Myth, I KNOW I told this story here, once,
but to get it down in "black
and white," I'm gonna tell it, again.
My wife was working in Lincoln Center and I would often drive her there, particularly on the weekends when uptown traffic was minimal at 6:30 in the morning. Driving back to our apartment, I'd occasionally stop for breakfast at what was a true classic diner on the far west side in the forties. It was literally built like a railroad car; long and narrow and perpendicular to the street, with the grill on one side and an aisle that separated the counter stools from the eight tables that were built into the wall on the other side.
I was walking back to the men's room, and as I approached the back of the diner, I saw Miss Etta James looking very sad and a bit haggard at the last table opposite the pay phone. I'd seen her perform several times over 15 years; I was aware of her joys in success and the depth of her falls via bad management and drugs. A close friend had been part of her band and had given me some insight into who (she claims) is the illegitimate daughter of Rudolf Walter Wanderone Jr., also known as "Minnesota Fats."
If there is a sacred side to the night life, and music to go with it, Etta's recordings, especially Tell Mama, were exactly that to me. I continued walking past, not acknowledging her, even though a part of me wanted to say something. It was early on a cold Sunday morning, and this legendary music Queen was waiting all alone for the phone to ring or the man to show up with what she needed. As I walked out from the back I didn't look at her. I sat down to have breakfast at the counter where I could watch the cook create large piles of home fried potatoes for the crowd he was expecting.
