Big Man Read online

  Ringo was always saying cool shit like that, like calling somebody “cool breeze.” I made a mental note to remember that and use it soon.

  “Yeah, it’s going great,” he said. “You know how it is, I don’t have to tell you, now do I?”

  Ringo stood and began to pace around the room but moved steadily closer to me.

  “I do, yes, and that would be fun. We’ll be in your neck of the woods in three or four weeks, I think. I’ve lost all track of time out here. Exactly. Yes, we’ll go eat something and lie to each other. It’ll be fun. Yes, he is. In fact he’s sitting here sipping tea and eating finger sandwiches. You’ve ruined him, I fear. Good talking to you, too. I’ll put him on.”

  Ringo then proffered the phone and said, “It’s Bruce.”

  I took the phone.

  “Hey, Daddy-o,” I said. “What’s going on? How are you, man?”

  Ringo watched as I smiled and looked toward the window, maybe picturing Bruce on a phone somewhere out there on the other side of the world.

  This is what Ringo saw and heard me say:

  “Oh, really? How so?”

  I then listened for a long time. I didn’t speak or even attempt to interject. I got very quiet and stopped smiling. In fact, it looked to Ringo like I was being told about somebody dying.

  “No shit?” I said eventually. “I mean, I don’t know what to say, Bruce. I don’t know how to respond. You know I only want what’s best for you. You know if that’s what it’s going to take to make you happy, then that’s what it’s going to take. No, no, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  Ringo watched as I stood and ran my free hand through my short hair. He started to leave the room, but something told him that I might want to talk when the call ended. He really wanted to support me if something bad had gone down.

  “I understand,” I said. “Yes, don’t worry. No really, I’m good. I’m good. I love you, too, man. Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. I let it out slowly and sat back down in the chair. I turned to Ringo.

  “He’s breaking up the band,” I said.

  “For real?” said Ringo.

  “For real. Said he’s been thinking about it for a long time and this is the road he’s got to go down. He just told Nils,” I said.

  “Wow,” said Ringo. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Jesus, this changes everything. I mean… holy shit.”

  “Having been through this kind of breakup myself, you may have heard about it, I can tell you that life does go on. One door closes and another one opens and all that crap.”

  “I hear you, I know,” I said. “I think I’m in shock or something, you know? It doesn’t feel real yet.”

  “I know,” said Ringo.

  “Shit,” I said. “This has been my whole life. I mean everything has been about Bruce for so long. Fuck. This is going to require a period of adjustment. And vodka, I suspect.”

  “It’s tough to believe this right now,” said Ringo. “But this might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You don’t know.”

  “I guess the not-knowing part is the scariest,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Ringo.

  We sat for a while and said nothing. It did not feel awkward.

  “I should go see Nils,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Ringo. “At least you’ve both got jobs.”

  “This is true,” I said, smiling for the first time since hanging up.

  I started to cross the room toward the door. Ringo stopped me and gave me a hug. It’s difficult to hug someone as big as me. All the angles are wrong.

  “It will be fine,” said Ringo.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “It’s time for changes. I’ve been thinking that for a while, anyway. I’m not going to cut my hair.”

  “Your hair?” said Ringo.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m not going to ever cut my hair again.”

  “That’s an interesting reaction,” said Ringo. “I wouldn’t have predicted that.”

  “I’m going to change my life, man,” I said. “You’re right. This is an opportunity to do new and different shit. To switch everything around.”

  “Starting with your hair,” said Ringo, smiling slightly.

  “As a symbol,” I said. “As a sign of the new.”

  “That will be interesting,” said Ringo.

  The phone call from Bruce took place more than twenty years ago.

  Since then many things have happened.

  But I have never cut my hair.

  New York City

  Don

  I have no idea what Clarence Clemons sounds like,” said Chris Rock.

  We were sitting in a restaurant on the Upper East Side. Clarence had just called to say he couldn’t join us because his hip/knee/back was acting up.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “You’ve heard him a thousand times.”

  “I’ve heard him play a thousand times,” said Chris, “but I’ve never heard him speak.”

  “That seems so weird to me,” I said.

  “I would imagine he sounds like this,” said Chris. He then proceeded to do the thing that makes him one of the funniest men in the world and a true genius. He created a version of Clarence who spoke like a saxophone. Obviously I can’t describe it, you truly had to be there, but I can tell you that it was hysterical and in many ways accurate.

  I’ve known Chris for a few years now and had the privilege to work with him on the television show he created with Ali LeRoi called Everybody Hates Chris. If you haven’t seen the show you should. One of my functions on the series was to sit with Chris and punch up the scripts. In other words I got paid to sit and listen to Chris Rock. It was the best job in the history of the world. We ate lunch together often and talked about the events of the day. It was always interesting and always funny. In my entire career I’ve never encountered a mind like Chris Rock’s. Not only is he amazingly insightful but he is quick. Quickness in the world of comedy writing is how pros judge each other. Nobody is quicker than Chris.

  Once in a while I would write a joke that he liked enough to try in his act. One weekend I was at home watching CNN report on the movement to ban the N word. I always found that euphemism especially offensive. It sanitizes the actual word, which every listener plays inside his or her head. Anyway, the following joke occurred to me: “I hear they’re trying to ban the N word. I see this as an opportunity. I immediately called my broker and told him to buy five million shares of coon.”

  Okay, that’s the joke. And it’s a fine joke. Unless, like me, you happen to be white. There were very few places I felt comfortable repeating the joke. Outside of the writer’s room where anything goes, my choices were limited. So I called Chris.

  “What’s going on in your mansion?” he asked. “Not much happening here in mine.”

  “I just wrote a joke and I don’t know what to do with it,” I said.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  I told him the joke.

  “I know what to do with it,” he said.

  And he did know. He took the joke, added to it, and is currently using it in his act. When I say he “added” to it, I mean that in the way a musical genius could take a single note and turn it into a symphony.

  At the restaurant that night, after he’d finished his impression of Clarence, I took out my cell phone and called the Big Man.

  “Hello,” said Clarence.

  “It’s me again,” I said. “I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to you.”

  With that I handed the phone to Chris.

  “Big Man!” said Chris.

  He listened for a few moments then covered the phone and spoke to me.

  “I can’t understand a fucking thing he’s saying,” said Chris. “He sounds like a saxophone.”

  New Jersey Turnpike, 1989

  Clarence

  Levon Helm, Dr. John (also known as Mac Rebennack), and I were in the back of a limo be
ing driven to the arena, where we were appearing with Ringo Starr in his first All-Starr Band.

  “It feels like I’ve been up and down this road a million times,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “And you got a dollar on every ride.”

  “More like ten dollars,” I said, laughing.

  “Hey Mac,” said Levon.

  “What’s up, Daddy?” said Mac. He was wearing a soft fedora hat and sunglasses, even though it was a dark gray day.

  “Did you play Woodstock?”

  “Almost,” said Mac.

  “You almost played Woodstock?” I said. “How did that work?”

  “Well, we were booked to play on the first day. In fact, we were headed up there on this very road. Shit, it could’ve been this very spot. We’re listening to the radio and hearing about all the traffic problems up there, and I got this premonition.”

  “What kind of premonition?” asked Levon.

  “The money kind,” said Mac. “I’ve been burned so many times I’m all scarred up on my insides.”

  “I know that feeling,” I said. “I did some TV show once and they asked me to play something. I think it was a kid’s show. Square One TV, it was called. Anyway, I play the song and they all say, ‘Thank you so much,’ and I say, ‘You’re very welcome. That’ll be a thousand dollars.’ ”

  “Yeah,” Levon laughed. “We got screwed all over Canada with Ronnie Hawkins. But that motherfucker was crazy. If some club owner tried to skip he’d chase him down and fuck him up. Or at least threaten to. Ronnie’s a tough guy. I wouldn’t want to fuck with him. So what happened after your premonition?”

  He accented the pre syllable in premonition. It sounded like he added a few e’s to it. I love Levon. His voice is such a pure American thing. Levon is the most genuine person I’ve ever met.

  “Well, we pulled off the road here at a rest stop to call the office. I get my assistant on the phone and I ask if we got the deposit from the Woodstock folks. She says, ‘No, we didn’t get any deposit.’ So we got back in the car, turned around, and went home.”

  The Legend of Echo Hill Ranch, Texas, 1992

  Kinky is a friend of mine and I have in fact visited him at the fabulous Echo Hill Ranch in the great state of Texas. He is a fine American and a brilliant individual. I have also spent time with Bob Dylan. This is what I imagine it would be like to hang out with both of them at the same time on a night that was, in all truth, significant for me. —C.C.

  Kinky poured two fingers of Jameson’s into each glass and handed Clarence the one shaped like Dr. Watson.

  “Cheers,” said Clarence, raising his drink.

  “Seinfeld,” said Kinky.

  They killed the shots.

  “I’ve never seen it rain this hard for this long,” said Clarence.

  “Spring in the hill country,” said Kinky. He got up and tossed another log on the fire. The rain thundered down on the roof of the tiny cabin. They had just returned from checking on Kinky’s cousin Nancy and her husband, Tony, who lived across the river in a far canyon on the ranch with all their animals.

  “We got across the river just in time,” said Kinky. “It’s up now. Nobody’s going to get through till tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

  “Well, you’ve got plenty of room,” said Clarence.

  “Yeah, just pick a cabin,” said Kinky. Two dogs lay at his feet. A third, an older Lab, slept on the couch next to Clarence, who put his hand on her head. He was usually afraid of dogs, but the ones here at the ranch were so mellow his fear disappeared.

  Echo Hill Ranch was a summer camp for kids Kinky had inherited from his father. The first campers were still over a month away.

  “I haven’t caught one fucking fish since I got here,” said Clarence.

  “Patience, son,” said Kinky. “They’re shy little buggers. They’ve never seen the Big Man before. Shit, they’ve never seen a Negro of any size outside of Big Nig the erstwhile Jewboy, and he don’t fish.”

  “You stay in touch with all the Jewboys?” asked Clarence.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” said Kinky.

  “You ever get back together and play?”

  “Once in a while,” said Kinky. “I’m a novelist now. I only play to promote the books.”

  “How many have you written?” asked Clarence.

  “I’m in the middle of number six,” said Kinky.

  “What’s it called?”

  “I’m going to name it after the three things that make America great,” said Kinky. “Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola.”

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door, startling both of them. The three dogs were up and barking.

  “Who the fuck?” said Kinky, standing.

  “Nancy?” Clarence speculated, as Kinky crossed to the door.

  “No way across the river,” said Kinky. “Who is it?” he yelled. He had to yell to be heard over the rain and the barking dogs.

  A muffled voice came from outside barely audible. “Bob,” it said.

  “Don’t open it,” said Clarence. “It could be some murderous lunatic here to kill us.”

  “Murderous lunatics don’t normally tell you their names,” said Kinky. “And they’re rarely called Bob.”

  “Maybe this one is clever,” said Clarence. A bolt of lightning hit nearby, followed by a huge boom of thunder. Kinky tried to quiet the dogs. “You got a gun?” Clarence asked.

  “Of course I’ve got a gun,” said Kinky. “But I don’t know where it is.”

  “What good is having a gun if you don’t know where it is?” said Clarence.

  The knocking on the door came again, louder.

  “I think it’s under the bed. I’ll go look,” said Kinky, starting for the bedroom.

  “Forget it,” said Clarence. “We’ll use mine.” With that he took a pistol out of his jacket.

  “You have a gun on you?” said Kinky, incredulous.

  “I’m a black guy in rural Texas,” said Clarence. “I should have six fucking guns on me.”

  “I see your point,” said Kinky.

  “Open the door,” said Clarence, leveling the pistol.

  “Okay, here we go,” said Kinky.

  He opened the door.

  A figure in black stood there wearing a hooded slicker.

  “KINKSTAH!” it said.

  He threw back the hood and entered. Everything stopped. Even the dogs were still.

  “Don’t shoot,” said Kinky. “It’s Zimmy!”

  Clarence lowered the gun and put it away as Bob Dylan, feigning boxing moves, stepped into the room.

  Later.

  The three men sat in the living room drinking. The rain continued to fall.

  “How’d you get across the river?” asked Clarence.

  “You can’t get across the river,” said Kinky.

  Bob shrugged. “I got across,” he said.

  “You walked across?” asked Kinky.

  “Drove,” said Bob.

  “What are you driving,” said Clarence, “a fucking tank?”

  “It’s a seventy-one Bronco,” said Bob. “Got a bored-out Hawaiian racing engine in it. Got a big winch. Didn’t need it, though.”

  “Wait,” said Kinky. “First of all, what are you doing out here in the Texas boondocks by yourself?”

  “I was over in San Antone,” said Bob. “Just looking around, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know,” said Kinky. “Bob Dylan’s riding around San Antonio in some hot-rod seventy-one Bronco and nobody fucking notices?”

  “Had it shipped down,” said Bob, not quite responsively. “I like moving around. I drove out Highway Sixteen tonight, over to Flores Country Store. Joe Ely was playing.”

  “You went to see him,” said Kinky, as if he were narrating a story he didn’t really believe.

  “Uh-huh,” said Bob.

  “Alone,” said Kinky.

  “Right,” said Bob.

  “At Flores Country Store.”

  “Yup.”

&nb
sp; “And nobody recognized you?” said Clarence.

  “Not that I know of,” said Bob. “The show was indoors on account of the rain, so I just kinda stood in the back over there by the pool table.”

  “Fuck all,” said Kinky. “I mean it sounds almost normal the way you say it but… you’re Bob Dylan!”

  “Not all the time,” said Bob.

  “How do you guys know each other?” asked Clarence.

  “I’m a big Kinky fan,” said Bob.

  “Bob was one of the Jewboys last year,” said Kinky. “Backed me up on a song I did for the Chabad telethon out in LA.”

  “True,” said Bob, petting the dog asleep on the floor next to his chair. “I believe the song was ‘Sold American.’ ”

  “That’s right,” said Kinky.

  “Joe did a hell of a song tonight about a rooster,” said Bob. “A Tom Russell song.”

  “Tom wrote a song about a rooster?” said Kinky.

  “White people,” said Clarence, shaking his head.

  “No.” Bob smiled. “It’s good. It’s about a fighting rooster. It’s called ‘Gallo del Cielo.’ ”

  “And it was good, huh?” asked Clarence.

  “Yeah,” said Bob. “And I’m hard to impress.”

  It was quiet for a while. They sat and listened to the storm.

  “I always meant to ask you, Bob, who’s your favorite performer?” said Kinky.

  “I’ve always liked Gary Unger from St. Louis,” said Bob. He put his hand to his chin and thought awhile.

  Clarence stole a glance at Kinky and mouthed the question Gary Unger? Kinky shrugged.

  “Bobby Clarke,” Bob continued. “Dan Maloney, Butch Goring…”

  “I thought I knew every musician in the world,” said Kinky. “But I’ve never heard of these guys.”

  “Me, neither,” said Clarence.

  “They’re hockey players,” said Bob. “When you said ‘performers’ I thought you were talking about hockey players.”

  “Why the fuck would you think I was talking about fucking hockey players?” said Kinky.