Steady said, “Mr. Jimmy, you’re the senior musician here, would you proceed?”
Mr. Jimmy said, “Gentlemen, the floor’s open for names for the newest member of the band, Bud-not-Buddy.”
They started acting like they were in school. The Thug raised his hand and Mr. Jimmy pointed at him.
Thug said, “Mr. Chairman, in light of the boy’s performance last night at the Sweet Pea, I nominate the name Waterworks Willie.”
Shucks, I was hoping they’d forgot about that.
Mr. Jimmy said, “You’re out of order, Douglas.”
Steady raised his hand. “Mr. Chairman, this boy’s obviously going to be a musician, he slept until twelve-thirty today, so I propose that we call him Sleepy.”
Mr. Jimmy said, “The name Sleepy is before the board, any comments?”
Dirty Deed said, “Too simple. I think we need something that lets folks know about how slim the boy is.”
Doo-Doo Bug said, “How about the Bone?”
Steady said, “Not enough class, he needs something so people will know right off that the boy’s got class.”
Mr. Jimmy said, “How do you say bone in French? French always makes things sound a lot classier.”
The Thug said, “That’s easy, bone in French is la bone.”
Doo-Doo Bug said, “La bone, nah, it don’t have a ring to it.”
Steady Eddie said, “I got it, we’ll compromise. How about Sleepy LaBone?”
I couldn’t tie the smile down anymore, that was about the best name I’d ever heard in my life!
Mr. Jimmy said, “Let me try it out. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for coming out on this cold November night, this night that will live in history, this night that for the first time on any stage anywhere, you have listened to the smooth saxophonical musings of that prodigy of the reed, Mr. Sleepy LaBone!”
The whole crowd broke out clapping.
The Thug said, “What can I say but bang!”
Dirty Deed said, “You nailed him!”
Doo-Doo Bug said, “That is definitely smooth.”
Steady said, “My man!”
Mr. Jimmy said, “Kneel down, young man.”
I got down on one knee.
Mr. Jimmy tapped me on the head three times with my recorder and said, “Arise and welcome to the band, Mr. Sleepy LaBone.”
I got off my knee and looked at my bandmates.
Sleepy LaBone. Shucks, that was the kind of name that was enough to make you forget folks had ever called you Buddy, or even Clarence. That was the kind of name that was enough to make you practice four hours every day, just so you could live up to it!
I HELD THE MOP so that it was floating on the top of the water in the bucket. I was pretending it was that underwater boat in the book Momma read to me, Twenty Thousand Leaks Under the Sea.
“Captain Nemo,” I whispered, pretending I was a sailor.
“Aye, matey?”
“The squabs were only able to plug ten thousand of the leaks we have, that means we have ten thousand left, and dag-gum-it, I think we’re going down with all hands on board!”
I looked up to make sure no one was watching me too close. The Dusky Devastators of the Depression were still putting their instruments on the stage, waiting for Miss Thomas and Mr. Jimmy and Herman E. Calloway.
I whispered, “Heavenly Father, all is lost!” Then I made the mop sink into the water, drowning Captain Nemo, matey, and all the poor squabs. They went down with a bunch of bubbles and soap suds and dirt.
I know Herman E. Calloway was trying to work me like a dog, but he was doing a real bad job at it. I’d already wiped all the tables and chairs down in the Log Cabin and now I was going back to clear-mop the floor for the second time. It was a piece of cake! The bucket even had a thing on top of it that you could use to wring the mop out, and Herman E. Calloway didn’t even know how much fun I was having. Making somebody work hard isn’t as easy as it looks, some folks are good at it and some folks aren’t.
Some folks can look at you and tell if you’re even thinking about slacking off, they’ll add some work to you faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Some folks will find a excuse to strap you even if you’re working as hard as you ever did in your life.
I stuck the mop head into the wringer. I pretended it was somebody at a washing machine not paying attention to what he was doing and getting his whole body pulled through and wrungeded out.
I let the handle up to see what was left of this poor soul but before I could check, someone yelled out, “One, two, one two three!”
I looked up.
The Thug was brushing his sticks across the round gold metal thing next to his drums and making it sound like a soft rain was commencing to fall on someone’s tin roof. Only instead of sounding like rain splashing anytime it wanted to, the Thug had it sounding like it was coming down in a steady, bouncing way.
Then Dirty Deed started making the piano sound like it was a kind of drum, for a second it fell right in with the rain pats that the Thug was making, then it took off and made you think of what Niagara Falls must sound like, it sounded like big, bright drops of water splashing up and over, over and up. The drops would fall loud and clear as anything, then before you knew it they were right back into the Thug’s steady, bouncy beat.
Steady Eddie started snapping his fingers real soft, in time with the piano and the drum, his toothpick jumping right along with his fingers. He put his ax in his mouth and blew, but instead of the horn making music it seemed like Steady made it talk. He blew one long, low, rumbly sound and I knew right then, with that one deep, sad moan, what the most beautiful sound in the world was. Steady held the note for a long time, then made the sax drift away from the rest of the storm of music. It swirled and floated back and joined the rain sound that the Thug and Dirty Deed kept going.
I just stood there. I didn’t even hear Miss Thomas and Mr. Jimmy and Herman E. Calloway come up from behind me.
Miss Thomas rubbed her hand acrost my head and said, “Bud, you’ve done a great job, the place is sparkling.”
I was going to say, “Thank you, ma’am,” but it seemed like talking was wrong what with all these wonderful sounds were coming from the people on the stage.
Mr. Jimmy said, “LaBone, looking good, son.”
Herman E. Calloway grunted and the three of them walked up on the stage.
Mr. Jimmy picked up his horn and joined in the storm. Miss Thomas sat on a stool, closed her eyes and ducked her head up and down, up and down. Herman E. Calloway stood next to his giant fiddle and started bobbing his head too. He put one of his hands near the top of the fiddle and began pulling at the strings with his other hand.
Every time he patted the strings it seemed like something wide and heavy was walking by slow and easy. Or it seemed like he was the thunder, soft and far away but getting closer all the time.
All of the instruments blended up together and, just like that smell in the library, you couldn’t tell which one was your favorite. First you’d say it was Mr. Jimmy on the trumpet, then Doo-Doo Bug’s trombone would make you think it was the best, then Dirty Deed would make the piano sound like water hitting big rocks and you’d know there wasn’t anything that sounded that good until Steady Eddie would make the saxophone sing and talk and dance around everyone else and you’d swear that was the only sound you’d ever want to hear again. All the while Herman E. Calloway and the Thug kept everything moving by making the drums and the giant fiddle pound out a soft steady beat, like someone’s heart turned way up loud.
You’d have a real hard time trying to figure out which instrument was your favorite. Until Miss Thomas opened her mouth. While the rest of the band was being a storm, she was the sun busting through thick, gray clouds. With the first thing she sang, you had to wonder why this band was called Herman B. Calloway and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression, or Herman E. Calloway and the Nubian Knights, it should be called Miss Thomas and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression and a Mean Old Guy on
the Giant Fiddle.
She was so good she didn’t even have to sing real words, mostly she was saying things like “La da de da de da da, ha whee a ho, ha whee a ho, ha whee a day,” then Steady Eddie would answer on the saxophone and before you knew it, the two of them were having a regular conversation.
Every once in a while Mr. Jimmy’s trumpet would come in and put his two cents’ worth in, then it would fade away. All the other instruments took turns trying to interrupt the conversation, but in the end it was Miss Thomas’s voice and Steady’s saxophone doing the talking that you really wanted to listen to.
Finally Miss Thomas did a bunch more “Doe de doe de doe de bahs” and Steady answered, then, just when you thought you could understand this language they were talking, Miss Thomas broke out in American, she sang,
“We haven’t met since then, gee, but it’s nice to see you again,” she said, “nice to see you, to see you again,” and the storm was over. The last thing you could hear was the rain from the Thug and the thunder from Herman B. Calloway getting farther and farther away, like the storm had gone and blowed itself over into the next county.
Then it was dead quiet. I let the mop fall over and clapped as loud as I could and said, “Wow!”
Miss Thomas stood up and did one of those curtsey bows.
I clapped louder. I could see now why this band got to have six exclamation points behind their name!
WE GOT IN TWO CARS to drive for a hour and a half north of Grand Rapids. We were headed to a dinky town called Mecosta. I got to ride with the band while Mr. Jimmy and Herman B. Calloway and the instruments were riding in the Packard. Miss Thomas stayed back at Grand Calloway Station. I’d been living with Miss Thomas and the band for about seven days and this was already my third trip on the road.
The band was doing their next favorite thing to playing music, they were teasing each other and talking about Herman B. Calloway behind his back.
The Thug said to Dirty Deed, “I’d be offended, man, and I ain’t trying to say that you ain’t good on the eighty-eights, but you know the only reason you got this gig is ’cause you’re Dutch, you’re white and you don’t have the strongest personality in the world.”
Deed said, “Yeah, well, such is life. You think I’m going to give up the best gig in the state just ’cause you’d be offended? Take a look out the window, baby, there’s a depression going on. How many folks you see living like us, Negro or white? Not many. That man may have his faults but he’s a struggler, I’m putting my hat in with him.”
Eddie looked at me and said, “Bud, Mr. C. has always got a white fella in the band, for practical reasons. But we don’t hold his skin color against him, he can’t help that he was born that way.”
Deed said, “You’re just too kind, Edward.”
Eddie kept talking, “We do that ’cause the boy can play, Mr. C. won’t compromise on his music.”
I said, “Why does he always keep one white guy in the band?”
Deed said, “It’s the way of the world, Sleepy. It’s against the law for a Negro to own any property out where the Log Cabin is so Mr. C. put it in my name.”
Eddie said, “That, and a lot of times we get gigs playing polkas and waltzes and a lot of these white folks wouldn’t hire us if they knew we were a Negro band so Deed goes out and sets up everything.”
“But what do they say when the Dusky Devastators show up?”
Deed said, “Well, it’s too late for them to say anything then, it’s us or no music.”
Eddie said, “And Mr. C. tells them if we aren’t the best band they’d ever had then they don’t have to pay. We haven’t been stiffed yet.”
With all the arguing and jokes about Mr. C., the trip seemed real short. We unloaded all of the instruments and waited for nighttime to come.
I’d heard the band play and practice a thousand times and still had to just about sit on my hands when they were finished so I wouldn’t bust out clapping.
We finished our set at a little place called the Laughing Jackass and I got to sleep right onstage to guard the instruments. The next morning I was packing everything into the cases when I got some real bad news.
Herman B. Calloway told Mr. Jimmy, “I’ma stay and catch up with Eugene, you head back with the boys.” The man who owned the club, Mr. Eugene Miller, used to be in one of Mr. C.’s bands.
Mr. Jimmy said, “Bud, take your time loading everything into the Packard and you can ride back with Herman.”
Uh-oh. Me and Mr. C. looked at each other like this wasn’t a good idea. He said, “Whatever,” and walked back to the club’s office.
Shucks, a whole hour and a half trapped in a car with him.
I loaded all of the instruments into the Packard, sat on a big rock and took out my recorder to practice. I could hear Mr. C. and Mr. Miller talking and laughing for the longest time.
At last Herman B. Calloway came out and walked over to the side of the building and started nudging things around with the toe of his shoe. I walked over to watch what he was doing.
When I got next to him I could see that it was just rocks he was pushing around. Finally he grunted a couple of times and started to bend over but his big belly got in the way and wouldn’t let his arms reach to the ground. After a bunch more grunts he said, “Make yourself useful, boy, and hand me this one.”
“This what, sir?”
“This stone, this one.”
Right at the end of Mr. C.’s shiny brown shoe was a little roundish rock. I bent over to pick it up, blew some dirt off of it and turned it over a couple of times in my hand to try and see why Mr. C. thought it was so special. The only thing that I could tell was that he’d picked a perfect throwing rock, the exact same kind of rock I’d use if I was about to chunk someone in the head. I dropped it into his hand.
He didn’t look at it or nothing, he just stuck it in his pocket and I heard it bang up against some silver dollars.
I kept my nose out of his business for as long as I could then had to say, “Mr. C., wasn’t that just a rock?”
“Sure was.” He started walking back to the Packard. I followed.
There were a million ways to ask what I wanted to know and I chose the worst one when I said, “What in Sam Hill are you going to do with a doggone rock?” It sounded a lot meaner than I wanted it to but I was really surprised that Mr. C. would want a old rock.
He climbed in on one side of the Packard and I climbed in on the other. After he stuck the key in the dashboard he said, “Bad habit.”
Then he leaned over toward me and opened the glove box of the car. There weren’t any gloves or maps or papers in the box, just a bunch of perfect throwing rocks. They all looked like they had writing on them.
I reached in and took one of the rocks out. Written on the back of it was “idlewild m. 5.2.36.” I took another one and it said “preston in. 6.4.36.” These were just like my rocks! I took one more and it said, “chicago il. 3.19.32.”
I looked over to Mr. C. and said, “I’ve got some of these, sir.”
He said, “Hmmm.”
“Really, I’ve got some too.”
He looked at me, shifted his pipe away from the talking side of his mouth and said, “Bud, I know you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but those are found all over the world. In fact, they’re about as common as rocks.”
I almost didn’t answer him but since I didn’t want to look so stupid I said, “Yes, sir, but mine have writing and numbers on them too.”
He said, “Hmmm.”
We kept driving. Finally I said to him, “You don’t believe me, I’ll show you.”
I dropped his three rocks back into the glove box and closed it, then climbed over the front seat to get at my sax case. I found it and set it on the backseat and unlocked it. As soon as I opened the top that smell of old spit and crumbling-up velvet and mildew came rushing out, it was still great. I lifted the little door that covered my rocks and took two of them ou
t. I climbed back over the front seat but kept the rocks covered in my hand—if he was going to see these he was going to have to ask first. I crossed my arms across my chest and waited.
It’s a good thing I’ve got lots of patience ’cause I waited a long, long time.
When we finally got back to Grand Calloway Station Mr. Jimmy helped us unload the car.
Finally I decided that Mr. C. had waited long enough. I stuck my rocks in his face and said, “See, I told you I had some rocks like those, the only difference is mine say, ‘flint m dot eight dot eleven dot eleven’ and ‘gary in dot six dot thirteen dot twelve.’ ”
He said, “Where did you find these? Didn’t I tell you not to do any rummaging around in that room you been sleeping in?”
He reached for the rocks. I don’t know why, but I let him take them. He was the first person other than Bugs that I’d ever let touch the rocks that my momma had give to me.
Mr. C. turned the rocks over and over in his hands and said, “Well? Where’d you get these?”
Uh-oh, I could tell by the way Herman B. Calloway was holding my rocks that he didn’t plan on giving them back to me anytime soon. I kept watching his hand, waiting for a chance to snatch my rocks and get out of there.
If I could get my hands back on my rocks I knew I could outrun Mr. C. even though he was a lot stronger and his legs were a lot longer than mine.
Herman E. Calloway said, “Answer me, where’d you take these from?”
Mr. C. sounded meaner than he ever had before. Mr. Jimmy heard him and put down the box he was carrying and walked over to us real quick.
Herman B. Calloway had the rocks squeezed tight in his right-hand fist and had his left-hand fist balled up like he was ready to fight.
Mr. Jimmy said, “Herman? What’s this? What’s wrong?” He stood between me and Mr. C.
Herman B. Calloway said, “I told you about this boy from the word go. He’s been snooping through things in the house that he’s got no business being in, he stole these.”
I said, “No, sir, I did not.”
Mr. C. said, “Then where’d you get them? I’m not going to ask you again.” He unsqueezed the rocks in his hand. I was surprised they hadn’t turned into diamonds or dust the way he’d been holding them so tight.
Bud, Not Buddy Page 14