We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (41 page)

Our plan was to get into another C-130 and head up into the mountains to the Bagram base. We got on the plane only to be told that the trip was canceled for the evening. There was trouble at Bagram.

That night Biff and I shared a room in the airport with a sergeant. At about 3 a.m. I used a flashlight to make my way to the latrine.

The next morning the sergeant said, “Was that you fumbling around last night?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Christ,” he said. “I almost went for my gun.”

I imagined the headline in the
New York Post:
CHRISTMAS EVE TRAGEDY: FRIENDLY FIRE FINISHES OFF LETTERMAN’S JEW SIDEKICK.

It was still too dangerous to approach Bagram, so we were forced to fly back to Oman, where we entertained our troops at the Seeb base. The soldiers hipped me to the lingo. The C-130 was a “Hercules.” Greenwich Mean Time was “Zulu Time.” The frozen military dinners were MREs—Meals Ready to Eat. They were hungry for a little lighthearted humor. Dave had them laughing. I sang, “I’ll have a Seeb Christmas without you.” During the show, I was so tired I began hallucinating. On the plane home, I realized that these men and women had shown us what bravery in time of war is all about.

A year later at Christmas, Dave, Biff, and I were off again, this time to Baghdad. Dave chartered a private jet that flew to Kuwait. The stewardess couldn’t wait to tell us that Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck had recently chartered this same plane. According to the attendant, they had asked the entire crew to squeeze into the cockpit so that the famous couple could couple in private.

We flew from Kuwait to Baghdad in another C-130. We visited some of Saddam’s palaces that had been taken over by our military. The mood was up because Saddam had just been captured.

We performed a little in each palace. Dave spoke beautifully, of course, and then introduced me. This trip I had my own lyrics to the tune of “White Christmas”:

“I’m dreaming of an Iraq Christmas…had Christmas Eve dinner on a C-130 Hercules…at 0800 Zulu a big chick named Lulu … passed out the MRE’s…”

Then I said, “Now here’s some old Bob Hope jokes. Hey, I gotta tell ya, I’m a little nervous being over here in Iraq. This morning my toaster popped, and I surrendered to the maid. But General Sanchez reassured me. He promised to have my blood type available, even if he had to kill the chicken himself. Hey, seriously, there are no psychiatrists in Iraq. They know you’re nuts or you wouldn’t be here.”

I wrapped up singing:

The cheers were deafening.

Then we were loaded into a convoy that left the protected Green Zone. There were gunners at the front and gunners at the rear. All of a sudden, the convoy took a sharp turn off the road and followed a circuitous path. We later heard that a decoy convoy had been sent ahead of ours. Intelligence suspected that the enemy was interested in taking out our group of VIPs. In fact, the decoy convoy had been attacked, but fortunately suffered no casualties.

Dave never blinked an eye. I blinked both eyes. Over and over again.

Our third Christmas trip also took us to Iraq. This time Dave figured we should bring along a comic. Always loyal, he chose
his friend Tom Dreesen. Tom had been a longtime friend of Sinatra’s. In fact, he was the opening act for many of Frank’s appearances. Like many of us, Tom’s obsessed with all things Sinatra. Unfortunately, I don’t have any Sinatra stories. If I did, I’d be telling them night and day. Tom Dreesen has loads of Sinatra stories. He tells them night and day.

In fact, Dreesen told an endless stream of Sinatra stories on our endless plane ride to Iraq. In long and hilarious disquisitions, Tom delineated those situations when one was required to address Sinatra as Mr. S; when one called him Mr. Sinatra; and when one was free to refer to him as Frank or simply the Old Man. Tom offered up delicious descriptions of Frank’s compound in Palm Springs; he told us that each guest bungalow was named after a Sinatra hit and let it be known that he always stayed in the Tender Trap.

Naturally these stories charmed me entirely, even if—or especially because—they stood in such vivid contrast to our goodwill mission. Our show was a simple affair. Dave welcomed everyone and expressed his gratitude to the troops. Military personnel, most of whom were excellent, performed. Tom told a few hilarious jokes, followed by a few tunes played by yours truly. Then came two novelty chick acts from the
Late Show
. The first was the Hula Hoop Girl, whose name describes her routine. Next came the Grinder Girl. The Grinder Girl was something to behold. This frisky lassie placed a grinder—a revolving drill bit—right on her crotch and bent over, and when the grinder began grinding, sparks flew out of her ass. Even the soldiers were embarrassed.

Embarrassments and anxieties aside, what a privilege to go on these trips with Dave, a privilege to personally thank the men and women who put their lives on the line for us.

As I approach my seventh decade of life, I must confess to some self-examination, to asking, as did Dionne Warwick, “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

Naturally I am a believer in the spiritual properties of music. Music is my muse, my soul, and my salvation. Music pays my children’s orthodontist. Music puts gas in the car, food on the table, and a smile on my face. Music lights my way—always has and always will—as I navigate life’s tricky mazes. Music expresses feelings I cannot put into words. Plain and simple, music—music heard and music played—makes me feel good. Even the blues takes away my blues.

As demonstrated in these pages, my musical gods who jam atop Mount Olympus are many—many writers, players, producers, and singers in all styles. If God ever caught me, as Moses caught the children of Israel, worshipping a graven image, it would probably look a little like Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals.

I also worship at more traditional altars. I attend
shul
. I’m a member of an Orthodox congregation where my son Will is scheduled to celebrate his bar mitzvah a few years from now. That’s important to me. It was important to both me and Cathy that she convert to Judaism before we married. My faith, and the tradition that informs it, is a vital part of my life.

Here’s something quirky about my relationship to modern Orthodox Judaism. As you might expect, it involves music. At my current
shul
, most of the traditional centuries-old prayer melodies—the same melodies I learned and loved as a child in Thunder Bay—are being replaced by melodies written by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach. Carlebach, who died in 1994, was a gifted composer who gave a modern folksy spin to Hebraic
music. Some have compared him to Dylan. His motifs became hugely popular among younger Orthodox Jews. In many
shuls
around the world, they have actually replaced the ancient melodic lines.

This doesn’t thrill me. And though I know it sounds strange for me—lover of rock and roll and defender of all genres of pop music—to hold such a staunchly traditional view, I just want to hear the melodies I first heard when I entered the synagogue as a boy, those same melodies that filled the hearts of my ancestors. Today those melodies fill my heart with a love linked to the history of a people who have suffered and survived. I need for those haunting melodies to survive. I need those haunting melodies for strength.

When my mother fell ill in 1999, I needed a great deal of strength. By then my father had also fallen into an alarming decline. A few years earlier, Mom had told me, in her genteel way, “I’m afraid, dear, that your dad is losing his marbles a little bit.” It turned out to be Alzheimer’s.

That’s probably why he broke the news the way he did.

I was in postproduction for
Blues Brothers 2000
. While not the same kind of blockbuster as its predecessor, the film was a wonderful experience for me. Dan Aykroyd made good on his promise to bring me back into the funky world of the Blues Brothers. To me, my presence in the second movie made up for my absence in the first. That meant a great deal to me. I got to produce Aretha doing “Respect” with yours truly on organ while the Queen played her soulful piano. I especially relished the spectacular ending where I led an all-star jam extravaganza that included Billy Preston, Isaac Hayes, Stevie Winwood, B.B.

King, Wilson Pickett, Bo Diddley, Dr. John, Jimmie Vaughan, Travis Tritt, and my old friend Eric Clapton.

Looking at early rushes of the film and coordinating the music, I was hard at work when Dad called. Looking back, our conversation felt like something out of Larry David’s
Curb Your Enthusiasm
.

“How are you, Paul?” he asked.

“Fine, Dad.”

“Just calling to check up on you.”

“That’s nice of you, Dad. The film’s almost done.”

“Can’t wait to see it, son.”

“I’ll fly you and Mom out for the premiere.”

“Mom may not be able to come.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, well, because she’s in the hospital.”

“Mom’s in the hospital! When did this happen?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“And you never told me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Not bother me! She’s my mother! What’s wrong with her?”

“Pneumonia.”

“Will she be all right?”

“I’m not sure.”

Cathy, the kids, and I flew up to Canada to see her. Her condition had stabilized, and the doctors were optimistic.

Back in New York, I called her every day. A week later, she sounded excited.

“They’re letting me go home today,” she said.

“Oh, Mom, that’s wonderful.”

“I can’t wait to get back to my own bed.”

“I can only imagine. Hey, Mom, I love you.”

“I love you too, Paul.”

Three hours later, my aunt Lorna called. “Your mother’s dead.”

“I just talked to her. What happened?”

“Her heart gave out.”

Shirley Eleanor Wood Shaffer was seventy-seven.

Dad hung on for quite a few more years. But his decline was difficult. I’d fly home to see him often. Passionate about jazz singers his entire life, toward the end he only wanted to hear three: Nat Cole, Tony Bennett, and Sinatra. Later, only Nat and Frank sounded good to him. During his last days, three dwindled down to one: Dad only wanted to hear Sinatra. That’s how he left this earth, listening to Frank. Bernard Shaffer was ninety.