. Over the years, she has met some of my friends and enjoys most of them better than she does me—which is okay, since I enjoy most of them better than me, too. So there's solid ground right there. However, for 'peace in our time,' when she's with me, we try to do things in a bit of a different manner than my road trips are usually taken. This is a wise thing.
So anyway, at one time, Tommy Makem owned a pub in New York, and a nice one at that. They had a house soundman who was knowledgeable about the music and rode the board as you played. This ensured a good mix and sound quality. This was, and remains, a rare treat in Irish pubs. His place was in a good location, as well. I think it was W. 57th, off Lexington. (Anyway it was a street with a directional number off a street with a town's name.) I worked it a few times. One year, I was booked over Thanksgiving, with Thanksgiving itself off. It just so happened that my wife had a few days off at the same time. We figured that here was a chance for one of those spousal trip things.
We drove to Washington, DC, left the car at her sister's house, and took the train to New York. This strategy enabled us to avoid the hassles that certainly would have come about both inside and outside the car had we driven into Manhattan. We could both relax. A win-win situation.
We couldn't afford a first-class hotel, but we wanted something within striking distance of the pub. So we ended up in what I guess you'd call a second-class hotel. I'm not being obtuse. I mean it weren't a fleabag, but it sure weren't the Ritz. It was handy, though, somewhere around 42nd or 43rd or 44th Street—I forget. Near Times Square. And (and this is a big ‘and’) it was safe enough to satisfy my wife. Now my wife always checks the closets and under the bed for bad guys, and that's just in our own house. So since she gave it the thumbs up, you can be sure that the place was okay.
The gig at Makem's was going just fine, and she was enjoying being there, hearing me, meeting a few folks, and I was on pretty good behavior. Now comes Thanksgiving Day, and we're on our own in the Big Apple.
We wake up that morning, and after a small breakfast, venture out. Just over on 34th Street, the annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is getting under way. We decide to take it in. I'll tell you, it's pretty impressive. Lots of participants, lots of talent, lots of people. The spirit of the season abounds, and there is a genuine warm feeling all around; good thing, too, because the temperature would make Smokey the Bear start a fire. By God, it was cold. We stand it as long as we can.
We decide to walk back toward the hotel while giving some thought to where we’re going to eat our Thanksgiving Dinner. Don't we pass right by the Algonquin. We stop. The Algonquin! The Round Table! The Rose Room! Dorothy Parker! Robert Benchley! Leave us go in—definitely!
We could get in all right, to the bar only, and that was all she wrote. The restaurant is booked solid for months. Hell, we probably couldn't have afforded it anyway. So we have a beer at the bar and peek into where we supposed the Round Table would be. It was all just fine, but a wave of sadness came over us when we realized that, of course, all of those fascinating people were long dead. Well, at least we'd walked and stood where they'd walked and stood. And I guess that was all right.
We resume our search for someplace to eat. We find a little pub, The Pig and—something—that was serving a Thanksgiving dinner. Good food, nothing fancy, and we get served by very pleasant folks. We talk about the city and our plans for the afternoon.
Some month or two before, we had bought tickets for the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. It was their Christmas show, a matinee—not something I would normally attend if it were just me. Nothing against it, I just wouldn't do it on my own. But this was different. This was a spousal thing. So we went. Much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. They were all terrific.
We leave the show feeling pretty good about things in general, and most importantly, about each other. Heading back toward the hotel, we round a corner in the theater district, and boom, there is the famous Sardi's. We figure, let’s go in and hobnob with the Broadway-ites.
No problem getting in. No problem getting to the upstairs bar. I guess they’re between rushes, and it is a holiday, after all. We walk around and gawk at all the caricatures of Broadway stars all over the walls.
We plunk down on a couple of stools at the end of the bar, still rubbernecking. Just a few other folks in conversation down at the other end. The bartender comes right over, introduces himself as Jack, and asks what we'd like. What I'd like is my face on one of the walls, but what I do is order drinks for my wife and myself, since I figure that's what he meant. He brings our drinks and starts a conversation with us. He’s very friendly and seems interested in what we're doing in town. He tells us he lives in Red Hook and that he's originally from Dalmatia. I can't top that, so I tell him about us and that I'm performing at Makem's this week, and why doesn't he come by and have one on me. He says he just might do that and that the next round is on him. We tell him thanks and that when he's ready, we'll have the same again.
He excuses himself and goes to fix our drinks and talk with someone down the other end. We're figuring, jeez, these New Yorkers are okay by us. We're still ogling and pointing at the drawings on the walls. Jack comes back with the drinks just as a stocky, baldish, well dressed gent with a gimpy leg comes and stands next to us and calls out, "Jack, my usual, please." So Jack brings him the usual cocktail.
This fellow starts up a conversation with us, just like that. Says he doesn't get too many Irish musicians in the place. Asks how we like New York and so forth. I figure he's the manager, and that Jack has given him the skinny on us. He goes on and says that he's sort of in show business himself, on a part-time basis, that is.
"Oh?" I say.
"Oh, yes," says he, "and you've probably seen me in the movies."
"Oh?" I say again. I figure I'm holding up my end, giving him cues. I'm looking, but I don't know this guy.
"Yeah. Did you see that Peter O'Toole movie, My Favorite Year?”
"Sure. Great movie," I say.
"I was in that," he says.
I still can't place this guy. He senses this.
"You know the part where Peter O'Toole steals the police horse in Central Park and gallops away? Well, I was the cop holding the horse."
"It would have been quite a stretch if you'd told us you were the horse,” I says. The guy laughs. My wife gives me a shot in the ribs.
"I'm sorry," I say. “I don't mean to be a wiseacre. No offense."
"Course not," says the guy. He then tells us of a few other films he's been in—Julia, The Fortune Cookie, and so on. Says he's got his SAG card. Just then, he catches sight of someone who's just come up the stairs behind us. He waves and shouts. "Be right with you, Colonel." I turn to look and see a bald-headed fellow in a suit heading toward the next room.
"Jack, give these folks their next round on me." Then to us, "You know the colonel, don't you?"
"The colonel?" asks my wife.
"Yeah, Colonel Klink—you know, from Hogan's Heroes. He's involved in a lot of stuff on Broadway right now. Nice guy. Wants to talk with me about something. He can wait a minute." We chat for a couple of more film credits, and he then says, “I gotta go talk to the colonel. Nice meeting you. Enjoy New York, and good luck at Makem's." And off he went.
Jack comes back with our drinks. He's smiling. "He doesn't do that a lot with people he doesn't know. I guess he likes you."
I ask, "Who is he, Jack? The manager?"
"No, not the manager. That's the man. That's Vincent Sardi."
How about that? Vincent Sardi—Junior, that is. Son of the original owner. Grew up in the business. From Queens. Enlisted in the US Marine Corps in World War II and left a leg in the Pacific. He rubs shoulders every day with a lot of famous, would-be famous, and past famous and powerful people. Everybody in the theater trade wants to catch his ear. And here he's a regular Joe. He's taken the time to make a couple of out-of-towners feel welcome. Good guy.
I suppose this whole thing doesn't have a lot to do with the music business, but it does point to the fact that had my wife not come along with me, none of what happened that day would have happened. I wouldn't have seen the Macy's parade, wouldn't have seen the Rockettes, wouldn't have gone in to the Algonquin, probably wouldn't have eaten much to speak of, and definitely wouldn't have met a Word War II hero/Broadway fixture. (I am quite certain that my wife was the real reason he stopped by in the first place. She is easy on the eyes, after all.)
What I probably would have done was go to some old bar and watch endless football games, drink drinks I probably didn't really want, and root for teams I didn't know with people I didn't know who were in the same position as myself (sort of hunched over a drink and an ashtray, listing first to starboard then to port), with nowhere else to go.
So maybe she's a good luck charm for me. I'd like to reciprocate one day. She certainly gets me to broaden my horizons when my natural predilections tend to narrow them.