lonely, but he was rarely alone. Wherever he went, including the trip to Los Angeles to have dinner with Marilyn, he was accompanied by an overweight, stumpy, ill-mannered little man with eyeglasses. George Solotaire, proprietor of the Adelphi Theater Ticket Agency, was DiMaggio’s best friend, gofer, valet, dinner partner, and—though Solotaire had a wife and child in Bronxville—sometime roommate. When Joe was hungry, Solotaire fetched sandwiches from the Stage Delicatessen. When his suits were dirty, Solotaire took them to the cleaners. When he went on a trip, Solotaire packed the suitcase. Solotaire’s feelings were hurt when a newspaper article identified him as nothing more than “a coat hanger for Joe,” but there was truth in the characterization.
Solotaire played the Little Guy to DiMaggio’s Big Guy. They were inseparable. Patrons of the Stage Delicatessen would watch in fascination as the pair ate dinner in uninterrupted silence. Solotaire arranged dates for DiMaggio and pried girls loose when Joe tired of them, usually after the second outing. Sometimes he even accompanied Joe on a date, pulling out a chair for Joe—not the lady—to sit down. At Table One, his tongue oiled by a few drinks with Toots, Solotaire became talkative.
“J. P. Morgan once called for tickets to the same show for seven straight Saturday nights,” he would say.
“How come?” asked Joe, though they all must have heard the story countless times.
“It wasn’t the music. He had an eye for a broad in the chorus line.”
Women, in Toots Shor’s world, were broads, or, if you happened to be married to one, the missus. Shor discouraged women from patronizing the store. The maître d’ gave women a chilly reception, but once inside they were treated respectfully. One night, Shor ejected his friend Ted Husing, a sportscaster, for uttering the words “damn” and “hell” in front of some women. A regular customer was permitted to bring the missus once or twice, but no more. To do so would be to lose face. DiMaggio, it was said, avoided bringing women to Shor’s. That is, until he met Marilyn.
Toots believed a woman’s presence was inhibiting to “our kind of bum.” She spoiled the fun just by being there. But Marilyn was with Joe, so Toots, who fawned on the man, did everything in his power to accommodate her. He gave them a special table of their own, but the invisiblewall he put up around it could hardly protect Marilyn from being stared at by other customers.
DiMaggio was used to being stared at. He was used to having all the other customers at the Stage Delicatessen turn their chairs slightly to observe the baseball god maul a sandwich. He was used to people brushing past his table for no other reason than to get a closer look. Probably he liked the attention. DiMaggio, who, after a game, would scrutinize his own image in the locker-room mirror for as long as it took to get the parting in his pomaded hair just right, was not without a certain narcissism.
Yet the idea of a bunch of other men looking at Marilyn—his girl—violated his sense of dignity. And dignity was very much what Joe DiMaggio was about. Fearful of embarrassing himself, DiMaggio tried never to display his feelings, but people sensed his carefully-concealed annoyance. Even when Marilyn accompanied him to Yankee Stadium, he was distressed when she chatted with team members in the stands before the game. It may have been the first indication of the fierce possessiveness that was to blight his relationship with Marilyn. Soon there were others.
He didn’t think much of her movie career. He didn’t respect her ambitions. He didn’t believe she had any talent. He resented the time she devoted to her work. He thought her success was totally based on sex appeal. The moment the studio ceased to find her sexy, her career would be over. And what was she going to do then? He sincerely thought she’d be better off getting married and having kids.
“I’ll
Solotaire played the Little Guy to DiMaggio’s Big Guy. They were inseparable. Patrons of the Stage Delicatessen would watch in fascination as the pair ate dinner in uninterrupted silence. Solotaire arranged dates for DiMaggio and pried girls loose when Joe tired of them, usually after the second outing. Sometimes he even accompanied Joe on a date, pulling out a chair for Joe—not the lady—to sit down. At Table One, his tongue oiled by a few drinks with Toots, Solotaire became talkative.
“J. P. Morgan once called for tickets to the same show for seven straight Saturday nights,” he would say.
“How come?” asked Joe, though they all must have heard the story countless times.
“It wasn’t the music. He had an eye for a broad in the chorus line.”
Women, in Toots Shor’s world, were broads, or, if you happened to be married to one, the missus. Shor discouraged women from patronizing the store. The maître d’ gave women a chilly reception, but once inside they were treated respectfully. One night, Shor ejected his friend Ted Husing, a sportscaster, for uttering the words “damn” and “hell” in front of some women. A regular customer was permitted to bring the missus once or twice, but no more. To do so would be to lose face. DiMaggio, it was said, avoided bringing women to Shor’s. That is, until he met Marilyn.
Toots believed a woman’s presence was inhibiting to “our kind of bum.” She spoiled the fun just by being there. But Marilyn was with Joe, so Toots, who fawned on the man, did everything in his power to accommodate her. He gave them a special table of their own, but the invisiblewall he put up around it could hardly protect Marilyn from being stared at by other customers.
DiMaggio was used to being stared at. He was used to having all the other customers at the Stage Delicatessen turn their chairs slightly to observe the baseball god maul a sandwich. He was used to people brushing past his table for no other reason than to get a closer look. Probably he liked the attention. DiMaggio, who, after a game, would scrutinize his own image in the locker-room mirror for as long as it took to get the parting in his pomaded hair just right, was not without a certain narcissism.
Yet the idea of a bunch of other men looking at Marilyn—his girl—violated his sense of dignity. And dignity was very much what Joe DiMaggio was about. Fearful of embarrassing himself, DiMaggio tried never to display his feelings, but people sensed his carefully-concealed annoyance. Even when Marilyn accompanied him to Yankee Stadium, he was distressed when she chatted with team members in the stands before the game. It may have been the first indication of the fierce possessiveness that was to blight his relationship with Marilyn. Soon there were others.
He didn’t think much of her movie career. He didn’t respect her ambitions. He didn’t believe she had any talent. He resented the time she devoted to her work. He thought her success was totally based on sex appeal. The moment the studio ceased to find her sexy, her career would be over. And what was she going to do then? He sincerely thought she’d be better off getting married and having kids.
“I’ll
Similar Books
