Grampa's Golden Pond
with
Grampa Jenkins
It's been two weeks since the Tony Awards,
and I'm still as stoked and excited as if it were yesterday. The last time I
wrote you it was as Grampa Jenkins, veteran hoofer. Now, it's Grampa
Jenkins, Superstar.
For those of you who aren't aware of what I'm
talking about, two weeks ago was Broadway's big night - The fabulous Tony
Awards, when all the stars come out to play. And now, after nearly fifty
years of giving it all I've got, the medallion is mine, for my roll as 'Old
Man # 7' in Spamalot. It was a tough category, too: 'Best Old Man In A
Musical Comedy'.
 Here's
a picture of my Tony. I put it on the mantle all by itself and got a special
little red spotlight to help illuminate it. It's a beauty, isn't it?
My only regret is that my award was given out
before the main ceremony, just like a lot of the technical awards, such as
lighting and costuming. That's because the big shots figure out that the
millions and millions of people who watch at home aren't interested in the
'small awards'. For the life of me I can't figure out why my award would
fall into that category. Don't tell me that people aren't interested in
'Best Old Man In A Musical Comedy'. I'll hear none of it. Why, everywhere I
go, the young ladies stop me and ask, "Say, aren't you that old man? C'mon
and give us that great line you do." And me being the ham I am, I'll take
off my shades and give 'em a wink, then roll back on my heels and let her
rip. "Ow's it going, then, brave Sir Robin", I'll say, and then do a little
dance, the same one they cut from the play when they tightened it up. Nearly
broke Eric Idle's heart when they cut that bit.
Nobody ever said show business is easy,
but it's my life, and I'll raise a... What? So what? I used it last time,
and I'll use it again, and I'll still raise a glass to it and tell you
exactly the same thing that I said before... There's no business like show
business. Oh, my friends, it hurts to get old on the stage, but I'm not even
close. I've got new coin in this town.
Did you know that when the Tony Awards first
started back in 1947 they didn't have those nifty medallions? Yes, that's
right. The winners got a little scroll and a cigarette lighter. Sounds a
little cheap, I know, but it was a Zippo. The first year the big winners
were José Ferrer, Arthur Miller, Helen Hayes, Ingrid Bergman, Patricia Neal,
Elia Kazan and Agnes de Mille. But there was also a special award for the
great Broadway restaurateur, Vincent Sardi, who had fed all of the big names
at one time or another.
Years later, when I could finally afford to
go to Sardi's for the first time, it was being run by Vince Jr., who turned
the place into even more of a legend than his dad had done. I was about half
way through one of the most flavorful tenderloins that I'd ever tasted,
wondering what had possessed me to spend nearly a week's pay on a meal, when
the maitre d' approached me and asked me to follow him. Well, we set off
across the dining room and traipsed through the huge immaculate kitchen, out
a side door and onto the fire escape. There he was, Vincent Sardi Jr.
himself. You could've knocked me out with a feather. "Your money is no good
here, Grampa," he told me, as he lit a hand rolled cigarette with his
father's Zippo. "I saw you in The Fantastiks last night, and you were
killer."
"Here," he said, passing me the cigarette,
"Let's swing." And swing we did, with Vince introducing me to my first
reefer. We talked about my role as Mortimer and Broadway in general until my
head got so messed up that I thought his jacket had turned into a puma.
Vince just laughed loudly and helped me back inside, telling a nearby chef
that I would probably be up for a Baked Alaska. Delicious. On my way out, he
came up to me and gave me his father's lighter. It was my prized possession
until 1973 when a whore stole it.
I thought that day was as close as I'd ever
get to a Tony, up until my grand victory two weeks ago. I wonder if Katy
knows about my Tony. I haven't been able to reach her since that
incident on
Mother's Day. I don't know; maybe she's a little peeved with old Grampa.
You never can tell with that girl.
It all started with breakfast. Say, wouldn't
that be a corker of a title for a Cary Grant movie? I never met the man.
Anyway, we met at Denny's for their two-for-one Mother's Day breakfast
blowout, and there were all of these horrible people there, right at the
premier seats of the restaurant. It was disturbing, and I'm not a man
that like to be distracted at breakfast.
The first person I recognized was the monkey.
That's all right, I get along with monkeys just fine. Did I ever tell you
about the time I was cast to co-star with Simba the Chimp in the long
abandoned Disney feature 'The Fur Factory'. Simba passed away about halfway
through shooting, and the studio was never able to find another monkey
capable of operating heavy machinery the way that chimpanzee could.
The next person I recognized was Katy's
useless crap-head of a husband. Ernie or Eric, whatever. If he wasn't so
good at cooking and cleaning, he would have been absolutely useless. One
year Katy loaned him to me for my birthday, but he spoiled things by his
incessant efforts to talk. My heart just sinks when I think of how she
married someone even wimpier than Steve Lawrence. Dressed in Katy's purple
capri pants and a pirate top, he couldn't have been any more of an
embarrassment to the Jenkins name
Then there was this screaming girl with a
scrunched up face, and a bunch of old people. One of them looked like Tony
Bennett, which reminded me of something I wanted to tell Katy.
"I'm up for a Tony," I shouted, trying to be
heard over the screaming girl and the Petula Clark oozing out of the
restaurant speakers. Katy had just commandeered a table, and then got up to
yatter away with the awful people. I thought that they might all be some
type of inlaws, or somehow connected to Katy, but I didn't give a damn with
my belly growling like a jungle cat. I headed up to the buffet and stuck
some link sausages in my pants pockets. You know, lint doesn't really damage
a sausage. Only time has that affect.
I had a powerful hunger, which the scrambled
eggs in my coffee cup did little to alleviate. I brought some hash browns
and grits over on a napkin, but the grits sank right through and splattered
on the floor in an humiliating heap which the monkey seemed to enjoy. Katy,
still yakking away with those horrible people, said something about my
unpredictable bowels. "I'm up for a Tony," I shouted, and the comely country
waitress brought me a bowl of frosted flakes. You know, Denny's and Broadway
are world's apart.
Someone gave me a waffle. It was just there,
I swear. It reminded me of Ibsen's play "The Desperate Johnsons', where
Joanna wakes up to a mound of northern whitefish with freshly fried chips.
That's satisfaction pure and clear. A monkey turd flew by my ear, and I let
out a sympatico fart.
These simple things, these simple tasty
things, that is what memories are made of. I pulled a few Jimmy Deans for my
pocket and placed them on the checkerboard tablecloth, since the waffle had
arrived without a plate. I poured a generous anointment from the cow-shaped
maple syrup container which Katy had liberated from the adjoining table and
thoughtfully spiked with gin. A straw stuck out of the little pourer.
I reached back in my pocket and offer my
biggest sausage to a couple of the old people who were staring so hungrily
at my breakfast, but I guess they felt self-conscious about their begging,
because they took off towards the parking lot muttering rude things. Well of
course they look like little penises, but you could smell the hickory
flavoring steaming right off of them. Good riddance, I thought. Katy was
drinking straight form the cow, waving bye-bye. It was the two of us alone,
at last, plus the monkey, and a couple of old people who were finally
minding their own business. I told Katy that I was up for a Tony.
"Don't you mean a Grammy," she said, suddenly
sobbing. I noticed that she now had a waffle of her own, unbitten by human
teeth. I snagged a good chunk of it while she was chugging the syrup.
Oh no, not the old 'you mowed gramma' routine
again. If my mouth hadn't been so full, I would've told her to straighten up
and fly right. But Katy was on a sugar buzz now, and not thinking clearly.
Who hasn't made a mistake in their life? If anybody felt bad about mowing
Gretchen it was me. After that incident, I vowed to never have a lawn again.
As we got up to leave, I looked at the sticky
mess covering the table. That's not what I'd call service. They were lucky I
left them a dime.
"Let's walk up the block," Katy said,
pointing up the street to a neon cross, with letters flashing 'Jesus Saves'.
She looked like her old vicious self once again. "They have ice cream".
|
