We soon arrived in Katakolon, Greece, the site of the original Olympics nearly three thousand years ago. I went to the fields where the games had been played. What impressed me most was the excavation of still-intact hovels and looming columns. There was a walk of shame where they carved the names of the athletes who had cheated. I was grateful that my name wasn’t there because though I’ve always been athletic, I was one cheating ass when I was a kid!
A few days later, in Montenegro, we visited several magnificent wineries. Winding through the twisting roads, we had to take a sudden detour. There had been an accident up ahead and someone had been killed. A grim reminder of how so very fragile we are and how precious life is.
As the Seven Seas approached the Croatian city of Dubrovnik, the view of the orange-roofed Old Town took my breath away. I visited the Church of St. Francis, where some local women were singing folk songs in the courtyard. I admired their beautiful harmonies, and when they beckoned me forward, I joined them. Actually, I just barged in and sang baritone! They good-naturedly allowed me to arrange them like the Supremes, drawing on poses I had been taught by Michael Bennett himself during rehearsals for the workshop production of Dreamgirls.
On a small boat from Dubrovnik back to the Seven Seas, there was an older Caucasian American man who took it upon himself to extra notice me—a middle-aged black woman traveling alone on a VIP ship. He knew that if I was in fact alone, I had paid $9,000 more than he had (the nasty little single-occupancy fee).
For some ungodly reason, this man yelled over the boat’s motor: “So where’d you get your money?” I turned slowly. Would he ask a white man this question? Was this mofo implying a black woman shouldn’t have money? I was this close to pushing him overboard. No doubt, the old Jenifer Lewis would have cussed him out in a rage-fueled tirade. But as a person with bipolar disorder who’d spent seventeen years in therapy, I had finally learned to control my rage and was grateful for the behavioral skills and medication that give me that control. I took three deep breaths and decided not to slap the shit out of him. Instead, I said, “Oh, you didn’t know? I own the Seven Seas.” His much-too-young wife, naively believing my statement, chimed in with a high-pitched “Oh, really?” I returned the “Oh, really” in the deep, low pitch Bette Davis used responding to Joan Crawford in the movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? “Oh, really.” The mike had been dropped on the shores of Dubrovnik. Another war had been won. And not a single life had been taken.
The next stop in Croatia was the island of Hvar, where I swam at a rocky beach. I was very thankful that my friend Deborah Dean Davis had told me to bring special shoes for the stony beaches. A nice couple from Germany watched my belongings as I swam. Afterward, they invited me to have a drink. The friendliness of the people of Hvar put me in a peaceful mind-set. I felt ready to spend my final night at sea contemplating whether or not to retire.
Later, on my balcony under a big fat moon, I had a frank conversation with myself. What are you gonna do, kid? Could I really face another “Thank you, Miss Lewis. Next!” or “We’re looking for a Jenifer Lewis type, not the real thing!” Fuck show business. Did I really want to continue watching myself age on a five-story-tall movie screen?
I was blessed to have already realized so many wonderful dreams: an electrifying standing ovation at Carnegie Hall when I sang with the New York Pops orchestra; performing for royalty in Monaco; headlining in Hello, Dolly! at the esteemed 5th Avenue Theatre in Seattle; and, of course, working with great actors—everyone from Denzel Washington and Meryl Streep to Tom Hanks, Taraji P. Henson, and Matt Damon. I had sooooo many amaaazing memories to retire with.
But wait. Be honest, Jenny. Is there anything else? Anything??? Shit. There is one more dream. I have wanted it all my life. A one-woman show on Broadway—like the great ones who had paved the way—the likes of Lily Tomlin, Whoopi Goldberg, Elaine Stritch, and Anna Deavere Smith to name a few.
And maybe one or two other as-yet-unrealized dreams. Like I still hadn’t played Mama Rose in Gypsy. (My friend Marc Shaiman joked that the black version of Gypsy would be titled Nipsy. Asshole.) I guess I could live without playing Mama Rose. But without that one-woman show, I know in fact when I reach those Pearly Gates, St. Peter’s first words to me would be, “What happened with the one-woman show? Get your unheavenly ass on back down there and get that Tony!”
How do I make it happen? A one-woman show on Broadway starring Jenifer Lewis? Jenifer who? Dear God, what an undertaking. People recognize me, but frankly, plenty of them don’t even know my name. Why would Broadway backers be willing to invest millions of dollars in me? Well, I’ll just have to become more famous. And there’s one sure way of doing that (besides a sex tape): prime-time network TV.
I leaned on the rail and gazed at the perfection of the moon, the stars, and the Adriatic Sea. I howled up at that big fat moon true to the alpha wolf who runs through my veins: “I’m JeniferMothaFuckinLewis! I am the show in show business!” Who was I trying to kid? To retire from show business would be to retire from the act of breathing. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. Yes, a prime-time show. A show that’s top quality. In a role that recognizes my talent and experience; where I can show my chops and make people laugh, think, and cry. I wanted to work with great actors and writers I admired and could grow with. Now listen, God, I don’t want to be the lead in the show; I don’t want to work that hard anymore. Oh, and this is the most important thing: please let the show shoot close to home (don’t even let me get started about the LA traffic!). I blew a soft kiss to the moon, smiled, and took my ass to bed.
Two days later, I touched down at LAX and was picked up by my dear friend and manager, Julia Walker. She allowed me to go on and on about my vacation. “Girl, I had a fabulous time. I hiked up the ancient city walls of Dubrovnik. In Montenegro, there was an unimaginable rainbow over the limestone cliffs in the Bay of Kotor. I’ll show you the picture later. And listen, Ju, there are these two islands just off Venice, right? The first one, Murano, is where they do a fabulous glass-blowing demonstration. On the second one, Burano, they make wonderful lace. Oh, and honey, I met this French boy in Athens up at the Acropolis. He was staring at my cleavage, but he was all hot and sweaty and you know I didn’t have time for a Parisian. It would have made for a good story, but it just was not going to happen. He was real cute, though.