I was picked up in a limo after work and taken to The Old Homestead Steakhouse over in the Meat Packing District/Chelsea. Herbert Khaury was performing. He had sent the limo. I was going to be 'Queen For A Day'. The limo looked something like this:
The driver was an old friend of Khaury's from way back who had once been a NYPO, now retired, and who at the time had trouble walking. His name was Colonel Something or Another. I can't remember. He's dead now. He was married to a Filipino woman and had lots of kids.
When I arrived at that shiny, beefy steakhouse, I was taken to a private room, away from patrons, where an array of randomness sat. I was seated at a table and instructed to order what I wanted. This was a pricey joint and me not knowing what the plans were, I chose the least expensive.
Darlings, Tiny never struck me as rolling in the dough; and I'm a lady who likes to keep friends.
I ate, I drank, I schmoozed. I sat through music sets that were sprinkled with Tiny, over the mic, telling everyone "that the wonderful, brilliant writer, Miss Moira was in the audience". It was my birthday. Fame being what it is, these words from Tiny formed a pretext for strangers to wander over to my table to question: "Who's That Chick' and to be, I imagine, terribly disappointed when I responded with giggles and a: Just a friend, reply. He wanted everyone to be famous for five minutes and he excelled at that kind of vaudevillian charm. During breaks he sat with me and held court and never failed to include me in his circle of light. He was a charmer.
I had met Tiny Tim through my job. I was a secretary with the firm Padell Nadell. Burt Padell was known as the 'Accountant to the Stars' and on our floor were also the managers for most of the celebrities Burt managed money for. The only available chair for Mr.Tim to sit on, while waiting to see his manager, was right in front of my desk. Having a celebrity nearby, so close you can't not stare, only provokes in me a need to chatter relentlessly about the inane. It quells my anxiety. We learned that we had grown up in the same neighbourhood, (Washington Heights/Inwood), and upon seeing my complexion he claimed that he had a remedy for acne and invited me over to his house to give me a facial. I went to his house for my facial. After that we hobnobbed for a couple of years up until his final marriage. You know I learned a lot of stuff up there… Ruby Dee's personal makeup artist once marched up to me and said: fabulous eyebrows darling, but get rid of the strays! Later while doing business with my co-worker Gerald, he pushed and prodded my brow advising me what needed to go. And I have done it ever since.
Tiny, sadly, was a misunderstood character. He had all the right ideas mish-mashed into something that most people ridiculed. Most of my colleagues simply resorted to eye rolling in his wake but Herbert Khaury was simply a nerdy mama's boy who was crazy about the music of a bygone era. He was a walking encyclopedia of music that he grew up with and which included the lives of his parents. He simply thought the music was romantic, beautiful to sing and worthy of preservation. He was kind.
Once while visiting me in The Bronx, he sang a duet with my 92 year old toothless godmother, Mrs. Dorman, who only knew a hymn, which Tiny knew too, and together they sang as sweet missal hymn together with her singing harmony. He was kind but always aware that people thought him an oddity. Oddity or not he worked, literally, until the day he died doing what he loved most: Entertaining. I think he was a man who grew up watching old black and white films, (which overlapped the Vaudevillian era), realized that with his mug he'd never be a leading man, but who knew he had a beautiful voice. I think his outfits were designed with a Vaudevillian nod and I think the hair was a nod to Veronica Lake. The Miss Moira, Miss Vicki thing was simply a nod to more innocent times. The voice was to be reckoned with. All the rest just got him noticed so he could sing the songs that gave him joy. I honestly hope that someone re-examines his career.
We remember him as singing in falsetto but his baritone tenor was stunning. He laughed like one would expect Santa Claus to laugh; with his whole body taking part. Another time he called my job and Angela, a head nurse and mentor, answered the phone. This was at my new job, and I have no clue what he said to her but I am sure it was designed to get everyone talking. She left her post to find me because all she wanted to know was: Who the heck was that? She recognized the voice but wasn't able to place it. He had left the name Herbert Khaury which most people didn't know him by. She demanded to know how I knew The Tiny Tim and all I could feebly say was: My last job. He didn't feel supernatural to me. But too I don't have the personality of a groupie.
If you want a good friend, find an artist. If you can't find an artist, love art.
Back to The Old Homestead…
I go down to use the restroom as I seem to remember that the bathrooms were underground. I get into the bathroom and JC a very well known person is there already, higher than an orbiting planet and moving as only a junkie can; as though she had no bones. She wants to know if she can perform a sex act on me. She and I are the only two in the bathroom. I enter the stall and she is right behind me trying to grope and fondle me into submission. I don't make too much of a fuss about the door as it's just 'us girls'. But it is while she is in the stall that I notice her arms littered with sink holes from heroin use abscesses, now healed over, and suddenly I am just overtaken with pity for her. When I am done I take her by the shoulders, haul her upright, shuffle her clothes straight, and tell her she shouldn't be seen like this in public. That snaps her out of it a bit and she follows me back upstairs and then wanders off towards more mayhem. I never see her again. I have though made note that she has cleaned up her act and is doing much better these days. Lovely talented woman, terrible addiction
I feel sorry for those with immeasurable talent who do not have the necessary support systems in place to withstand such a life. These people are gifted and sensitive beyond anything we ordinary people know yet some of them get caught up in things that take them far and wide flinging them places where they can't be reached. Artistry comes with a vulnerability that too many in the industry only know how to exploit because they are not artists themselves. Managers are too often like art dealers: individuals who can spot talent but are talentless cretins themselves, expert at exploitation. A match made in heaven or a match destined for sorrow.
I return to my table, listen to a few more songs, get oodles of birthday wishes and then I'm ushered back into the limo, this time with Herbie, and off we go cross-town to home. Herbie attempts a grope me while Colonel Something or Another peeks a glance via the rear-view mirror, catching my eye in the backseat. I blurt out: No! We're being watched! Tiny stops the fondling; apologizes profusely. We drive across Midtown and I'm dropped off at home. Herbie disappears, slouching back into the limo back-seat and Colonel Something or Another says: Goodnight babe, have a wonderful birthday!
It was a night I do recall.
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