Thanksgiving 1978 was a day I’ll never forget. I was 15 and my parents offered to host our family gathering. A year earlier my father had produced a movie called Kingdom of the Spiders. One of the co-stars was Altovise Davis, the wife of Sammy Davis Jr. My father idolized Sammy. While compiling the invitation list, he insisted an invitation be sent to Altovise and Sammy. Two weeks later, Altovise mailed back a reply. “I’ll be there,” she wrote.
My dad was ecstatic. “Sammy’s coming,” he announced with a giddy laugh. My mom brought him back to Earth.
“She wrote ‘I’ll be there.’ She didn’t say Sammy was coming.”
“Of course Sammy’s coming. Why would they spend Thanksgiving apart?”
The rift exemplified the contrast between my parents. My father was a serial optimist, always framing life in the best possible light. My mother was more cynical with an “I’ll believe it when I see it” attitude.
For my father, the prospect of Sammy Davis Jr. attending our Thanksgiving dinner validated his status as a Hollywood player. He told everyone he knew. Industry friends began inviting themselves over for the meal. Our family dinner for 12 blossomed to a guest list of 30 people. My mom became apoplectic.
“Where are we going to put everybody?”
“We’ll borrow tables and chairs from the neighbors,” my dad replied.
“They’ll want to come too.”
“No. The guest list is closed.”
Sammy’s aura changed the seating arrangement. Instead of positioning my grandparents near the head of the table, they were moved to the opposite end so Sammy and Altovise could take their rightful spots close to my dad. My brother, sister and I would sit at the kid’s table with the Hollywood rabble who’d finagled an invite to the event.
As the fateful day neared, my father wrote a speech to welcome Sammy. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror reciting the words aloud as I watched from the doorway. He asked if I’d listen to the speech and offer feedback.
“When I think of my favorite Jewish-American cultural figures of the 20th century,” my dad said, “three people come to mind. Harry Houdini, Sandy Koufax and Sammy Davis Jr. Sammy’s always been a hero of mine. I often refer to his book Yes I Can when I think of my own life. Two of my favorite quotes are: ‘My home has always been show business,’ and ‘Once I leave the house in the morning I’m on.’ Sammy, you’ve made me the happiest man in Hollywood by coming to our home today. I love you.”
My dad smiled as if he’d just been awarded a star on the Walk of Fame.
“What do you think,” he asked.
I sensed the desperation in his voice, his need for affirmation.
“It’s fine, dad.”
“No really. Tell me the truth.”
“It’s a little over the top.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, not an awards show. If you want to give a tribute, give it to Altovise. She’s the one you invited.”
“You don’t get it. Sammy’s a superstar. He could spend Thanksgiving with anybody in the world but he’s chosen to spend it with us.”
“Maybe he wants a normal Thanksgiving for a change.”
“You’re wrong,” my dad said. He marched out of the bathroom in a huff.
I had nothing against Sammy. The truth was more painful. My dad was able to tell Sammy he loved him but he rarely said those words to me. The juxtaposition cut deep.
As we neared the fateful day, my mom went to work. She purchased three pies, two kosher turkeys, a dozen potatoes, a sack of yams and a case of champagne. She put my brother and me on house cleaning duty while my sister helped in the kitchen. The phone rang incessantly with last-minute invite requests.
On Thanksgiving morning, I was awoken at 7:30 by my father yelling “Noooooo.” I ran through the house to find him watching in horror as his toilet overflowed and water seeped across the tile floor. He was speechless, his hands clutching his head.
“Where’s mom?”
He pointed to the other room. I found my mother in the hallway bathroom desperately plunging the guest toilet. It too had overflowed.
“We have a problem,” she said.
A problem was an understatement. All four toilets in the house had overflowed. My younger brother Mark ventured a diagnosis. “There must be a clog in the main sewer line.”
“Where’s Sammy going to crap,” my dad said.
“Snap out of it,” my mom intoned. “We need a plumber.”
My father grabbed the Yellow Pages and furiously made calls. The odds of finding a plumber on Thanksgiving Day were slim. He left message after message, each more frantic than the last. By the 10th call all he could muster was, “Help!”
Mark went into problem solving mode. “Let’s talk to the neighbors,” he said.
It was cold and foggy outside with a light mist falling. Mark and I walked next door and pressed the doorbell. Mr. Schwartzberg answered. He was an octogenarian who’d been “struck by the senile stick” according to my mom.
“Good morning, Mr. Schwartzberg,” Mark said. “We’re having a party today and our toilets aren’t working. Do you think our guests could use your bathroom?”
He stared in silence, a hint of drool falling from his mouth. After a few seconds, he closed the door in our faces.
“Poor Mr. Schwartzberg,” I said.
“At least his toilets work,” my brother answered.
We tried several more houses but no one was home. At the fifth house, Mr. Waxman answered. He said we could use the maid’s bathroom. This posed a new problem. We lived at the top of a steep hill and the walk to the Waxman house was about 150 yards. Since it was raining and many of our guests were older, this wouldn’t work. We needed a Plan B.
“How about the Froelichs house down the street,” my brother asked.
“What about it?”
“They’re doing renovation. Isn’t there a portable toilet in front?”
We walked a quarter-mile to the adjacent street and sure enough there was an outhouse in the driveway. It had two wheels and a trailer hitch anchored by weighted sand bags.
“What do you think,” Mark asked.
“It’s worth a try.”
We removed the sand bags and attempted to lift the tow hitch. It was heavy but we got it off the ground. I pressed my shoulder against the back of the outhouse while my brother pulled the hitch forward. We maneuvered the commode into the street. This street was also on a steep hill. We made it a few yards when I began to lose traction on the wet asphalt. I slipped and fell to the ground. My brother, unable to bear the weight, let go of the hitch. I scrambled out of the way as the toilet rolled down the street.
The hitch bounced against the asphalt keeping the outhouse upright. It picked up speed. The runaway toilet angled left toward a parked black Mercedes. We watched helplessly as the porta potty smashed into the car’s front grille. There was a loud crash and glass went flying.
We ran to the car. The driver side headlight was shattered. The grill was dented and the front bonnet was covered with broken glass. The hood ornament had been knocked off and was embedded in the driver-side windshield. That’s when we heard a man’s voice up the street.
“What’s going on over there?”
We looked to see Mr. Sadler standing in his driveway in his bathrobe. Thank God. Mr. Sadler was the coolest guy on the block. He was an aging 1960s rocker who produced Saturday morning kids television shows. We knew we could confide in him. He approached us with squinted eyes trying to make sense of the situation.
“What the hell did you do?”
“It was an accident,” Mark said.
“Mr. Herman’s not gonna be happy. You know he’s a criminal court judge, right?”
Mark and I locked eyes, our futures suddenly in peril.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you. I never liked that guy.”
Mr. Sadler became our savior. He retrieved his pickup truck, tied a rope between his hitch and the outhouse and extricated the porta potty from the damaged Mercedes. He then towed the toilet to our house. My brother retrieved my dad’s car keys and Mr. Sadler moved my dad’s Cadillac to the street. He backed the porta potty into our driveway and positioned it in front of our garage.
“Thank you,” I said. “We owe you big time.”
“I won’t say anything if you won’t,” he said. I watched him drive away, my body trembling. We retrieved the sand bags from the Froelich house and placed them over the trailer hitch.
“Should we tell mom about the Mercedes,” Mark asked.
“No way,” I said.
We agreed that since it was so early in the morning there were probably no witnesses. We knew Mr. Herman would raise hell among the neighbors but we trusted Mr. Sadler to keep quiet. He’d become an accomplice and could face legal consequences for helping us.
We went back inside to find my dad sprawled on the living room couch. He’d been unable to reach a plumber and was thoroughly depressed.
“Good news, dad. We found a toilet.”
He opened one eye quizzically. “What do you mean?”
My parents followed us outside, their eyes wide as they beheld the porta potty in our driveway.
“Where’d you get that,” my mom asked.
“We borrowed it from the Froelichs. They’re renovating their house. No one’s living there now.”
“You can’t expect me to ask Sammy to pee in this thing,” my dad said.
“How about everyone else,” my mom asked.
“What choice do we have,” Mark asked.
My dad realized Mark was right.
“Make sure you give it a good cleaning,” he said. “These things can be disgusting.”
My parents went back inside while Mark and I assessed the situation. We slowly opened the bathroom door and were hit by a pungent smell. The odor was a hybrid of livestock and rotten meat. The walls were speckled with brown stains.
“Gross,” Mark said.
We searched the garage for cleaning supplies. We found all manner of cleansers, sponges and rags. I went into the house looking for rubber gloves. When I came back outside, Mark was dry heaving in the street.
“I poured a bottle of bleach down there but I think it only made it worse.” He took deep breaths. “It’s a nightmare. We need masks.”
Mark went in search of something to wrap over our faces. I perused the cleaning solutions in the driveway. This job required something strong. I opted for a large bottle of white vinegar. This is what my mom used to clean tough stains in the shower.
I grabbed the vinegar, took a deep breath and stepped into the porta potty. I poured the vinegar into the toilet. The concoction immediately started bubbling and emanated an acrid cloud of fumes. My eyes stung and I started coughing. Without realizing it, I’d mixed a potion of chlorine gas. The porta potty was now a makeshift gas chamber. Given that 25 Jews would be arriving in less than two hours, this was no laughing matter.
I ran across the street to catch my breath. Mark returned and stood beside the outhouse.
“Get away from there,” I yelled. “It’s poison.”
“What’d you put in there?”
“Vinegar.”
“Are you crazy? That could kill people.”
“What do we do,” I asked.
“We have to dilute it with water,” Mark said.
We wrapped t-shirts around our faces and retrieved two garden hoses. We opened the outhouse door, stood back five feet and sprayed water into the outhouse. This allowed us to clean the walls and water down the toilet at the same time. Soon the toxic odor was gone but a new problem emerged. The commode was overflowing with sludge. We checked the back of the porta potty for a waste reservoir. The release lever was locked in place.
“Let’s just dump it in the street,” I said.
“How?”
“We’ll capsize it. Everything will come out.”
We rolled the outhouse to the edge of the driveway. We positioned ourselves behind the porta potty and pushed with all our might. It rocked back and forth then fell on its side. The tank contents spilled into the street, a nasty avalanche of brown muck smelling like a slaughterhouse. We sprayed the slurry down the street with the hoses. A car approached and skidded through the goopy slop nearly losing control.
Our next challenge was returning the porta potty to its upright position. We knew we couldn’t lift it on our own. We retrieved our parents and between the four of us, we managed to get the outhouse standing again. This was a Thanksgiving moment, the entire family coming together to prepare for the day’s festivities.
Mark and I scoured the outhouse for the next hour. When we were done, it looked and smelled acceptable. My mom instructed my sister Lisa to beautify the porta potty with Thanksgiving decorations like gold streamers and holiday designs. She even fastened a holiday wreath over the toilet door.
We showered, dressed and helped my mom with the food preparation. The guests would arrive soon. We’d be ready.
As we neared two p.m., the official mealtime, my dad paced the house making last-minutes changes to his speech. My mom covered the indoor toilets with plastic wrap and signs reading “Out of Order.” The first guests to arrive were my Grandpa Al and Grandma Stella. My grandfather had a weak bladder and immediately needed a bathroom. He refused to use the outhouse.
“But the toilets are broken grandpa,” I said.
He improvised. He walked to the backyard, found a daisy patch and peed on the flowers. This area became the outdoor Men’s Room for those who disdained the porta potty. My mom fastened beach towels on the other side of the backyard over a zinnia patch. This area was designated the informal Ladies Room for those courageous enough to squat.
Our extended family arrived on time. They adjusted to the bathroom situation expressing sympathy for our plight. By 2:30, my father’s industry friends appeared. They included my dad’s best friend Bud Cardos, an indie film director; Morton Stevens, a composer who wrote the Hawaii Five-O theme; Henry Fownes, the financier of Kingdom of the Spiders; and David Levine, an entertainment lawyer who handled my dad’s movie distribution deals.
My father served drinks at the bar while the guests asked, “When’s Sammy coming?” My dad joked about entertainers needing to make a dramatic entrance but I could tell he was anxious. He kept checking his watch and snapping his fingers, his telltale nervous twitch.
The tier A showbiz guests sat at the main table with my family. My siblings and I joined the B-Listers at the kids tables. These lower tier guests included Donny Park, an aspiring lounge singer whose claim to fame was butchering the Canadian National Anthem at a hockey game (he sang the melody of “Oh Christmas Tree” instead of “Oh Canada”); Sid Rosen, an ex-limo driver for Joey Bishop who produced forgettable tv game shows like The $1.98 Beauty Show; and Bob Kovaloff, a film marketeer who placed brand name products in films such as Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing Gargoyle sunglasses in The Terminator.
By three, the tables were filled except for the two seats reserved for Sammy and Altovise. My mom filled the champagne glasses and served salad but announced we wouldn’t carve the turkey until the Davis’ arrived. My grandpa said, “If they’re late that’s their problem. Let’s eat.”
Finally, at 3:15, the doorbell rang. My dad smiled and rose from the table, excited.
“They’re here,” he said.
He walked to the front door with a sense of pride. The guests preened themselves like canaries at a birdbath. The front door opened then I heard a male voice yelling “You destroyed my car” and “I’m gonna sue you for everything you have.” The guests stared at each other nervously, unsure what was happening.
“That doesn’t sound like Sammy,” Donny Park said.
I ran to the front door to see Judge Herman, owner of the Mercedes. There was a witness after all. The judge and my father were in each other’s faces, yelling. My dad tried closing the door but the judge stuck his leg in the door opening.
“Get off my property,” my dad yelled.
“I’m calling the police,” Judge Herman yelled back.
They tussled, arms and legs thrusting at each other through the door opening. Somehow the judge’s arm struck my father in the face. My father fell to the ground covering his eye.
“Bud,” I yelled. “We need you.”
Bud Cardos came running. In addition to being a film director he raised cattle and was a general badass. Seeing my father on the ground, he secured the judge in a headlock and began squeezing. The judge’s face turned red as he struggled for breath.
“Get the hell out of here,” Bud said.
Bud tossed the judge out the door. The judge lost his balance and sprawled across our porch. He rose to his feet, shaken.
“I’m going to sue all of you,” he screamed between coughs.
“Get out of here you jerk,” Bud yelled.
Several guests stood watching as the judge staggered away. As the judge crossed the street, he was nearly struck by a car skidding through the porta potty sludge.
I knelt beside my father. His eye was swollen shut and his cheek was bleeding.
“What happened,” my mom asked. “Why is Judge Herman so angry?”
My brother and I locked eyes sheepishly. My mom noticed.
“What did you do,” she asked.
“We kinda smashed his car,” I said.
“How?”
“With the porta potty. We lost control of it.”
My grandpa started laughing.
“It’s not funny,” my mom yelled.
Bud examined my dad’s face. “We need to get you to a hospital,” he said.
“I’m okay,” my dad said.
“Sorry, buddy. You might need stitches.”
“But Sammy,” my dad said with disappointment.
“It’s 3:30,” my mom said. “Sammy’s not coming.”
My mom agreed to proceed with Thanksgiving while Bud drove my dad to the hospital. I volunteered to go with them. My dad held an ice pack over his eye while Bud and I helped him into Bud’s pickup. I sat in the cramped back seat. Just as Bud pulled into the street, a brown Rolls-Royce with tinted windows appeared. The Rolls parked in Bud’s spot.
“Looks like your special guest is here,” Bud said.
A smile came over my dad’s face. He put down the ice pack and hurried out of the pickup. I followed him as he walked around the driver side of the Rolls. The door opened and Altovise stepped out. She was alone.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I got lost.”
My dad’s disappointment was obvious. He peered into the car hoping Sammy might be bundled in back. Altovise leaned forward to hug my dad when she noticed his swollen eye and rivulet of blood on his cheek.
“What happened to you?”
“He had a fight with the neighbor,” Bud said. “You should see the other guy.
“Where’s Sammy,” my dad asked in a meek voice.
“He’s on tour,” Altovise said. “Probably drunk as a skunk by now.”
My dad’s shoulders sagged. Bud instructed Altovise to go inside with the guests while he took my dad to the hospital. We drove to Cedars-Sinai in West Hollywood. The waiting room was packed. Bud was hungry so he drove to Barney’s Beanery for mozzarella sticks and potato skins.
We sat in a corner near the vending machines. The receptionist said the wait might be several hours. I bought my father a 25-cents coffee. He took a sip and spit it back into the cup. He remained silent, thoroughly crushed. I’d never seen him so depressed.
“I’m sorry Sammy didn’t come,” I said. “And I’m sorry about damaging the judge’s car. I was just trying to help.”
My dad gazed at me with his good eye. He put his hand on my hand.
“I know,” he said. He gave me a half smile. I felt closer to him in that moment then I’d ever felt.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” he said.
He leaned forward cupping a hand over his mouth. I felt shivers coarse through me. This was the father-son moment I’d always craved. He put his lips to my ear and whispered.
“You see that guy in the corner, near the men’s room. Is that Dom DeLuise?”
Our family retold the Thanksgiving story for years. My dad called it A Sammy Thanksgiving while my brother and I named it Our Crappy Thanksgiving. Everything turned out alright. My father received four stitches in his cheek but his eye was fine. Judge Herman threatened to sue my dad for damages to his car. My dad’s lawyer, who witnessed the judge striking my father, threatened a countersuit for assault. Both men dropped their threats and my parents didn’t have to pay a penny for the Mercedes.
Bud helped us return the porta potty to the Froelich’s driveway. The outdoor daisies all died but somehow the zinnias flourished. On Thanksgiving night, after the guests left, my family gathered in front of the living room television set to watch a re-run of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. Fifteen minutes in to the parade my dad yelled, “It’s Sammy.” Sure enough, Sammy stood on a float wearing a black trench coat and a black hat singing “Candy Man.” My mom and dad sang along. It was as if Sammy had joined us for Thanksgiving after all.