A Conversation with the Mann Read Online Free PDF

And on those networks there was only one Ed Sullivan. From some seventy city blocks and a universe away, from
     Studio 50 on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-third Street came a flood of glamour and spectacle, song and dance. For one hour me
     and Mae, whoever else might be with us, whoever else was watching all over the country, would sit and stare trance-style while
     Ed held forth with the biggest actors from Hollywood and Broadway, the best singers and musicians, variety acts from all over
     the globe—countries I'd never even heard of before.
    And comedians.
    From as early as I can remember, I loved most watching the comedians. There was something about them, about what they did:
     one person standing out on that stage, alone—no orchestra backing them, no magic tricks—talking. Just talking. But by way
     of what they said, making an audience full of people they didn't know, strangers to each other even, laugh. There was just
     something about the whole idea of it that fascinated me like nothing else.
    In an hour, what felt like the shortest hour of the week,
Toast of the Town
would be over. Me and Mae and whoever else would sit and talk about the program, maybe carry on about taking a trip to Hollywood
     to see how the stars live, or maybe riding down to Times Square to catch one of the Broadway shows we'd just seen a number
     from. We couldn't, of course. We couldn't afford a trip to California or a Broadway ticket any more than we could afford to
     buy a brick of gold resting on a bed of diamonds. In our hearts we knew we'd most likely never visit any of those places or
     see any of those things for real. But that's what
Toast of the Town
and Ed Sullivan were for. They were for dreaming.
    After cleaning the dishes and straightening some, I would leave Grandma Mae and go back home to find my father actively involved
     in a pass out from a binge. Booze, or smoke, or pills. Besides the dope, my father had picked up the habit of going days without
     washing, weeks without a shave or haircut. On good days he looked like something that'd just come from hopping freight trains.
     On bad ones, he looked more animal than man.
    In our apartment, in the living room, on the mantel above the never-used fireplace, was a picture of my mom. My father's guilt
     kept it standing there. There was no time when I came in for the evening when I would not kiss the picture, say good night
     to my mom. As I would go off to bed, in my head or in my heart, I could hear her giving me the same good night she did when
     she was alive: “You're a special one, Jackie Mann. Don't let nobody ever tell you otherwise.”
    I knew my mom meant well. I wished I could've believed her.

    N ADINE R USSELL WAS THE FIRST GIRL I'd ever noticed. The first I'd noticed as being something besides, something more than just another kid. I was approaching
     twelve years old, an age when boys realized girls—once naturally disliked—were real quickly becoming a source of fascination.
     Still too young to understand sexual attraction, my feelings for Nadine were of the same variety as my as-of-yet un-understandable
     desire to stop at newsstands and stare at pictures of Joan Bennett and Veronica Lake and Lauren Bacall as they glamoured at
     me from the covers of movie magazines.
    Black women never shone from the covers of movie magazines. Black women didn't get to be movie stars.
    Although Nadine had been attending school with me for as long as I could recall, there was just suddenly a day when I felt
     a creeping need to be in her presence, to see her big doe eyes and pudgy cheeks that for some reason I couldn't stare at long
     enough or hard enough. Just knowing I would see her each day at school juiced me with anticipation. She made me want to wash
     properly, brush my teeth, and make sure my hair was well groomed. She made me want to do things that previously, with all
     the love in the world, not even my mother could get me to do. She also made me feel very ashamed. Her