He was always a sharp dresser, sported a year-round glossy tan, and was groomed to perfection with nary and never a gray curl out of place. He knew the lyrics to every standard by heart and could tinkle the ivory with surprising aplomb.
He was also sweetly, disarmingly gay.
And no, we’re not talking about Sinatra here but a piano player at Jimmy’s, Reese Allen. Reese was an endearing little man with an ever ready smile, diminutive in stature—frail comes to mind—and of that age where politeness begged off asking (he was a friend of Mae West, one of her boys as it were, so you could place him in his late sixties). He was east London born and had come to America a long time ago with show biz ambitions, and now played the piano a couple nights a week in the lounge, clad in a tux and belting out the standards—Porter, Van Heusen, Cahn, et.al.—in a voice that sounded a lot like Kermit the Frog (if Kermit had an Estuary English accent.)
Reese never spoke of burning desires or throttled dreams—probably well past the stage where those things mattered—but still lugged around one all-consuming obsession . . . and that was to meet the Chairman of the Board, Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, his idol of idols, Frank Sinatra.
And Reese had a plan.
On a regular basis, Bob Newhart and Don Rickles, and their wives, would head to the bar after dinner and gather around the piano to hear Reese sing. One evening, Reese asked Newhart and Rickles for a favor—would it be possible somewhere down the road for them to introduce him to Mr. Sinatra (he humbly submitted)? He was Sinatra’s biggest fan and it would be the fulfillment of one of his life’s biggest dreams if they could help him out. The Newharts, Rickles and Sinatras often dined and cocktailed together, and without making promises (because Sinatra was so mercurial and you never knew what frickin’ mood he was in and how’d he’d react and so forth) that next time they were in, Newhart and Rickles offered to see what they could do.
So a week or so later, shortly before the dinner hour, who descends into our sunken lounge and piano bar, sans wives, but Newhart, Rickles and the Sultan of Swoon himself. They take a seat in one of the discreet, recessed banquettes across the room and settle in. Were we to pan across the room to the piano at this instant, we would find a slight, silver-haired crooner in a white tux, saucer-eyed and stumbling over a lyric, looking as if he’d just passed what he assumed was gas and suddenly realized wasn’t. His eyes were riveted on Frank. And from that point on, did he put on a show. His posture piqued, his face radiated and somehow lost years, almost as though his wrinkles had receded in excitement. He sang number after number as the lyrics seemed to float on an invisible breeze. No matter that Frank, chatting with his buddies, gave no indication that Reese was even there, Reese continued in that rapt state until, suddenly, Newhart stood and headed to the piano.
A few words were exchanged and slowly Reese rose from the bench, and followed Newhart toward the banquette. With a steadying gait—you couldn’t tell if he were being led to his execution or a date with Santa—Reese approached Sinatra.
As Newhart returned to his seat, Rickles and Sinatra continued their conversation, not even acknowledging the (now extremely awkward) little man who stood before them. But Resse launched away:
“Oh, Mr. Sinatra,” he said. “I’ve been your biggest fan for years. You were my inspiration when I heard first heard you on the radio with Mr. Dorsey. I knew right off . . . well, my friend Mae West, God bless her, and I, we used to listen to to your records for literally hours on end . . .” And on and on and on Reese gushed.
Until Frank stopped him with a nod, and beckoned him forward with index finger. Reese timidly leaned closer.
Sinatra stared him in the eye. “Sing closer to the mic,” he said.
That’s all he said. Sing frickin’ closer to the mic. Then resumed his chat with Rickles.
With a kind of dazed look, Reese turned and walked back to the piano.
Needless to say, the last half of Reese’s set was more subdued than the first—but you could hear him better. He sang closer to the mic.
Beejorama 