Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [62]
Frank’s generosity extended far beyond me and others in his inner circle. He was often kindest of all to strangers. I’d wander into a room and hear him on the phone to his accountant, Sonny Golden, asking him to check out some tragic story he’d just read in the newspaper about a mother who couldn’t pay her medical bills. “Make sure she’s okay and has everything she needs,” he’d say. “And don’t tell her who sent the check.” He’d be chatting with a barman in a hotel late at night and discover that the kid longed to take up golf. The next day, a brand-new set of clubs would be delivered. If Frank received nice letters from fans, they’d be invited backstage to his dressing room before watching his show from the best seats.
He’d track down musicians he’d worked with decades earlier and throw surprise dinners in their honor. He’d have Dorothy Uhlemann, his personal assistant, arrange for a terminally ill fan to be taken to his concert in a limo because she’d written and told him that she hoped to see him perform before she died. He’d fly in Frank Garrick, the man who’d given him his first job at a newspaper, for a ringside seat. He’d anonymously replace the Christmas presents a family had lost in a fire after he’d watched their story on the TV news. Or he’d sit with the newspaper circling the names of strangers down on their luck and have Dorothy send them five hundred dollars from “a well-wisher.”
When an actor friend sent him a note asking for his help to “bail him out” of a Beverly Hills hotel, Frank sent the cash for the bill—attached to a parachute. When the actor George Raft had a tax bill he couldn’t pay, Frank gave him a signed check but didn’t fill in the amount. “Use what you need,” he said. He’d offer to do a series of concerts in some ailing nightclub he used to know just to make enough money for the owner to retire or pay a medical bill. He’d invite the kids of old friends backstage if he played a university town and give them a pep talk about working hard. He paid off the mortgages, loans, and debts of just about anyone who asked him.
My bighearted man was a real gentleman, always so proper and correct—except perhaps when he got into fights. There was definitely a Jekyll and Hyde aspect to Frank’s character, and he was undoubtedly a complicated individual. He once claimed to be a manic-depressive, but I don’t believe he was. A depressive is down a great deal of the time, but Frank was always up, up, up.
Restless and impatient, he wanted laughs and entertainment, all the time. He’d become an insomniac after years of working late, but I also think he just didn’t want to miss anything. Nor did he like the nights, or at least the blackness of night. I asked him several times what it was about nighttime that he feared, but he’d just reply, “I don’t like it,” as if that explained everything. He didn’t sleepwalk or suffer from nightmares; he just preferred to go to sleep after daylight. When he had finally drunk enough and was ready for bed, he’d sleep like a baby for six or seven hours straight. He’d wake up refreshed and hungry for a brunch of bacon, eggs, and toast—which he ate almost every day of his life. Different performers have different ways of getting themselves keyed up for a show. Some people play sports, others go for a run. Some sit quietly and psych themselves mentally, others have sex. Frank’s way was to shout at everyone behind the scenes, which is why I rarely went backstage before a show. His behavior stemmed from a combination of nerves and the need to get up steam to perform,