The Jazz Kid

by James Lincoln Collier

  THE JAZZ KID

  Copyright © 1994 by James Lincoln Collier

  All rights reserved.

  First ebook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  978-1-62064-651-9 Trade

  978-0-7927-9784-5 Library

  Cover photo © Anna Bryukhanova/iStock.com

  ******

  OTHER EBOOKS BY JAMES LINCOLN COLLIER:

  Chipper

  The Corn Raid

  The Dreadful Revenge of Ernest Gallen

  The Empty Mirror

  Give Dad My Best

  It’s Murder at St. Baskets

  Me and Billy

  My Crooked Family

  Outside Looking In

  Planet Out of the Past

  Rich and Famous

  Rock Star

  The Teddy Bear Habit

  When the Stars Begin to Fall

  Wild Boy

  The Winchesters

  The Worst of Times

  For Tristan

  ******

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Readers should be warned that I have used in this book a few racial and ethnic nicknames, such as “nigger” and “Chink.” Today these terms are considered insulting and are generally avoided. But at the time this story took place, they were standard usage in common speech. I have included them for the sake of historical accuracy and because one of the themes of the book is the racial attitudes of the time, but that does not indicate that I encourage their use.

  Contents

  Map of Downtown Chicago – Jazz Age Sites

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  How Much of this Book Is True?

  THE WAY IT started was, when I was twelve and going into the seventh grade. A couple of days before the Fourth of July, my big brother, John, found out there would be a parade over on Halsted Street. He told Ma he’d take me over if she gave us each a dime for ice cream. Ma said John shouldn’t be so greedy for money, he should take me over for nothing, but in the end she gave us each a nickel and we went.

  Well, it was a peach all right, that parade. There was a mess of soldiers in brown uniforms marching with their guns held just so and their legs scissoring along together. There were a couple of touring cars filled with old fellas in suits who were left over from some war I was supposed to know about but didn’t; and a whole slew of bands coming along one after another, so that the music from one hadn’t died out before the next one took up. For a little while you could hear them both at once, playing different songs at different speeds. John said, “They ought to space the bands out more so you couldn’t hear two at once.”

  But I liked hearing two bands at once. It gave me a thrill up my back for some reason. I don’t know why it did, it just did. “What’s wrong with hearing two bands at once, John?”

  “You can’t hear the songs right if they both come together.” John was three years older than me and got A’s in everything at school.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “I like it that way.”

  “You would, Paulie,” John said. “That’s why you always flunk at school.”

  I still didn’t care. I liked hearing them that way, so I stood there as each band passed listening hard for the next one, and sure enough, in about a minute I’d begin to pick up the music of the next band, playing a different song. For a little while there I’d be able to hear both bands at once. I’d close my eyes and listen, just to get that thrill. Then the first band would die out and I’d open my eyes again.

  I had them open down toward the end of the parade, when along came a band of kids around my age—maybe a little older. They were wearing the snazziest uniforms I ever did see—on a kid at least— red jackets with gold buttons, blue trousers with gold stripes down the legs, caps with gold initials stitched into them. All of them tootling away on shiny trombones and cornets, banging on golden cymbals and big fat drums. They looked as famous as could be.

  Oh, how I wanted to be in that band. Oh, how I wanted to be right down there in the middle of all that confusion of red and gold, the shininess of things, the banging and booming and tootling, the scissoring legs, and the sound of two different songs going on at the same time.

  Finally it was over. I looked at John. “John, do you think Ma and Pa would let me get into a band?”

  “Pa wouldn’t. Ma might. She might figure it would teach you to discipline yourself.”

  “Maybe it would.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn to discipline myself.

  “You’d have to practice your instrument.”

  “I could make myself practice.” I wasn’t sure about that, either. But it might be worth it.

  John laughed. “Paulie, Ma and Pa have been trying to teach you to discipline yourself all your life. Pa says it’s like trying to teach a frog to play the banjo.”

  I gave him a look. “You’ll see, John.” But I couldn’t really tell John the truth about it, because he’d give me a funny look. Pa had got his mind made up that me and John would come into the plumbing business with him as soon as we finished our schooling, get married, and have nice homes the way he did. John was all for it. “Pa’s done the hard part,” he always said. “We’ll be walking into a good thing.” That was right. Pa had come up hard and had to go to work at twelve. Back when John was little Pa worked fourteen, fifteen hours a day to build the business up. They used to live in an apartment with a toilet down the hall. Now we had a nice apartment with an inside bathroom, not down the hall, or out in the backyard, like the Flynns; and a carpet on the living-room floor and lampshades with fringes on them. John liked the idea of all that.

  But it was too planned out for me. I wasn’t the type of person who liked things planned out. Pa and John were. Pa was always making lists of things he had to do. He was always on us to make lists, too, and John would, at least sometimes. But I didn’t—I just didn’t like the idea of making lists. Oh, I knew I should. But how could you get yourself to like doing something when you didn’t like doing it?

  But I liked the idea of being in that band all right, all red and gold, whamming and banging, and two songs going at the same time. So that night at supper I brought it up. Like John figured, Pa was dead set against it. He said, “You never took anything serious in your life. You do lousy at school, you leave your clothes all over the floor, you never remember to take the garbage down. I’m not having you waste your time over music until you get serious about the important things. Look at John—why can’t you be more like him?”

  I wished Pa wouldn’t say that all the time. Pa was fair, and only spanked me a few times when I was little and richly deserved it, the way Ma put it. And he only docked my allowance when I richly deserved it, too, which was often enough, for I was already into January and it was only July But he had only one way of looking at things, and it was John’s way, not mine.

  The funny thing is, if Pa had been all for my taking up music, I probably would have lost interest in it. But the more he argued against it, the more determined I got. When you got down to it, I could have already been studying music. Back when I was in the third grade Ma could already see I wasn’t going to be the student type, like John. To cheer herself up about me, she decided maybe I was more the artistic type. Pa said if she meant by that I was bone lazy, she was probably right. “What that boy needs is to have his fanny tanned,” he said. “Why can’t he fo
llow John’s example?”

  “Well, he isn’t like John,” Ma said. “Paulie’s got his own view of things. There’s nothing wrong with being artistic. Look at Norman Rockwell. Millions of people love his magazine covers and I betcha he makes a ton of money.”

  Pa grumbled about it, but Ma had got her mind made up that I should take piano lessons. Pa said, “Paulie don’t need to take up the piano until he starts doing good in school.”

  “Paulie doesn’t,” Ma said. Pa was smart enough, but he was brought up hard. Anyway, Ma had her way, and every Wednesday afternoon I went to Miss Quintana’ s and clanged away at the piano. I kind of liked some of that, too—though not the exercises. I couldn’t work up much interest in playing scales over and over. But it was a lot of fun to just sort of fool around on the keyboard, trying out different things to see what they sounded like. It wasn’t up to throwing stones at cats with Rory Flynn, or stealing chips of ice off the ice wagon, but it was interesting enough. And it might have took, but we didn’t have a piano at home. Pa said he wasn’t going to shell out five dollars a week for a piano just so Paulie would have a place to park his used chewing gum. What I got instead was a piece of cardboard with a life-size piano keyboard printed on it. Every night I had to unfold it across the kitchen table and practice scales on it. It was the emptiest thing I ever did—even Ma could see that—but Pa said it suited him just fine, he’d always been partial to music you couldn’t hear. If we’d had a real piano I could have fooled around on, I’d have stuck with it—practiced the scales enough to keep Miss Quintana content and fooled around the rest of the time. But we didn’t. So I lost interest and finally Ma saw it wasn’t any good and let me quit. But those lessons with Miss Quintana paid off in the end, for when I finally got interested in music I had a head start.

  So I knew that Ma thought I was the artistic type, and I might be able to talk her into letting me join a band. If I convinced her, she’d get around Pa somehow.

  Ma had a soft spot for me. I think she figured out a long time ago that I was on a different track from other people, and she allowed for it. “You’re not a bad boy, Paulie,” she’d say. “Just got a mind of your own. But you’ve got to understand how it looks to other people.”

  But talking her into it wasn’t going to be easy, for I hadn’t stuck to the piano lessons and she wouldn’t believe I’d stick to the band, either. So I said, “Ma, taking up an instrument would probably teach me to discipline myself, the way Pa always says.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” she said.

  “You sound like Santa Claus,” I said.

  “Well you better keep it in mind I’m not.”

  “Honest, Ma, it would teach me self-discipline. I’d have to practice and all.” I still felt uneasy about that. There wasn’t any way I could be in a band if I didn’t practice. Would I be able to make myself do it? Or would I get discouraged by something like the cardboard keyboard?

  “Fat chance you’d practice. You didn’t before when we were paying twenty-five cents a week for piano lessons.”

  So I said, “Honest, Ma, I would. How could I practice on a cardboard piano?” She gave me her squinty look. “There’s something fishy going on here, Paulie. You’ve got something in mind.”

  “No I haven’t, Ma. I haven’t got anything in mind. I just want to get into a band.” I couldn’t tell her it was those flashing colors and that shiny confusion that got me. She’d never understand that.

  “I don’t trust it,” she said. “I never saw the time before when you set out to make work for yourself.”

  “Please, Ma.”

  “Oh, all right, Paulie. I’ll talk to your pa about it.” I could tell she knew she shouldn’t have given in, but she had that soft spot for me. She waggled her finger at me. “I’m not promising anything. I’ll see. You better start getting good marks in school.”

  To tell the truth, sometimes I wished I did better at school. It would be more comfortable to be a good kid like John and do things right. But I couldn’t make myself. Sitting in school, I’d order myself to memorize all the raw materials of someplace nobody ever heard of, like Costa Rica; and the next thing I knew I’d have shaded in with my pencil the O and A’s in Costa Rica, and Miss Hassler would be screaming at me for defacing school property.

  Or I’d tell myself to carry the garbage down carefully; and then I’d start studying the way my shadow got bigger and smaller as I passed under the hall light and suddenly there’ d be orange peels, egg shells, and coffee grounds all over the hall.

  Or hang up my clothes—there’s a good example. The truth was, I didn’t like it when my pants and shirts were hung up in a neat row in the closet; I liked it a whole lot better when they were scattered around the room—one shoe under the bed, sock on the floor by the bureau, shirt crumpled up on the table where we did our homework. How could a kid like that ever do good in school, even if it would be more comfortable?

  I HELD MY breath. There was no telling if Ma would be able to get around Pa or not. I spent a whole afternoon—well, half an afternoon—hanging up my clothes and cleaning up my room, I took the garbage down without spilling it, I even got seventy-eight on my spelling test. I thought about changing it up to eighty-eight, which I could have done easy, but there was a limit on how bad a kid I was willing to be.

  In the end it was Rory Flynn who got me into the band. I wasn’t supposed to know that, but I did, for one night when they thought I was asleep I heard them talking about it in the kitchen.

  Pa said, “If Paulie hasn’t got nothing better to do in the afternoons he could sharpen some chisels for me. Or do some schoolwork for a change.”

  Ma said something, but I couldn’t hear it exactly. So I got out of bed, cracked open our door, and crouched there, listening. Oh, I knew it was wrong to spy; but it was me they were talking about, wasn’t it?

  Pa said, “Or clean up his room. You can’t hardly walk in there without stepping on something. He has more clothes laying on his floor than I had the whole time I was growing up.”

  “I told him to pick up his clothes until I was blue in the face,” Ma said. “It’s like talking to a wall.”

  “You should talk to his fanny for him. He might see the point.”

  “You’re off the subject, Frank,” Ma said. “When was the last time Paulie came around begging for a chance to accomplish something?”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he said, “You got something there.”

  “For another thing, it’d keep him from spending so much time with Rory Flynn.”

  “Flynn? Peggy Flynn’s kid?”

  “The same,” Ma said.

  “Jesus,” Pa said.

  It surprised me that Ma knew about me and Rory being pals. I never talked about Rory at home, for Mrs. Flynn drank beer and there wasn’t any Mr. Flynn. Somebody must have told Ma about me and Rory. Anyway, that was why Pa decided I could join a band—so I wouldn’t spend so much time with Rory.

  In a way, I kind of envied Rory. He didn’t come from a decent home—no carpet on the floor, didn’t sit down to a regular supper every night, but got a quarter from his ma and went down to the delicatessen for stuff. But his ma wasn’t always on him about his homework, picking up his clothes and stuff, and he didn’t have any pa planning his life for him. You could see why Ma and Pa didn’t appreciate me hanging around with Rory.

  Of course Ma didn’t tell me the idea of joining the band was to keep me away from Rory. She said, “Your pa’s dead set against it, Paulie. I told him I’d make you promise to do better in school and if you didn’t, that was the end of the band.” She bent down so she could stare me straight in the eye—no squinty look this time. “Do you understand that, Paulie? If you don’t do better in school, no more band.”

  Well, I didn’t know if I’d be able to do better in school or not, but I figured I’d worry about that later. The important thing was I was going to be in a band, marching along clanging and banging and being famous. It seemed like just the greate
st thing. I was excited as could be.

  A couple of days later Ma took me over to Hull House, which was near our neighborhood at Polk and South Halsted. Hull House was a real fancy place where they put on all kinds of things for kids— and grown-ups, too. The idea was to help the greenhorns get settled in America. They had English classes, cooking classes, sewing classes. They put on plays, they had sports, they had poetry and painting classes. And of course they had a boys’ band. When you got down to it, Ma was right: a lot of it had to do with keeping kids out of mischief.

  Hull House was made up of three or four buildings. The one for music was called Bowen Hall. We went down to the band room, where they were having a rehearsal—a whole slew of kids sitting on long benches with their music stands in front of them, tootling. And right away I was disappointed, for the kids weren’t wearing uniforms, just their plain school clothes—knee pants and such. Most likely they were saving them up for parades. Still, it was a disappointment.

  On top of it, the band director was mighty bossy. He had a mustache, his coat off, his sleeves rolled back, waving his stick around. The kids would tootle away for a minute and then the director would whack at his music stand with his stick and the whole thing would grind to a stop. “You’re all hopeless,” he’d shout. “Doesn’t anyone here know what pianissimo means? I’ve heard cannons softer than that.” He’d raise the stick up. “Take it from letter C,” and off they’d go again, banging and crashing like a herd of elephants on a rampage. I never heard such a racket.

  This guy looked like he was tougher than Pa. How long would I be able to stand being bossed around by him before I started ducking out of practice? But it was too late for second thoughts—not after I begged Ma so hard to take up music.

  After a while the director got tired of slashing at the air and telling the kids they were hopeless, and took a break. Ma brought me up to him. It turned out his name was James Sylvester. He looked me up and down. “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Paulie Horvath,” Ma said. “He’s desperate to play in a band.”