Listen
So I’m walkin’ down th’ street, groovin’ and movin’ and singin’ and swingin’ an’ tapping my shoes to the music of th’ city, I got this music porin’ out o’ my head and I can’t stop, I’m jumpin’ and jivin’ and I can’t stop, no sirree bob! Steam’s pourin’ out of the street vents with a hiss, streetcar rumblin’ with a clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clackity-click, cabbies honkin’ their horns and I’m just swingin’ my way all the way down to work, I got my fingers tappin’ and my head boppin’ and my steps a skippin’ cause I got the music in my head today, and ain’t nuthin’ gonna make it go away!
I dance my way down Carlton,‘till 43rd, where I skip a right, and head for the subway. I hold up at Belle’s flower stand, cause she’s my honey (only she don’t know!), shufflin’ my feet in place as she helps some stodgy ol’ man in his fancy grey suit, who don’t hear the words I hum under my breath. She’s a cutie, got her brown hair tucked carefully behind th’ ears, her green apron tied sharp-like with a bow in front, cause the straps wrap all way ‘round her. Stodge-podge doddles off, so I sing out:
“Girl, whatchoo got fo’ me today?”
“Hi, Davey! Well, let me see now….”
“Anything’ll doooo, so long as its been touched by youuuu,” I sing quietly, tappin’ my fingers on the counter top.
“Oh, stop being silly.” She calls over her shoulder. “Here, I’ve got some daffodils left. Let me see your hat.”
Grippin’ the brim of my old wool golfin’ cap, I spin it down fo’ her, nice an’ easy. She pins a flashin’ yellow flower on and hands it back. I stick out my neck, and she sets it on my head, gigglin’. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Crazy for you, miss, tha’s all!”, and she blushes red roses.
“Oh, get out of here. Have a nice day!”
She waves as I skip off, singin’ to myself about my heart, cause its ‘bout to bump its way out o’ m’chest! I jimmy my way ‘cross the street, hustlin through traffic, snapping my fingers to the offbeats of the horns blaring at me cause they think they’re in such a rush. Waltzin’ my way down into the dirty gray station, two steps down, one step back, a snap, snap, snap, go my fingers. Jules is down in the station, wailing on his sax, playin’ to the people who trudge by wit’ grim looks. I dig deep in my right pocket, nope, left pocket, nope, and so I says to him:
“Jules, its gonna hafta be IOU, cause I need somethin’ snazzy to dance away all th’ music in m’head today!”
He laughs from deep in his big ol’ belly. “Anythin’ you need, m’boy,” and starts blaring the snazziest thing you ever done heard.
It starts in my fingers, just that lil’ snappin’, then before I know it, I got my toes a tappin’, then my knees a jitterin’ an’ my shoulders bouncin’, and once my hips start swingin’ I’m lost to the world. People look at me funny, but tha’s just cause they jealous. They gotsta go to work, and I get to dance my happiness away fo’ a bit until I hear my train comin’ so I snatch up my bag, and fly down the concrete stairs, Jules’ sax sending me on m’way. I jump on the L Train to downtown, squeezin’ b’tween men in suits and black briefcases, red ties,blue slacks, holdin’ them flutterin’ newspapers.
Tunnel lights whizz by
as I tap my fingers quietly. They don’t like it much when I sing on the train,
so I make up words to myself in my head. Shoo-boo-da-doo-dado-dat-dat-
I jog up the stairs (three up, one back) and back into the crispy air. Skyscrapers tower over me, and like every mornin’, I stop and look round fo’ a bit. People swoosh by me, scurryin’ to work, cause they don’t got the time, and the cold wind blows through the big buildin’s, makin’ my flower shiver. I got my scarf on today, so I’m okay, and my jacket’s got holes but it’s okay, so I guess I’m gonna be jus’ fine.
I stride down Washington until 103rd, where I skip a left, and up one block to the corner of Macalister. Donnie’s Diner is the name, and flippin’ burgers is m’game, yeah, I thought o’ that one m’self. They call me “the frycook” even though I don’t cook the fries, see, Freddy just sits ‘em in oil and lets ‘em bake. Nah I cook on the grill in the back with th’ smoke and th’ grit and th’ grime and th’ grease and I like it.
Donnie’s a nice guy, and he likes me. S’pose he thinks I’m funny or somethin’, it don’t matta, I think he’s funny too: he plops himself up behind the counter, takin’ orders, givin’ orders, yellin’ and hollerin’ and he don’t move ‘til lunchtime, and tha’s Donnie’s favorite time o’ the day. He don’t hear all the music I do, but he understands me, even when he gets mad sometimes.
“Davey, what the hell’re you singin’ about?” he’ll say. “It’s a damned Monday for Chrissake.” I’ll laugh at him, and keep on hummin’, an’ flippin’ and havin’ a good ol’ time. I laugh and laugh, cause he don’t know what I’m singin’ about. Sometimes I make up songs about Donnie, cause he’s a porky sun-of-a-gun, bless his heart, and lotsa good words rhyme with porky.
Today’s a Friday (Donnie love’s Fridays) so when I open the door with a jangle he booms out from behind the counter: “Boy, you 3 minutes late again!” but he’s grinnin’ and so I grin right back.
“Even you be hearin’ the music, Donnie, its all ova’ today!”
“Git to work, ya damn fool, I don’t hear nuthin,” but he taps his fat fingers on the counter, so I know he’s lyin’.
“Ooh, Donnie, I think you fibbin’, I think you might be catchin’ it too.”
“What?”
“Its Friday feva’ Donnie, we ALL crazy!” I shout back as I march down the hall to the workroom. There’s a lil’ locker room back here with a bench, and I sit my bag down, take off my hat and place it carefully in locker number 7 (that’s mine), cause I don’t want to mess up my flower, and pull out my yellow apron, two sizes too big. I sinch it up good so I won’t trip, and put on my white cookin’ hat, and head ova’ t’the grill, ready for grillin’.
Donnie’s opens at 11 on Fridays, and the orders don’t really start comin’ ‘till 12, so fo’ a bit I got nuthin’ t’do, ‘cept pull out the lettuce and tomatoes and onions and the tubs o’ mustard and ketchup and relish. I’m done by quarter past, so now its jus’ Donnie and me and few customers until noon. The grill’s hot, so I wait. Donnie huddles over the books, mutterin’ to himself an’ makin’ marks with a pencil, tappin’ lightly with his thumb when he’s thinkin’ of numbers, holdin’ his chubby chin in his hands.
Once the orders start comin’, Donnie sends ‘em flyin’ at me fast an’ heavy, “Cheeseburger, hold da pickle, Davey, no pickles!”, “Double ham, double cheese!”, “Straight up, hamburger wit’ th’ works!” an’ like magic I catch all those words in my head while the grill sizzles hot and the steam rises and the flames lick up and I scramble all over th’ place singin’ to nobody in particular.
My shift ends at eight on Friday, cause I got places t’ be and people t’ see. I unstrap that bright yellow apron, trade for my wool cap, and open up the bag I carried with me t’ work. Inside I got all m’ nice clothes, cause tonight we’re playin’ down at the Sundance, a nice lil’ speakeasy ova’ on th’ Wes’side. I got my blue striped shirt, and my black slacks and my shiny wing-tips all polished nice fo’ the occasion, an’ my lucky drum sticks, and a nice lil’ bow tie I borrowed from my friend Reggie, cause he’s got two. Reginald Wilson, tha’s his name, plays the keys, and Angela sings while Pete slaps on the walkin’ bass and I tap away on the drums.
Once I’m all slicked up, I take my little duffle and stash it in my locker, and march right up t’ the front all spiffed up and feelin’ like magic. Donnie don’t even look up, but I know he’s grinnin’ something’ foolish, porky loon, but I don’t pay no mind and tap a little tune for him on the counter with my sticks as I walk out into the big city.
I meet up wit’ Reggie on the corner of 86th and Mason, and he’s been waitin’ fo’ a bit, so he’s got a cigarette out and he’s smokin’ up a nice little cloud fo’ hisself under the light from a streetlamp. He smiles big once he sees it’s me comin’:
“Heeeeeey, Davey!”
“Hey, Reg,” and we shake hands like gentlemen is supposed to. “Buddy, I gotta tell you, I been feelin’ this music all day, is just in m’head an’ it won’t get out!”
Reggie and me been playin’ togetha’ fo’ years, so he knows whats up. “Ooh, tha’s good, tha’s good, cause we fit to make some good money on tonights lil’ shindig,” and he slaps his big ol’ piano playin’ hands together and laughs from his belly. “You be alright, man, lets go get Angela.”
Angela’s ova’ on 28th an’ Frederick, so Reggie hails us a cab, cause he’s got some money these days, and we ride off through traffic, me bouncin’ my knees and tappin’ my fingers like always, and Reg jus’ starin’ out the window at the city lights.
The cabbie pulls to the curb in front of the St. Francis Hotel, and Angela climbs into the backseat between me and Reggie. “Boys, how’re we doing?” She smiles at me, and gives me a peck on th’ cheek. “Boy, where’d you get a silly lookin’ thing like that…” and before I can say a word she’s reached up an’ plucked the dandy-whatchamacallit off my hat and tossed it on the cab floor. “Much better,” and she turns to talk to Reggie.
I guess she’s right, musta looked pretty silly seein’ a grown man walk around wit’ that all day, so I try not to look at it lyin’ all lonely there on the floor, but I keep thinkin’ ‘bout Belle, and I start feelin’ real lonesome without it, so when we pull up to the Sundance, I sneak it off the floor and hide it in my pocket.
Pete hasn’t shown yet, so we’re waiting outside fo’ him, but it’s getting’ mighty cold, so we head on over to the door, thinkin’ we’ll wait inside. Tiny Tim is managing the door tonight, an’ see, Tiny Tim is a bit of a joke, cause Tim’s at least six foot an’ a half and built like a bull, so he makes sure no riff-raff come bustin’ in. He knows us, but he gotta do the same wit’ everyone, so he looks at Reggie all firm like, an says, “ ’Cuse me, sah, anythin’ I can help you with?” polite as can be in a deep, rough voice.
“Seems to me that Ernie’s in need of a haircut, don’t you think?”
I can barely contain m’self (who thinks up these silly passwords anyways?) but Tim don’t flinch a bit at hearin’ somethin’ so stupid, and directs us down a small stairwell, down into lights and magic and music.
Everybody comes to the Sundance on Friday, the dance floor is full o’ people dressed to th’ nines, women wearin’ fancy coats and stockin’s and wit’ their hair all bobbed up and fixed jus’ right, men in fancy slacks and ties, twirlin’ girls ‘round. Bobby and his gang are swingin’ somethin nice up onstage, and my fingers start snappin’ like you don’t know. Reggie and Angela head ova’ to the bar arm in arm, so I just stand there, eyes closed drinkin’ it all in, decidin’: This is why I live, to hear sounds like this.
Pete’s a no-show tonight, so we’re goin’ on as a trio, which feels a little weird fo’ a bit, but we settle down an’ Reggie starts hittin’ some of the bass part in his left hands and Angela’s swoonin’ up front, and I’m jus’ tip-tappin-tip-tappin away, and pretty soon Reggie takes a nice solo, and lays out all these beautiful melodies, and then he points to me and its my turn, while he drops out to just play the low notes. I get started slowly, a little roll here, a swish here, a couple a beats on the toms, and then I just start heatin’ up and everythin’ melts away and I close my eyes and just feel this music jus’ flowin’ through me like water, like cool water on a hot summer day, and I’m buildin’ up and up, nice and slow, and pretty soon flailin’ and wailin’ and tearin’ up those drums, and crashin’ and bashin’ on th’ cymbols and suddenly a voice booms out of nowhere, out over the beautiful sounds:
“STOP!”
So I do. The room is silent, dead silent.
An’ then pand’monium breaks, a wave crashing over frozen souls, and everybody is yellin’ this and that and what have you, and I’m just sittin’ there with drumsticks in my hands and my mouth wide open, going what in God’s name isgoing on? while bottles whizz by m’ head and chairs get trampled and smashed and bashed and dashed on the ol’ concrete floor. Women is screamin’ and men is hollerin’ like fools, and Reggie runs by yelling “Get out, Davey, we gotta get out!” and I look at him like he’s crazy, cause he sure seems like he’s crazy, and then I spin over to my right and realize, maybe he ain’t so crazy after all.
The biggest bulldog of a policeman you ever done seen is starin’ me in the face, and let me tell you, he actually looks a bit pleased t’ see me. “You’re gonna catch trouble now, you damn nigger!” he bellows, and while I scramble backwards off my stool, he charges like a runaway train. Before I know it, Im kissin’ concrete, and this big ol’ goon is sittin’ on me yellin’ and hollerin’ and makin’ a big ol’ fuss, and I’m tryin’ t’breath and I just wanna figure out what in tarnation has just happened to me, cause I feel like a trussed up turkey, and my chest hurt somethin’ awful, and would this damn silly fool get up offa me so I could explain fo’ a sec.
“Hol’ up, hol’ up, whatchoo doin’ t’me?” I manage to squeeze out of my little lungs but Goony don’t answer, just slaps a pair ‘o cold, metal cuffs on m’ wrists and yanks me t’ my feet. “Yeeeow, buddy, whatchoo doin, whats goin on?” Now I’m getting’ a little worried cause this man ain’t showin’ no signs o’ respondin’, and I see my little yellow flower sittin’ on the stage cause it fell outta my pocket, and he’s dragging me off the stairs, he’s wrenchin’ my arm this way and thataway and I’m a hollerin’ and a yellin’ and squirmin’ and he’s draggin’me out to th’ paddy wagon and I’m singin’ out No No No! an’ he keeps on a wrenchin’ Yes Yes Yes! an’ everyone’s runnin’ out ‘o th’ way, and I get m’ foot jammed in the doorway jus’ scramblin’ an’ he says “Crazy damn negro!” and his baton come down hard an’ th’ world turn black.
Ooooh, boy, m’ head hurts somethin’ awful, gosh darn it, I try’n take my hand up to feel th’ lump swellin’ up right and pretty, but m’ wrists is chained to the side o’ th’ wagon and I can’t do nuthin’. Its all dark in here, and I’m all alone, so I says “Hello?” jus’ t’make sure. Nope, jus’ me, all by my lonesome. Reggie and Angela is gone, everybody’s gone and is jus’ me and my tied up hands and my lumpy head gettin’ thrown cross the back as th’ truck whips ‘round turns. So I try singin’ cause singin’ always got me through the rough times; but the words don’t come. Im feelin’ down so I hum to m’self the blues, but the blues is off key. My legs are shakin’ all over the place, won’t even tap me out a nice little rythem to sooth my nerves. So Im sittin’ in silence and I dunno what’ll happen once the doors pop open and that crazy Goony gets back at me and maybe he’ll hit me again. So I keep sittin’ in the dark and when th’ truck stops they open the doors and the bright light pours in from the flashlight an’ they tell me to shut the hell up. But I don’t hear nuthin’.