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In time, of course, Sinatra seized more than power; he infiltrated the Western world’s dream life.
He is “the most imitated, most listened to, most recognized voice of the second half of the twentieth century,” the New York disk jockey William B.
Dolly had prevailed upon her son’s godfather and namesake, Frank Garrick, who was the circulation manager of the Jersey Observer, to get her son a job.
Sinatra duly found work on the paper’s delivery truck.
She wrote me off, too, and even though we lived in the same town, she never said another word to me for the rest of her life.” Over the years, Dolly and her son also went through periods of not speaking.
He never said another word to me until fifty years later, after his mother died.
To get to the bustle of Manhattan from Hoboken, New Jersey, which is just across the Hudson River, takes about fifteen minutes by ferry; to forget the deadliness of the place has taken Frank Sinatra most of his lifetime. In those days, from River Road, now called Sinatra Drive, you could see New York’s crenellated skyline, rising like a bar graph of profits, and, if you walked to the dock’s edge, the ass end of the Statue of Liberty. As an adult, Sinatra often referred to his home town as a “sewer”; after 1947, when he was given the key to the city, he didn’t return to it officially until 1985, when he received an honorary degree from Stevens Institute of Technology, an engineering school that his ambitious mother had wanted him to attend.
Dolly Sinatra, who had an immigrant’s faith in success, wanted her school-shy son to become some kind of powerful man.
When the editor asked Sinatra who he was, he answered that he was the new sportswriter and that Garrick had sent him.
His lie was discovered when Garrick arrived, and his godfather was forced to fire him.