The Lenny I Knew
I met him for the first time in 1951, down in Miami Beach, Florida. We became fast friends. We were both struggling comedians at the time, lucky if we could scrounge together a buck or two for some greasy burgers, fries, and maybe a Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda.
We had just finished doing our respective non-paying gigs at this run down, beatnik hangout. Lenny was really on top of his game this particular night. He came out on stage as he always did, without a plan. He surveyed the audience, opened up his mouth and just soared, soared like an eagle.
He was surrounded by his type of people, and felt a complete freedom to really go after the pretentious phony establishment outside the room. It was one of those times where he became like a channel, having no idea of what was going to come out of his mouth next. So much so that he was constantly surprising and cracking himself up, as if he too was a spectator, sitting amongst the crowd and watching his own performance.
When he was finally all talked out, the audience, still crying with laughter, gave him something like a three minute standing ovation. This one negro, clapping his hands together hard and fast, screams out; “You Charlie Parker, man. White, funny, Charlie Parker, man. Damn!”
So we’re strolling down Collins Avenue afterwards, trying to figure out a way to get our hands on some of that green stuff. It’s kind of crowded on the street, it being serious snowbird season. We’re walking kind of slow, and these rich fat cats with their jewelry laden wives keep passing us by.
“You see that, man? You see the way they’re looking at us? Like we’re a couple of god damn lepers, man. God damn frigging lepers”, Lenny says to me in a tone of utter disdain and disgust.
I see Lenny’s mind at work now. He has that same look like he has up there on stage, even laughing to himself, except no words are coming out of his mouth.
After a while, he says to me, “I got a plan, man. A great big ole plan, man”, and keeps repeating the words, “plan, man” out-loud.
Now Lenny never did anything half assed. When he put his mind to something, it was always full steam ahead.
So the first thing he does is go down to the local library and does some research on leper colonies. He locates this extremely poor one in British Guiana. Next, he legally charters this charitable organization, and calls it the “Brother Mathias Foundation”. This Brother Mathias was an actual clergyman, the guy who befriended Babe Ruth when The Babe was confined to an orphanage as a child.
Now Lenny’s having a great time putting this whole scheme together. He’d be walking down the street laughing pretty much all the time during this whole process.
The next thing he does is he poses as this laundryman, and goes around to all these Churches collecting clergy shirts and clerical collars.
Finally, he dresses up as a Priest and stands on Collins Avenue collecting money for the leper colony. And those same old fat cats who gave us those looks start coughing up the dough, half of them to impress their girlfriends and mistresses, the rest to feel a little better about themselves.
Lenny intended to give practically all the money to the actual colony, and use the rest just for our living expenses. But with some money in his pocket and always looking to get his kicks, it was at this time that he discovered smack.
He does this for about three weeks before being exposed, collecting and sending over three thousand dollars to the impoverished leper colony in British Guiana.
Lenny was upbeat throughout his whole trial. After he beats the rap, due to the legality of his foundation and the inability of the local clergy to prove that he was an impostor, he says to me “you see, man, all’s well that ends well”.
Anyway, that’s how I like to remember my great friend, Lenny Bruce. And as Dylan put it, “Lenny Bruce is gone, but his spirit’s livin’ on and on”.
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