“Don’t blow your cool,” I warned him.
“Ain’t that right, ain’t that right?” Little Jimmie laughed.
“Sounds like the title of our second solid-gold hit record.”
Just then the taxi driver picked up speed, raced down Fifth Avenue to 62nd Street, where he slammed on the brakes quickly.
“All right,” he sneered. “Shut your trap. I’ve had enough from you jokers.”
“Dig this mother,” I said.
“What was that?” the driver snapped.
“Lay off, man,” Little Jimmie said.
The taxi zoomed through a blinking red light and came to the fountain fronting the Plaza.
“Boys,” the pale taxi driver began clearly, “you ain’t on home ground now. You had your chance. So now don’t you blow your cool. This is my turf. We’re downtown.”
“I know, I know,” I sighed.
“Yeah,” Little Jimmie put in, “but we’re the two new BB’s from tin-pan alley. You wouldn’t wanna do nothing that would fuck up the economy and cause an international incident, would you?”
“Jesus,” the taxi driver exclaimed. “Wait until I tell the kids and my old lady. Jesus. You could have had a police escort all the way downtown. Get you away from the Harlem riffraff. I knew all along that you two gentlemen were something special. The riffraff is causing all the trouble. Making it bad for you colored people.”
“I know, I know,” I sighed again as we swung on to Central Park South. I ran a moist hand through The Wig. It was still soft, luxurious, and together. Visions of fame and fortune bounced through the soul of The Wig: The Deb, the girl next door, the girl at the end of the double rainbow.
We turned on to Broadway. The driver said, “Oh, the way you boys can sing!” He paused, breathing hard. “Never knew a colored person that didn’t have a fine singing voice.”
Crossing Broadway and 57th Street, I was a one-man chorus. “I know, I know,” I sang.
“You’re the greatest, you’re the tops,” the pale driver said.
“Oh yes, oh yes,” I sang.
Straight-faced, Little Jimmie Wishbone looked out the window.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” the driver chuckled pleasantly, slowing at Broadway and 52nd Street. “That’ll be three-fifty even.”
Like a late winter grasshopper, he jumped out and opened the rear door. “Its been a real pleasure and I wish you guys the best.”
I got out of the sinister yellow taxi slowly, like an old man who knows his days are numbered. I did not look at the driver. I felt tired.
But Little Jimmie smiled warmly and said bitterly: “Keep the change.” There was a ring of authority in his voice.
Paradise Records, Ltd., is located on the eighty-eighth floor of The League of Nations Pill Building. It straddles Broadway and 52nd Street like a chipped marble pyramid and is topped by a coneshaped tower sporting five revolving neon crosses. Piped music echoes from the lobby to the tower: opera, symphonies, sweet ballads, American rock ’n’ roll, and selected international hits.
We stepped smartly through the lobby to the strains of “Nearer My God to Thee,” the number-one song on the nuclear hit parade.
“Next week it’ll be us,” I said, breaking into a wild grin.
“It’s in the bag,” Little Jimmie said brightly. Only eighty-eight floors and a new career. He’d recapture his public image. I watched him square the felt hat, flip the brim down over his left eye. There was even a glint of expectation in that eye.
“Gotta rent me a Caddie,” he said. “Can’t be seen making it through the streets in a taxi. My fans wouldn’t like that.”
I pressed the elevator button. “How do you feel?”
“Like being born again. I know how you feel too, on the first wave of fame.”
The wide doors of the elevator swung outward like the doors of a saloon. Little Jimmie braced sloping shoulders and pushed past me.
“Let’s go, boy,” he said.
A sudden thought hit me. “We don’t have a manager,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter at this stage of the game. Press the button. Eighty-eight. I’ll do the talking. You know I’m an old hand at this type of thing. But in the past, people always came to me. Either to my Beverly Hills mansion or to my Manhattan penthouse. But we’ll manage.”
The elevator closed silently. We stood stiff and proud, our hot eyes focused on the walls of the elevator. The walls were eyecatching: mahogany, with carved musical scales and American dollar signs.
“Lucre, my ghost,” Little Jimmie sighed.
“You’re a swinging stud.”
“Nothing to it, boy. I know what’s happening. I’ve had too many gigs.”
Exiting from the elevator, I prayed for ten thousand one-night stands, for a million six-week holdovers. Balloon images of The Deb burst inside my excited beautiful head. I was happy like a man when a particularly painful wound begins to heal. I was no longer jockeying for position: I was in position. I followed Little Jimmie through the great bronze doors of Paradise Records.
The receptionist was licking stamps, and a sequined sign on the desk said: MISS BELLADONNA.
“Yes?” Miss Belladonna said in a hoarse voice, without looking up.
“We’re the two new BB’s and we want a hearing,” Little Jimmie said with great dignity.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, young lady.”
Miss Belladonna yawned. “Well . . .”
Impatient, Little Jimmie drummed his fingers on the kidneyshaped glass desk.
“Look alive, young lady,” he warned sternly.
Giggling, Miss Belladonna said, “I’m sorry. You know how things are in Paradise. All this joie de vivre jazz. We’re ever so busy, too. One hit after another.”
“I know,” I said, “but we’re gonna make an explosion in Paradise.”
Miss Belladonna showed us her jaundiced eyes. Lips trembling, she pressed a gold button and seized a hand mike.
“Mr. Pingouin! Mr. Pingouin! Front and center,” she sang.
Then, clasping hands over a flat chest, she cried: “Oh! This is so thrilling. I’ve seen the best of them walk through that door. Just walk right in and open their mouth and—cling-a-ling-a-ling—the coins literally roll off their tongues, and it’s so thrilling!”
Little Jimmie beamed. “That’s the way it goes. But you gotta have star quality.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Stars are always collected and cool.” It was something I had read in a gossip column. I liked the sound: collected and cool.
“Cool?” Mr. Pingouin purred, minueting into the reception room.
A young man, dapper in banker’s gray and wearing large, round, fashionable glasses. He looked like a happy Uncle Bunny Owl.
“Welcome to Paradise. The home of hits.”
“Naturally, I am aware,” the comeback star hee-hawed. “I is Little Jimmie Wishbone from Auk-in-saw.”
“Little Jimmie Wishbone from Arkansas?” Mr. Pingouin asked, his round glasses skiing down his smooth nose.
“Little Jimmie Wishbone,” Miss Belladonna gasped.
“The late-late show and the afternoon soap opera? My mother just loved Southern Sunset. She’s seen it seven times.”
“And no residuals,” Little Jimmie added painfully.
“Forget it,” Mr. Pingouin said with a wave of the hand. “I know you are money.”
“Oh! It’s so thrilling,” Miss Belladonna cooed. “Shall I call Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe?”
“Mr. Ashley-Smithe is our A and R man,” Mr. Pingouin informed us.
“What about promotion?” Little Jimmie wanted to know.
“We have the networks and the press by the balls,” Mr. Pingouin said, smiling shyly.
“I should say we have,” Miss Belladonna said. She seized the hand mike. “Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe. Front and center!”
Silence, a rich soft silence, enfolded the nonchalant future recording stars, the jaundiced receptionist, and the owl-ey
ed first assistant vice-president.
Presently, doleful Muzak came on with Napoleon’s Funeral March. Little Jimmie stood at attention, Miss Belladonna seemed to doze, Mr. Pingouin bowed his head, and I counted to one hundred.
Then Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe entered to the strains of “Home on the Range.”
There was nothing unusual about Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe. A thoroughbred American Negro, the color of bittersweet chocolate—chocolate that looked as if it had weathered many seasons of dust, rain, and darkness, chocolate that had not been eaten, but simply left to dehydrate. He was more than six feet tall, I guessed. And when he smiled at us, I knew my ship was docking at last.
“Gentlemen,” he said and bowed sedately. “I know ours will be a perfect relationship. Now, will you please join me in the inner room.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Little Jimmie bowed back.
“Oh! Goodness,” Miss Belladonna squealed. “This is so exciting. It always is.”
“Have a happy session,” Mr. Pingouin said, “and please remember that you are in the hands of Paradise.”
Despite an abundance of expensive flowering plants, the inner room had the serene masculinity of a GI sleeping bag. Facing the window wall were two baby-grand pianos with smooth brass finishes. Large lounge chairs formed a fat lime-green circle centered on a stainless-steel coffee table. It was a large pleasant room, ideal for music.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe said, extending the pale pink palm of his dark hand, “please be seated. Everything is very informal here at Paradise. That is the key to our worldwide success.”
Finger popping, Little Jimmie agreed. “That’s the method. When I was making my last trilogy of flicks about homesteaders . . . Wow! Remember? Everyone went ape over them. Took the Cannes, Venice, and Berlin film festivals by storm. Well, my method was always to have a relaxed set. Even on location.”
“You were one of my heroes, Mr. Wishbone. Pity you couldn’t bridge the changeover. Perhaps your new career will rectify the situation.”
“Mr. Ashley-Smithe, you are a knight of humanity. The first star—the first flower, of deep emotions. The musical genius of this century.”
“You’re very kind, sir.”
Lord, this was getting too much. Trembling, I broke in: “We’re relaxed and ready to sing, Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe.”
“Fine, fine,” the first flower of deep emotions said, rubbing his hands and executing a nimble ballet turn.
No music penetrated the cork-lined inner room. There was only a brush-fire silence until the graceful A & R man faced us.
“It’s so soft . . . easy,” he said. “Two groovy-colored studs. You’ve got everything in your favor. I know the countdown of this racket. I’ve worked hard to help my colored brethren and fortunately you’ve got what the white people want. What the world wants! I don’t have a social life, nor do I indulge in sex. At night I go home and plot the future of my golden-voiced colored brethren. I keep a dozen milk bottles filled with lice so I won’t be lonely. I never have a dull or idle moment with my happy family around me. And come morning, I’m ready to face this mother-grabbing racket again. Understand?”
“Certainly, Sunflower,” Little Jimmie said.
“Certainly, Mr. Ashley-Smithe,” I said.
“Fine, fine. Now please join me at the baby.”
Riffling through the plastic attaché case, Little Jimmie said, “Let’s run through ‘Harlem Nights.’ It has a simple gaiety. But keep the tempo down. We have to build on this one. Know what I mean, Sunflower?”
“Oh yes. Exactly.”
Little Jimmie strode manfully over to the baby grand piano. “Let’s take it from the top, Les.”
“Yeah, baby. Let’s go. I’m in excellent voice this morning.”
Bowing again, Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe rippled the keyboard expertly. “Wonderful. Your choice of an opener is great.”
Little Jimmie cleared his throat and peered at the sheet music closely. “Now, I’ll take the verse and you take the chorus, Les. Let’s rip a gut. This must be spontaneous.”
The musical genius of the century laughed vigorously. “Let’s see if you’re colored.”
Camaraderie like sunlight filled the inner room. I really felt as if I could bust a gut. I wasn’t embarking on a Madison Avenue or a Wall Street career. No, this gig was glamour, Broadway, night lights. Champagne supper clubs, call girls, paying off bellboys and the police. A million hysterical teenagers screaming, clamoring for your autograph, a strand of your curly hair, a snotty Kleenex, a toothpick, a bad cavity filling, a pawnshop diamond ring, and all because few parents are child-oriented. And now I was a part of the racket!
“Lester,” Little Jimmie said sharply.
“I’m with you, baby.”
“Ready?” Mr. Ashley-Smithe asked.
I watched Little Jimmie flex his muscles, clench his fist, and breathe deeply. So deep I could see the outline of his soul on his sweating face.
And then he began to sing as if he were alone in a splendid garden on a cool summer morning. Looking at his contorted face, I thought: what a magnificent actor. A Harlem-born great actor.
Mr. Ashley-Smithe was impressed too. He clasped his hands and closed his eyes.
“The rebirth of my hero,” he whispered.
Gesturing, alone in the garden, Little Jimmie’s voice filled the inner room.
Harlem nights are gloomy and long
A cold, cold landscape
Darkness, darkness.
Will I ever lift up my voice . . .
And sing, I falsettoed right on key.
“You curly-headed son of a bitch,” Little Jimmie yelled, “you didn’t bust a gut!”
“What?” I faltered.
The first flower of deep emotions moaned. “My brothers, my fellow countrymen. Please. Please, stop. Let’s take a break.”
The comeback lion was fuming. “Yes. Let’s take a long break!”
Hurt, I silently vowed to go it on my own. Solo, baby. Who needed a washed-up movie star!
When I came out of my sulky reverie, I heard Mr. Ashley-Smithe’s voice: “I work very hard, I am a good man. I do not practice black magic. I love my fellow man and that includes white people . . .” Mr. Ashley-Smithe paused. “So how could this happen to me?”
What was the mother-grabber talking about? I couldn’t make it out, though Little Jimmie seemed to know. He looked like a freshly cast mummy. Hump him! I’d go it alone.
“I could try ‘Limehouse Blues,’ Mr. Sunflower,” I enunciated clearly. “I think I could fake a Chinese accent. ‘Limehouse Blues’ is a particular favorite of mine, and an all-time classic, as you well know.”
Mr. Sunflower Ashley-Smithe seemed to be trying to check a bathtub of tears. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Would you gentlemen kindly leave? Both of you. You are both a disgrace to your colored brethren and to this great republic! Why, you poor slobs can’t even carry a tune.”
The first flower of human emotions arose from the piano. His laughter was loud and frightening.
Eight
NO LAUGHTER WELDED my shocked dark heart. I marched swiftly out of the inner room, past Miss Belladonna, who seeing my face screamed, “Goodness!”
Waiting impatiently for the elevator, I wanted to scream myself. The Wayward Four rocked, rolled, wallowed through the loudspeaker Muzak. “Play-a simple melody, play-a simple melody,” they sang. Off-key, no doubt spitting their puberty juice. “A racket,” Sunflower Ashley-Smithe had said. Well, I wanted no part of it. Right then and there, I told myself, it had been an impulsive, foolish mistake. I was destined for a higher calling. Perhaps not Madison Avenue or Wall Street. No. A real man-sized job. A porter, a bus boy, a shoeshine boy, a swing on my father’s old Pullman run. Young Abe by the twenty-watt bulb. Sweating, toiling, studying the map of The Great Society. One is not defeated until one is defeated. Hadn’t the drugstore prophet said, “You may become whatever you desire?” Perhaps I’d even be
come a politician or a preacher—those wingless guards against tyranny and misery.
The saloon doors of the elevator opened. Piously, I entered. Muzak thundered with a gospel group singing:
This little Light of mine . . .
I’m gonna let it shine . . .
I ran my hand through The Wig and stamped my feet until the elevator reached the ground floor.
The lobby was teeming with the fabulous show-biz crowd, yak-yakking, hustling. Well, they could yak and hustle without me.
I decided, however, to wait for Little Jimmie. My anger had cooled and I wanted to talk with him quietly. Plus, I didn’t want those earnest boys from Kings County to nab him on Broadway. I waited for what seemed a long time and then I spied him standing against a piece of blowtorch sculpture, looking like a confident young executive with big deals brewing.
“You were up there a long time. What happened?”
Little Jimmie hee-hawed. “Oh, you know how it is, Les. Showbiz talk. Putting out feelers. Sunflower said he thought we were too tense. Nerves.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yeah. Told him I’d meet him tonight. He suggested the Copa. But I said Jilly’s. More intimate.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“It’s boss, man,” Little Jimmie smiled.
And we didn’t say another word until we emerged from the League of Nations Pill Building, blinking at the ferocious midday sun.
“Think we could go to Europe and gain some experience?” I asked.
“It’s an idea,” Little Jimmie said gravely. “I ain’t been in Europe in a long time. They know me over there.”
“Let’s go for coffee,” I suggested.
“No, Les.”
“Then let’s go some place. What about digging those Harlem society broads?”
“I don’t wanna see no society chicks.” Little Jimmie started walking off, walking up 52nd Street.
“Where you going?”
“I don’t know. Just going.”
“See you later,” I said.
“Yeah. Later.”
I watched my slow-shuffling friend disappear into the noonday crowd. The mambo strains of “Happy Days Are Here Again” drifted from a nearby record shop.
The Collected Novels of Charles Wright Page 18