“See you tomorrow. Get some rest. I love you,” I said.
“I love you more, baby. Bring me brownies.” Pop smiled, then his eyes widened as a new memory came to mind.
“Brownies. Sit down for a sec, I got a story I want to share before you take off,” Pop chuckled, “A laced brownie story.”
“This ought to be good. . . .” I sat back down.
“Well, you know how focused I was onstage. Something would happen when I walked on stage, there was that magic line, and poof that focus was there. Except one time. Someone had sent me some brownies and I didn’t know they had put something in them.”
“I was munching on these brownies about a half hour before I had to get onstage. And I’m getting stoned. Totally wasted. So Murphy Bennett or Shirley Rhodes, someone comes in and says, ‘what are you eating?’ I’m like, ‘uhmm, these are good, real good,’ licking my lips. They took one of the brownies, cracked it in half, and saw a marijuana stem sticking out of it. I hear, ‘You got pot in here, someone cooked—oh, get this crap out of here!’ I thought, no wonder I am feeling funny.”
“Oh, Pop, that’s classic!” I said laughing.
“I can hear the guy backstage saying, ‘You’re on in fifteen, Sammy!’ I said, ‘What can I do to come down?’ Someone in the room said, ‘Why don’t you drink some hot soup?’ Good idea, I think. I love soup, right? They get me some tomato soup, and I drink it out of this big mug. The thing I didn’t know is that if you eat marijuana and you drink hot soup, you go through the ceiling. Now by the time the guy announces, ‘On in five,’ I’m flying high as a kite: ‘Yeah baby! I’ll be there! Don’t worry about it! I’ll be there! I’m gonna be there!’”
“Funny!” I’m cracking up now.
“I walked on the stage. I did the opening number, a second number, and I turned to the audience and said, ‘I know I have been on a long time, so may I say good night.’ I walked off the stage, thinking I had done an hour and twenty minutes. Not. And the audience at the O’Keith Center in Toronto, well, let’s just say, I never played back there again.” Pop laughed.
“Don’t eat what fans send you, Pop,” I said, chuckling.
“No joke. Okay, now get your pregnant butt out of here! Love ya, baby!”
“Love ya, too!” And off I went, hollering behind me, “See you for breakfast, I’ll bring the brownies!”
In my car on the way home, I thought about the Rat Pack. I remembered a story my father told me about their last tour together. It was March of 1988. Frank had said that Sammy was sixty-two, and he’s the kid. Frank was seventy-two and Dean was seventy. Frank said at their ages the only annual event they could hope for was their birthdays. But Frank and my father were determined to do a final tour, and it was all in an effort to save their buddy Dean. Dean, who always found humor in everything and was extremely funny, had just lost his son, Dean Paul Martin, in a plane crash. He was extremely depressed, in a state like his friends had never seen him. Pop said, “Dean didn’t need the money from a final tour, he had plenty, lived humbly, dressed simply.” When he would do a show in Vegas, he would bring one tuxedo, one shirt—no makeup, no accessories in his dressing room. The only jewelry he wore was a watch he had designed himself and a flashy pinky ring given to him by Frank. Dean was a simple, happy, humorous man until the death of his son. Pop and Frank thought hitting a tour would restore his spirits.
Mom and Dad enjoying a screening of Sergeants 3 back in 1961.
Dean didn’t want to do the final tour, but wasn’t about to let his buddies down. They held a major press conference with local newspapers, TV networks, radio, magazine, and foreign press. The plan was to do about thirty cities, in two parts. The Rat Pack would work March and April of ’88, take a few months off to play Vegas dates, then finish up part two in September and October. Frank, as he often did onstage, told my father to start it off. “Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for coming here today . . .” and Dean piped in from behind saying, “Is there any way we can call the whole thing off?” The press roared. Pop continued that they wanted to officially announce that they would be together again, the first time since Vegas in the ’60s. Frank didn’t miss a beat, “And definitely the last time.” The press roared. The chemistry, the rapport between Frank, Dean, and Sammy, was back. The love was deep, the humor was there, and the hip banter cheered Dean up, just as they had hoped.