Paul

By: Rick LaClaire

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Two summers ago my wife graced us with concert tickets. Is there a nicer venue in Brevard County than the King Center? I think not. There’s not a bad seat in the house. Cocktails in the foyer; clean restrooms; Long Dogger’s across the street — who could ask for more? And on this occasion, the act was the most: none other than the most popular Beatle of all time: Ringo Starr.

Okay, I was always more of a George guy when it came to the Beatles. On that cold February night in ‘64, who could resist “Ol’ Stoneface” on the big Gretsch driving that band on the Ed Sullivan Show? The next day in Black River Elementary School every boy was singing “Yeah, yeah, yeah” and playing air guitar. Trumpets and trombones soon gathered dust as everybody gravitated to the six-string…myself included.

But George died, the victim of one too many Pall Malls, and of course John had been dead for decades, the victim of one too many copies of “Catcher In the Rye,” leaving only Paul and Ringo to carry the torch.

I was never a Paul guy. He was the “girlie” Beatle, and all his solo stuff was dreadful in my opinion. So Ringo it was; our first and only chance to see a living Beatle, right here at the King Center.

The concert, as Sting would say, “burned from the first bar.” I came away with a newfound respect for the aging trouper only to catch him again one Sunday morning being interviewed on A&E. Ringo was relaxed and funny, at total ease with his celebrity, and he made an interesting statement. When asked about his immense fame, his only regret was that fans, having followed the act through their formative years into adulthood, seem to think they actually know you like an old friend. And in return, the same fans think they should be treated like one by the star. The situation of course is ludicrous. Ringo doesn’t know me, my wife, or my grade school companions from Adam. He shouldn’t have to. But such is the burden of stardom.

Who can help it? There never will be another act of adoration so huge as my generation’s love and empathy with the Beatles. Unless of course it’s the act of adoration I have personally felt for Paul Newman.

Personal cultural icons can’t be helped. As George Harrison directed me to the guitar, Paul Newman touched a chord, too. Is there a greater movie than “Cool Hand Luke”? Okay, it’s arguable, but there was something about Lucas the War Hero that grabbed me.

The first time I saw that movie was in the Carthage Central Jr./Sr. High School auditorium. A lot of personal changes occurred in that auditorium. It was where I was punched in the mouth for the first time. I smoked my first in-school cigarette in the catwalk above the stage. I participated in my first rock ‘n’ roll jam session on that same stage. And for three glorious days in 1970, we were excused from fourth-period English to view “Cool Hand Luke.”

To most male adolescents in 10th grade, a dark auditorium, lax supervision, and a break from “Silas Marner” was cause for hijinks. As soon as the lights went down, a veritable blizzard of paper airplanes assailed the screen. Someone in the far corner would yell “Eat!” and someone in the near corner would yell “Me!” Somebody lit a cigarette. The hall howled. Lights went on. The smoke was extinguished, lights re-dimmed, and the movie commenced.

After five minutes, everyone realized this was no “Silas Marner.” The room slowly hushed, and Paul Newman slowly became my hero.

What 16-year-old American boy could not like this guy? In some ways he was just like me. A distaste for authority; a thirst for freedom; a wisecracker… And he was also the way I wished I was: Fearless, even in the face of overwhelming odds. When thoroughly beaten by George “Dragline” Kennedy, he kept coming back, even when he had nothing to give. His motto? “Sometimes nothing is a real cool hand.”

Nothing. Been there. At the time it certainly wasn’t “cool.” Fast forward to October 1979, Crane Creek Marina in Melbourne. We were broke, but that didn’t mean we were down to nothing. We were down to nothing when we finally finished that last dab of peanut butter.  It’s a bleak feeling, the only time I ever had it. And there was Paul Newman whispering in my ear, “Sometimes nothing is a real cool hand.” I think we spent that day at the beach, wondering who we could call for money.

The late ‘70s were hard times, much worse than times are now, believe it or not. No one could help us. We had dug our own hole, just like Cool Hand Luke had dug Boss Keane’s ditch. And just like Luke, we were at the breaking point.

Maybe nothing isn’t a cool hand, but it’s certainly a motivator. I’d like to remember that situation as life or death. It wasn’t. We had friends. More importantly, we had family. I suppose my idea of “nothing” was not quite the same as Luke’s. He lost his Mom. Didn’t know his Dad. His brother disowned him. We had none of those problems.

We spent a week waiting out the rain sleeping on the floor of a place we affectionately remember as the “Mildew Mansion.” We’d made friends with a handful of FIT students and they took us in. The seasons were changing and so were my wife and I. Her parents wired us a hard-earned 100 bucks, and with tails between our legs, we went north to home and hearth.

It was a sad trip. One hundred bucks was just enough to get there. We spent our first night on the road in a campground in South Carolina. It might have been rainy and warm in Florida, but it was rainy and freezing in South Carolina. All our gear was soaked. We were so disheartened we didn’t even bother to wash the breakfast dishes. We broke camp and threw everything in the back seat. The tent was wet, the sleeping bags were soggy and the dishes smelled like old eggs. It didn’t matter. We were beaten; one too many “nights in the box”.

Then began an episode that defined us. In the hands of friends in Buffalo we found a new floor to camp on. I discovered you could make money selling blood plasma. If you could bear two hours of needles in each arm you’d make twelve bucks and get free soup and a cookie. I found a copy of “Watership Down” and endured.

I reunited with old band mates and we played like crazy. My wife and I soon had our own apartment and squirreled away funds to return to Florida. We lived on Ramen and black-eyed peas. In six months we were living in a beachside bungalow, once beaten, now back. No, nothing wasn’t cool, but it was a logical place to start over.

I have seen “Cool Hand Luke” dozens of times. I can’t pass on it. Newman’s performance is so perfect. He put his heart into every role, even the nasty ones like the self-serving “Hud” and Fast Eddie Felsen in “The Hustler.” I’d never seen him in a bad performance. Some bad movies maybe, but never a bad performance. He was modest about success; said he was “Just lucky, in the right place at the right time.” I don’t believe that. He was just plain good.

Here’s a guy who could have had any starlet in Hollywood, but instead lived in Connecticut.  He stayed married to the first one. When asked if he ever wanted to play around, he replied “Why go out for hamburger when there’s steak at home?” Or Ramen and black-eyed peas…

The last role I saw him in was “The Road to Perdition” playing opposite my wife’s favorite actor, Tom Hanks. He played an Irish mobster, once again a nasty guy. Perfection as always, but he looked old. His voice was weak. His star was fading, but still bright. His last years were spent in Connecticut, tending his charitable foundations and making the best spaghetti sauce you can get in a jar.

Yeah he drove race cars. They say he was a great pool player. He once said he was surprised he lived so long; I guess he partied a lot in his early days. But that wasn’t the Paul Newman I was close friends with. The guy I knew taught me to come back swinging, go big or don’t go at all, stick it to the Man With No Eyes, and challenge all authority — even God if you must. Luke found that last one wasn’t such a good idea.

It is October as I write this. TCM has back-to-back Newman, and the commentator just mentioned that Paul would be laid to rest today. He died a natural death, if that’s what you consider cancer, nothing cheesy or blatantly indulgent.

He was the closest friend who never knew me.

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