I’ll Never Forget Our Time at Whoopi’s
Yesterday, I said goodbye to an apartment.
My dear friend Leslie—my “play wife”—had lived in her studio at Manhattan Plaza for 32 years. A few friends and I gathered there as the apartment was being closed out. We stood together in that little space, raised a non-alcoholic toast, and told stories.
Thirty-two years of a life in one room.
On my way home, not far from Manhattan Plaza, I ran into Billy Stritch.
Billy and I embraced. He had seen my Facebook post about Leslie and offered his condolences. Then, as we were saying goodbye and complimenting each other on how well we were aging, Billy started across the street.
He turned back and said something that stopped me.
“I’ll never forget our time at Whoopi’s.”
Neither will I.
It must have been around 1992 or 1993.
Jenifer Lewis and Whoopi Goldberg had been friends for years, long before Sister Act. That Thanksgiving, Jenifer invited me to spend the holiday with her at Whoopi’s home in Connecticut.
There was only one problem.
I had a temp job.
I told Jenifer I needed to find out whether I could get the days off.
In the way that only Jenifer Lewis can deliver a piece of practical advice, she said:
“Now listen. After Thanksgiving, Whoopi’s still gonna be a rich bitch. After Thanksgiving, I’m still gonna be a rich bitch. Don’t fuck up your life trying to hang with me and Whoopi.”
I got the days off.
I don’t remember anymore exactly how we got to Connecticut, but I remember Whoopi’s driver, Ron, picking us up and taking us to the house.
I had never met Whoopi.
When we arrived, Ron had brought her some of the celebrity tabloids that were everywhere in those days. And Whoopi happened to be in them.
The press was having a field day with her relationship with Ted Danson.
Whoopi looked at what had been printed and said something to the effect of, “Shit. I knew it. I could feel they were there.”
So that was my introduction to Whoopi Goldberg.
Welcome to Thanksgiving.
We went inside.
I remember the house being immaculate—spare, deliberate and filled with things that fascinated me.
Whoopi was an avid collector, including historical objects and imagery depicting the grotesque stereotypes that had been used to portray Black people in America. She referred to the collection as “Negrobilia.” There were ceramics, dolls and other artifacts depicting mammies and other racist caricatures.
And then there were the books.
The library made you feel as though somebody ought to hand you a card at the door. You could have disappeared in there for years.
At some point Whoopi casually mentioned who would be coming for Thanksgiving.
Liza Minnelli.
Jenifer and I had essentially the same reaction.
Liza?
And Jenifer, being Jenifer, immediately identified a problem.
Whoopi didn’t have a piano.
How were you going to have Liza Minnelli in the house and not have a piano?
The next morning, we were out walking around Whoopi’s property. When we returned, there was a delivery truck outside.
They were delivering a grand piano.
Like it was a pizza.
I’ve been telling it that way ever since. Jenifer even included that line when she told the story in The Mother of Black Hollywood.
There were other adventures before Thanksgiving dinner.
Whoopi had acquired some artwork she wanted hung before everybody arrived. Her brother Clyde was there, and somehow Clyde and I became the men assigned to the operation.
We carried these precious pieces of art in from the car and hung paintings around his sister’s house.
Clyde and I laughed and talked and got to know one another while doing it. I remember him as a handsome, fit young man with an easy spirit. We bonded over hanging paintings in Whoopi Goldberg’s house.
Just another day.
And then there was Jenifer.
At some point that first evening, Whoopi, Jenifer and I were sitting around talking and laughing. Apparently I was being a little too quiet.
Jenifer looked at me and said:
“Lee, don’t let that bitch intimidate you.”
Whoopi looked at Jenifer.
“Bitch, I will intimidate you.”
Then Whoopi disappeared.
A moment later, she came running back into the room carrying her Oscar.
She thrust it toward Jenifer as if it were some kind of supernatural weapon.
We lost it.
I tried to get my hands on the Oscar. I put my arms around Whoopi and reached for it while Jenifer snapped a photograph. Whoopi gave me that unmistakable Whoopi Goldberg look, as though I had just attempted to rob her in her own home.
And then came Thanksgiving.
There was now a grand piano in the house.
And sitting at it was the incomparable Billy Stritch.
Billy was Liza’s longtime pianist, musical collaborator and dear friend.
And we sang.
Liza sang.
Jenifer sang.
Whoopi sang.
I sang.
And Billy played.
More than thirty years later, I can still see that room.
I can still hear the laughter.
I can still see that grand piano that had seemingly materialized overnight because somebody realized you simply could not have Liza Minnelli coming to Thanksgiving without one.
And I have a faded photograph from that gathering—me, Whoopi and Liza.
The photograph has aged.
So have we.
Yesterday, I had just left a room filled with memories of someone I loved when, on a New York sidewalk, another person from another room in another part of my life appeared.
Billy hugged me.
We talked about Leslie.
We laughed about getting older.
And then, as he crossed the street, he reached more than thirty years into the past and handed me back an entire Thanksgiving with one sentence:
“I’ll never forget our time at Whoopi’s.”
Neither will I.
