Free Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. by Sammy Davis, Jane Boyar, Burt Page B

slug.”
    The others nodded and raised their bottles. Jennings said, “Here’s to you.” I picked up my bottle to return their toast. I had it halfway to my mouth when I realized it wasn’t cold. It was warm. As it came close to my nose I got a good whiff of it. It wasn’t beer.
    “Hell, don’t smell it, man! Drink it!”
    I took another smell and all at once I understood the smiles, the handshakes, the friendliness from Jennings. Somebody had taken the bottle empty into the men’s room and come back with it filled.
    Jennings was saying, “Come on, drink up, boy …”
    I put the bottle on the table. The faces in front of me zoomed in like a movie close-up and I could see every line, every bead of perspiration, every blink of their eyes. The noise in the room wasgrowing loud then low, loud then low. Suddenly I snapped out of it.
    “Drink it yourself, you dirty louse.”
    Jennings roared with laughter. “Hell, he even curses like a coke drinker, don’t he?”
    I tried to stand up, but my chair wouldn’t move. Jennings had his foot behind a leg of it, trapping me. The old hate was back in his face. “You wanta live with us and you wanta eat with us and now you came in here and you wanta drink with us. I kinda thought you loved us so much you’d wanta …”
    I felt a warm wetness creeping over the side of my shirt and pants. While he’d been talking he had turned the bottle upside down and let it run out on me. I stared at the dark stain spreading over the khaki cloth, stared at it in unbelieving horror, cringing from it, trying to lean away from my wet shirt and wet pants. My pocket was so soaked I couldn’t put my hand in for my handkerchief.
    Jennings jumped up, pointing to me, jeering loudly, “Silly niggers can’t even control themselves. This little fella got so excited sittin’ with white men—look what he did to himself.”
    I was out of the chair and on top of him. I had my hands on his throat with every intention of killing him. I loved seeing the sneer fall from his face and be replaced by dumb shock as I squeezed tighter and tighter, my thumbs against his windpipe. He was gasping for breath. In a desperate effort he swung around fast, lifting me off the floor. My own weight dragged me off him and I flew through the air and crashed into one of the tables. Within seconds the area was cleared as though we were in a ring together.
    Until this moment it hadn’t been a fight, it had been an attack by 115 pounds of rage propelled by blind impulse. I hadn’t known it was going to happen any more than Jennings had. The weeks of taking it, the time of looking for peace, of avoiding trouble, had simply passed, and it just happened, like a pitcher overflows when you put too much into it.
    But we both knew it was going to be different now: he was a foot taller than me and half again my weight, or more, and without the advantage of surprise I was like a toy to him. He was taking his time, grinning to his friends, caressing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. He raised his fists and began circling, licking his lips, anticipating the pleasure he was going to take out of me.
    I flew into him with every bit of strength I had. His fist smashed into my face. Then I just stood there watching his other fist come at me, helpless to make myself move out of the way. I felt my nose crumble as if he’d hit an apple with a sledge hammer. The blood spurted out and I smelled a dry horrible dusty smell.
    “Get up you yellow-livered black bastard, you stinking coon nigger …” I hadn’t realized I was on the floor. I got to my feet and stumbled toward him. He hit me in the stomach and I collapsed. I was gasping for breath but no air was coming in and I was suffocating. Then suddenly I could taste air, and the figures in front of my eyes straightened out and became people again. I got up and went for him. He was methodically hitting me over and over again, landing four to every one of my punches, but they