tony orlando and me

So I’m wandering around Soho back in mid-December, on a lovely Thursday afternoon, shopping for presents when I feel like a couple of slices.

I’m standing right in between the tried-and-true Ben’s and the much newer Soho Sqrd, which I had never noticed before.

I decide to get one slice at Ben’s, then one at Sqrd.

I get a Sicilian at the first stop and eat it while walking to the second.

I’m standing across the street, taking my last bites, when a slightly disheveled, unshaven man sidles up next to me.

“Looks good,” he says. “Where’d ya get it?”

He looks harmless enough, so I tell him.

“Ah, can’t go wrong with Ben’s,” he says as if he wants a bite. He motions over to Sqrd. “Ever try that place?”

“No, but I’m going there next. Gonna get a slice at both.”

“Good idea,” he says. “Might do the same.”

I toss my paper plate in the trash and he walks with me across the street.

“What brings you around here?” he asks.

“Just doing some shopping,” I say. “My wife’s birthday is coming up.”

He pauses, then says, “Sagittarius. On the cusp.”

“Yup,” I say. “My wife’s birthday is Sunday.”

He does some thinking, like he’s counting. “Hey, my wife’s too!”

We fist-bump as I begin to grow suspicious, since he seems to be mirroring everything I say and do.

We walk up the steps to the tiny storefront that is Soho Sqrd and look at the slices in the case, all of which are, perhaps unsurprisingly, square.

“Ah, so what can you get for my son?” the man asks the young guy behind the counter.

My new friend says to me, “I could be your father. I’m seventy-three. You must be” — he guesses my age correctly — “Yup, I could be your father.” The math doesn’t quite add up, but I go with it.

He then tells me, “I’m Tony. Tony Orlando.”

I pause and do a double take. I’m generally psychotically good at spotting celebrities, so I’m not sure about this one, especially because this guy seems too unkempt, short, and pudgy to be the superstar performer, but again, I go with it.

“Holy shit, I love you!” I say like a fanboy.

“Thanks.”

It was true. As a kid, I was obsessed with his CBS variety show, Tony Orlando and Dawn, which featured him, Telma Hopkins, and Joyce Vincent Wilson. Among their biggest hits were “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Ole Oak Tree,” “Candida,” “Say, Has Anybody Seen My Sweet Gypsy Rose,” and “Knock Three Times.” My father and I ritualistically watched him every Labor Day weekend when he cohosted the New York City portion of Jerry Lewis’s annual MDA telethon.

“One of my best friends worked security at your concert in Eisenhower Park over the summer,” I told him. “He said you were awesome; he posted a bunch of selfies with you.”

“Tony” looks at me like has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Eisenhower Park?” I repeat. “On Long Island?”

He pauses again, then says without a whole lot of confidence, “Oh, yeah, right.”

My suspicion grows.

I tap-tap-tap on the makeshift plastic outside wall of the pizza place and say, “Whenever I hear this, I think of you.”

Tony: “Knock three times. Love it.”

Me: “I had such a crush on Dawn. Both of them. They were awesome.”

Tony: “They’re still awesome. We were the first mixed-race band on television.”

Me: “You and Flip Wilson broke new ground.”

Tony: “Yes, Flip.”

My slice is ready, so Tony nods at me, puts out his hand to shake mine, and says, “It was great meeting you. Happy holidays!”

I wish him the same, and we walk off in different directions, but not before I check for my wallet, making sure I wasn’t just scammed.

I explain to the young guy at Sqrd who Tony Orlando is. He’s never heard of him. He checks out one of Tony’s videos on YouTube as I leave.

Later, when I get home, I Google Tony. According to Wikipedia, the Manhattan-born Michael Anthony Orlando Cassavitis is seventy-seven and lives in Branson, Missouri. I guess he could have been trimming a few years, maybe put on a few pounds since the photos I’m finding. I learn that he has a weekly radio show on WABC, Saturday Nights with Tony Orlando, so he could have been in New York City for that.

According to his official website, Tony O is on tour, his next show December 18 in California.

So I’m still not sure it was really Tony Orlando; he didn’t look quite like he did in my friend Jake’s photos from Eisenhower Park or other recent online pictures, but maybe the last few months of the pandemic have been hard on him.

But I really really really wanted it to be him.

Was he just some friendly, anonymous guy? Was he trying to hustle a slice or two off me? If he had asked, I probably would have bought him one, Tony Orlando or not, because the whole exchange was entertaining nonetheless.

So, did I actually meet Tony Orlando?

I posted the story on Facebook, and most commenters thought that it had to be him. I decided I needed to know the truth, for my sake and theirs.

I found his management online and emailed them, asking if there was any chance that Tony was in Soho that Thursday afternoon.

The next day I get the following email:

“Mark it’s Tony Orlando

Call me at [number].”

I call him. (After I jump up and down in my apartment.)

I proceed to have a long, extremely fun chat with the real Tony Orlando, who immediately explains that it was not him but he wanted to find out more about the apparently harmless impersonator.

“What made you think it really might not be me?” he asked.

“Well, he seemed shorter and pudgier than I thought you’d be,” I answer.

“I am a little pudgy now,” he says.

“Not like this,” I respond. “You’re much better looking.”

We talk about Dawn, the Eisenhower Park concert, his radio show (he was gearing up for a big New Year’s Eve event), and the telethon.

“You know what this is?” he asks me. “This is beshert. Do you know what bashert means?”

I have a rough idea, as my mother and grandparents would occasionally speak Yiddish, so I say yes. (“Beshert” means “inevitable” or “destined.”)

“Now we are friends; it’s beshert,” he declares.

Overcome with joy, I tell him, “You know, there’s a Yiddish word for what you are; you’re a mensch.”

“That makes me happy to hear. A mensch is good,” he says.

“Yes, a mensch is good,” I say.

“I have to rest up my voice now for the radio show, but it’s been great talking to you. Please text or call me any time,” he generously offers.

I’m not much of a phone person or texter, so I still owe Tony a ring.

Knock-knock-knock.