The Jazz Kid (5 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I got up late as usual, flung on my clothes, and raced out to the kitchen, where my oatmeal in my yellow bowl was on the kitchen table, stone cold, with a crust on top. I dumped some cream and sugar on it, stirred it around to mix the crust in, and gulped it down.

Ma came in. “Paulie, that shirt's filthy. Take it off this instant.” I'd got dirt on it from prowling around in that barroom cellar.

“I'm late, Ma.”

“You're not going to school in that shirt. What'll your teachers think?” And while I was sitting there gulping away at my oatmeal, she began to unbutton it down my front.

“I'll do it, Ma,” I said. I jumped up from the table, flung off the shirt, ran into our room to grab another shirt, put on my jacket, and tore out of there. And it wasn't until I was standing by my desk in my homeroom mumbling the Pledge of Allegiance that I remembered that Tommy Hurd's bent card was in that shirt pocket.

I ran all the way home after school. Ma was standing over the ironing board in the kitchen. Beside her was her clothes basket, and on the kitchen table a stack of neatly folded stuff she'd ironed. My shirt was there in the stack. I pulled it out, and stuck my hand in the breast pocket.

Ma was watching me. “I threw it away, Paulie.”

“Ma?”

“Where did you get it?”

To be honest, I didn't believe in lying. If you felt a certain way, why shouldn't you be honest about it? I mean, no matter what anybody said, you ought to be able to tell the truth. But sometimes you couldn't, that was plain. “Some kid at Hull House gave it to me.”

“
It's some sort of cheap jazz band, isn't it?”

“Ma, there's nothing wrong with jazz.”

“What were you planning to do?”

“I figured I might take lessons from him.”

“You're already taking from Mr. Sylvester,” she said. “That's plenty. You've got your schoolwork to consider.”

“Where did you throw it? I'm going to find it.”

“I tore it up and flushed it down the toilet.”

“Ma,” I shouted. “It was mine.”

“Paulie, it's one thing to play in the Hull House band, where they've got proper supervision. But I'm not having you getting mixed up with a lot of low-class jazz musicians. That's flat.”

But it didn't matter what she said—I
was
going to get involved with a lot of low-class jazz musicians. I hated going against her. Me and Ma usually got on pretty good, for she made allowances about me not being like everybody else, which Pa didn't. But she could only make allowances so far, and then the fringed lampshades got in the way. It made me sad to think that we had to disagree. I went around feeling disloyal, like I'd broken my word to her, and sometimes when she started to joke around with me, I felt bad, and couldn't get into it the way I used to. But what could I do about it?

Two days later I was sitting on my bed in our room, puffing away at the cornet, trying to get that rocking feeling that Tommy Hurd put into his music. John was sitting at the table, doing his homework. Suddenly he raised up his head. “Shut up a minute, Paulie, I want to hear.”

“What?”

“Shhhh.” We sat quiet. Somebody was talking in a big, heavy voice.

“Come on outside, Frankie. We got to have a little chat.” There was something familiar about the voice, but I couldn't catch it.

Pa's voice came through the bedroom door. “We can chat here, Herbie.” Herbie. Was it that big guy from the Society Cafe?

“
I got a couple of things I wouldn't want to say in front of your old lady. You better come out with us.”

Then Ma's voice came. “What's it about, Frank?”

“I don't know. It's some kind of mistake. I'll go straighten it out.”

“Let's hope it's some kind of mistake, Frankie,” Herbie said.

For a minute there was nothing, and then we heard the front door shut. The next minute our bedroom door opened and Ma put her head in. “Pa had to go out on business,” she said. “Supper'll be a little late. You boys just go on with what you're doing.” She shut the door.

I sat there holding the cornet on my lap, feeling mighty worried. Did it have anything to do with me? Did he come over to tell Pa I was over there? “What do you think it is, John? Why wouldn't he talk with Pa in the apartment?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Maybe it's nothing. Maybe they just had to talk to Pa about something.”

It wasn't about nothing—that much I knew. It was about something, and it scared me. I didn't feel like playing, so I picked up John's copy of
The Wampus Cat
and lay on the bed trying to read. But I couldn't concentrate on reading, either, so I just lay there, worrying, and listening to John's pen scratch along the paper as he worked on his history report.

Finally we heard the apartment door open. John stopped scratching. We heard Ma say, “Frank, what did they do to you? Are you all right?”

“I'm all right. They just crowded me a little.”

“What was it all about?”

“That's just what I'm going to find out.”

It was me. I sat up on the bed listening to his footsteps come closer. The door swung open. Pa stood there, looking at me. His eye was swollen and there was a scratch down his cheek.

Suddenly I wished I'd planned things out a little more. It was one thing to sneak off to the Society Cafe to hear those guys play. It was another thing to get Pa smacked
around
for it. I felt mighty sick in the pit of my stomach. I wished I hadn't done it. I wished I'd thought about it more before I ran over there. But it was too late for wishing.

“John,” Pa said without taking his eyes off me, “Go somewhere else. I got to talk to Paulie.” He went on looking at me. “Close the door behind you.”

“Pa—” But I couldn't think of anything to say.

“What was you doing in that joint the other morning?”

I was plenty scared. “I wasn't doing anything wrong, Pa.”

“That's for me to decide. What was you doing there? You told them I sent you to find a wrench. I never sent you there.”

I hung my head down. “I went to hear those guys play,” I whispered.

“Look at me.” I put my head up. “What the hell did you need to hear them for? You got a whole band of your own over at Hull House.”

“It isn't the same. It's a different kind of music.”

“I know what it is, Paulie. It's that nigger music.”

“Those guys are white,” I said.

“That don't make no difference. It makes me sick to see all these white people running after that nigger music. I don't want you to have anything to do with it. And if I ever hear of you going anywheres near that joint again I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life.” Then before I knew it, he whacked me good and hard across my face with the back of his hand. It snapped my head back and for a moment I went blank. I felt myself sway, but I didn't fall. “That's just to remind you I'm serious,” he said. He turned and walked out of the room.

I sat down on the bed. I knew he was serious all right, for it was the first time he ever hit me like that. Spanked me a few times when I was little, but never hit me before. The tears were trying to force themselves out of my eyes. I squeezed my whole face up tight. The tears leaked out anyway, but at least I didn't make any noise. Finally I took one long, wavery breath in and got control of myself. And a minute later Ma came in and said, “Come on out now and eat supper, Paulie.”

G
ETTING
P
A IN
trouble, especially with gangsters, made me feel mighty low and quiet, not much like practicing. What had happened? What was it all about? The whole thing seemed so unfair. All I wanted to do was to learn how to play jazz, and here was Pa getting beat up for it. Suppose every time I tried to find out about jazz something like this happened. What was fair about that? How come they knew who Pa was? How come they knew where we lived? Did Ma know anything about it? There wasn't any use in asking her, for she'd just tell me it wasn't any of my business and to stay out of it.

Anyway, the whole thing made me feel kind of quiet, and for a while I laid low, and came right home from school instead of going over to Rory's. I even did some homework for a change, and got an eighty on an English test.

But in a few days I began to perk up and think about jazz again. I saw right away that records were the answer. I didn't know anything about records—how much they cost, or even if there was such a thing as jazz records. One problem was, I didn't have any money, what with always getting my allowance docked. But I figured I could get some money off John. He always had plenty, from doing his chores and working for Pa on Saturdays. So the next afternoon I went over to the music counter at the five-and-dime and asked the guy if he heard of any jazz records.

“Jazz records? I got a slew of ‘em. How come a smart kid like you didn't know that?”

“I'm not too smart,” I said. “I'm not doing so hot in school.”

“That explains it, then,” he said. “I tell you, I got all the greatest jazz records right here—New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Louisiana Five, Original Dixieland Jazz Band. You name it, I got it.”

“Which is best?”

“Well five years ago the Original Dixieland Jazz Band was all the rage. They sold millions. They came up from New Orleans to Chi, along with Brown's Band from Dixieland. That's where they got famous, right here in Chicago. They didn't have anything of that kind of music in New York then. But them bands are kind of old hat now. If you want to know my opinion, right now the best is the New Orleans Rhythm
Kings.
And I'll tell you why I recommend them.” He gave me a serious look. “You want to know why?”

“Sure.”

“It's because they're playing right here in Chicago out on the North Side at the Friars' Inn. I've been out there a dozen times myself. You could say I practically live there. The fellas in the band all know me. They got this here clarinet player who's the cat's pajamas. Leon Roppolo is his name, but they all call him Rop. Oh, the Rhythm Kings are the best. Why they haven't got anything in New York that's even a patch on them.” He frowned. “Of course, that's not counting the colored bands.”

I wanted to ask him if he thought jazz was nigger music, but I was afraid he might take it wrong. So instead I said, “Are there a lot of colored bands, or what?”

“Go over to the South Side, you won't hear anything
but
colored bands. King Oliver, Lawrence Duhé, all of them.”

“Are they better than the white bands?”

“Oh, they got some mighty good bands, those colored. King Oliver, he's no slouch. They got a natural feeling for it, you know. Born with it. But Oliver and them didn't make any records yet.”

“But the whites can play jazz, too, can't they?”

“You bet they can. The Rhythm Kings, they're the cat's pajamas.”

“Have you got their records?”

“You wouldn't ask a question like that if you was smarter. Of course I got ‘em.”

“How much are they?”

“Seventy-five cents and worth twice that. At least twice that.”

“Oh,” I said. “I don't have that much. I guess I'll have to save up.”

“You should. You'll never regret it.”

I went on home. John was in our room finishing off his history report. “Hey, John,” I said, “How about loaning me seventy-five cents?”

“Come off it, Paulie. How'd you ever pay me back? I'll be an old man before
you
see any allowance again.”

“I'll do all the dishes for a month.”

He gave me a squinty look, just like Ma. “What do you need seventy-five cents for?”

“You look like Ma when you do that.”

He laid off the squinty look. “What's the money for?”

Usually I would have told him. But suddenly I decided not to. He wouldn't squeal on his brother. But even so, he was basically on their side and might forget himself and let something slip out. “Just something,” I said.

“Don't give me that,” he said. “I'm not going to loan you some money if I don't know what it's for.”

“Why do you have to know? It isn't any of your business.”

“I'm making it my business,” he said. “Suppose you were planning on buying a gun or something.”

“How could you buy a gun for seventy-five cents?”

“I didn't say you were. That was just an example.”

I began to see that I'd have to tell him; but before I could blurt anything out he said, “It's for a girl, isn't it, Paulie? You're stuck on some girl and you want to take her to a dance and buy her a soda afterwards.”

That was luck. I tried to make myself blush. “No, it isn't for any girl.”

“Who is she?” he said. “Mary Hartwell?”

“I said it wasn't any girl, John.”

“Agnes Fincke? Helen whatshername with the long pigtail? I'll bet it's her.”

“I don't even know who you mean,” which wasn't true. Helen Schein was getting pretty cute.

“All right,” he said. “But you got to do all the dishes for a month. And pick up your clothes around here so I don't keep tripping on them.”

A month was an awful long time. But I knew better than to argue with him. “I promise,” I said. I figured I could get out of it someway after a couple of weeks, anyway.

“
And you better pay me back.”

Both of us knew there wasn't the slightest chance of that, not until we were grown-ups. “Okay,” I said.

I wanted to rush out right away and buy a jazz record, but I couldn't, because John would get suspicious. Oh, I could hardly stand waiting—I couldn't think of anything else all evening, and I might as well not have gone to school the next day, for all I learned. What if it turned out that the New Orleans Rhythm Kings record wasn't any good? Suppose it didn't give me that feeling that Tommy Hurd's band did? Suppose it was just plain music? I didn't see how that guy at the five-and-dime could be wrong, though. But suppose he was?