I briefly allowed Perry to move in with me, which was a fiasco that lasted only a couple of weeks. I kicked him out in a fit of rage. As Perry left through the apartment door, I grabbed his T-shirt, tearing off the back and leaving the front of the shirt molded to his perfectly formed chest muscles. It was hot, like Marlon Brando’s T-shirt in Streetcar. We did it against the wall in the hallway just outside my door. Then I put him on the elevator, saying kindly, “Please go now.” When Thomas came back to town for a break, things got messy and I confused my lovers’ names during sex. “Thom and Perry”—sounds like a cartoon.
When I wasn’t juggling men, I was rehearsing for a two-city gig with Baggy Pants. A few years earlier, I had taken a sabbatical from college to tour with this truck-and-van production that was among the last vaudeville-burlesque musical revues. Baggy Pants had been making the rounds of dinner theaters since the early ’70s. It was conceived and directed by Will B. Able, an actual vaudevillian, with assistance from his wife, Graziella Able, who, as I mentioned, became one of my mother figures.
I would often find myself sitting at the feet of and listening to women older and ever so much wiser than me. I took to Graziella immediately. I believe she was in her early fifties and was still kicking her foot over her head and slamming it down to the floor in a split. She was co-producer of the show, and she made sure we were as sharp as the Rockettes when we pranced around Will in our beaded bras and feathered hats. God bless Graziella—she taught me how to kick above my head. Graziella had danced with the Swiss Opera Ballet and as a can-can dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. I learned from the best!
Both Grazi and Will became parental figures for me and were utterly compassionate and gentle when I’d go off about one thing or another. The fact is many parents don’t, or can’t, give you everything you need.
Mine couldn’t. So I went in search of substitutes. I often advise young people in this situation to understand there are probably people around every corner who will take them under their wing and help them on their way. But you have to ask.
Baggy Pants remains one of the most important experiences of my career. It was my first professional gig, and more important, it earned me an Actors’ Equity Association union card, which gave me benefits. Working with Will and Graziella meant that I was involved with the heritage of American musical comedy as a whole. They had worked with the greats of vaudeville, Broadway, and Hollywood. I sopped up every bit of style and wisdom from them that I could.
I was nineteen years old, and so much about the experience was new, including castmate jealousy. When we opened in Louisville, Kentucky, the local paper singled out my performance as noteworthy. Some of the other dancers were jealous, and I heard one say loudly enough for me to hear: “Well, I don’t think she was that good.”
The words sent me into a rage. I snatched the poor girl who uttered those words out of her seat by her collar. Her feet were off the floor as I held her against the wall. I growled at her through clenched teeth: “If I could give you my voice, I would. But I can’t. So, please stop messing with me!” Then I threw her across the room.
Will was so disappointed in me. This man whom I respected so much, who had chosen me to do a solo after the great newspaper review, came to me and said, “Jenifer, I want you to listen very carefully to me. I’ve been in this business a long time. You’re going to have to get rid of that chip on your shoulder. Your talent won’t mean a thing if people don’t want to work with you.” I felt horrible, but I had absolutely no idea how to get rid of my uncontrollable anger. Of course, I apologized profusely, as there was just no fucking excuse.
Now that I was more experienced and mature, I was excited to work with Will and Graziella again and show them I had grown and really knew my stuff. We ran a few weeks at a dinner theater in Westchester, New York, which was a convenient train ride from Grand Central Station. At my first rehearsal, I found out that Will was very sick. In fact, he had shortened the show by cutting two of his numbers.
After Westchester, Baggy Pants went to St. Louis for a two-week run. I couldn’t wait to see all my family and friends. There was a big barbecue, and all of Kinloch turned out for the show at the Barn Dinner Theatre.
After the second performance, Will was rushed to Barnes-Jewish Hospital. We all were unclear about what was wrong with him. Before I entered Will’s room, Mama, who worked as a nurses’ aide at the county hospital in Clayton, made me put on a mask, gloves, and robe. This alone frightened me, but then, when she said, “You cover up good before you go in there because they don’t know what this disease is,” my fear became dread. A few days later Will died of an extreme type of pneumonia. He was only fifty-seven years old. I mourned this great entertainer and mentor.
When I got back to New York, Quitman and I got serious about writing my show, which I decided to name Who Is Jenifer Lewis? HOT! I know, what the hell does that mean? At the time, I had no clue as to who I was or what I stood for. “Hot mess!” would have been more appropriate.
By mid-November, Thomas and I were back together, and he invited me to Jamaica with him. I really could not afford the trip, but after Gregory Hines loaned me $500, I was able to track down several gypsies who owed me money. Altogether, I came up with about $1,000, which I spent at Bloomingdale’s on sunglasses, a swimsuit, and some short-shorts. Quitman asked, “Why are you putting yourself in debt for a man who doesn’t love you for who you are?” I had no answer.
Thomas and I had a wonderful time relaxing on Trelawny Beach on Jamaica’s north coast. We went horseback riding and visited the beautiful Dunn’s River Falls near Ocho Rios. I won the hotel talent show singing “Over The Rainbow.” I got a little trophy and a Rasta brother slipped me some superb ganja. By the time we got back to New York, it was clear that I wasn’t going to change for Thomas, and that he wasn’t going to stop wanting me to be someone else. So we broke up, but deep down inside we knew it wasn’t over.
I had auditioned for a show called Mahalia before I’d left for Jamaica. When I got home my girlfriend Yolanda Graves was on my answering machine screaming, “We got the part! We got the part! We got the part!” Three days later, I heard that Thomas had been hired as the stage manager for the show. Oh, Lord, now here we go again!