Ben spoke up, surprising everyone a little, I thought. “Something worse than stealing a booking. Or even an act,” he said. “Anyone ever hear of Sauer and Kraut?”
“I think maybe I did,” said old John. From other front stoops up and down the quiet street—no cars yet, not a one—quiet laughter and voices. From somewhere across the street, piano music from an open window. “Sauer and Kraut were strictly small-time,” Ben said. “German comedians: the little derbies, the padded stomachs, the awful accents, the pratfalls. Small small-time.”
Across the street a woman’s voice joined the piano notes, and she sang, as we all paused to listen, “When the town is fast asleep . . . And it’s midnight in the sky . . . That’s the time the festive Chink . . . starts to wink his other eye . . . Starts to wink his dreamy eye. Lazily you’ll hear him sigh, Chinatown, my Chinatown, when the lights are low . . .”
Down the street under the nearest streetlamp, a pair of men in street clothes stood practicing a balancing act, one on the other’s shoulders. “But Sauer and Kraut wanted to move up,” Ben said, “so they bought a new act. A lot better stuff than anything they had. They rehearsed it, tried it out, and got booked.” A boy came noisily down the center of the street on a contraption made from a two-by-four, roller-skate wheels nailed to each end, a box nailed upright to the front, a tin can “headlight” nailed to that. One foot on the two-by-four, he pushed himself along with the other. He stopped to watch the balancing act. “ . . . almond eyes of brown. Hearts seem light and life seems bright, in dreamy Chinatown . . .”
“I was on the same bill they were,” Ben went on. “At the Adelphi? In Guthrie?”
Al said, “Guthrie next week, and I don’t drink.”
“I never played Guthrie, but I played Norman,” said Dolores. “Before we were married, I was booked in Cleburne, Texas, by Swor Brothers of Dallas. I took the week for less money than I’d been receiving on account of it was a short jump. I was led to believe it was a week stand, and I got there to be informed by the manager that he only played acts three days, and that he had an agreement with the agent not to pay transportation on split weeks. And three days was a split week.” Dolores never stopped knitting. “So I paid my transportation, and after the three days I worked the rest of the week in Gainesville. For the next week I accepted booking by phone for Norman, Oklahoma, and was told that the contract would be mailed to me there. On arrival I found the house was booked by Jack Dickey, and no contracts. I went to my hotel, and immediately phoned Swor Brothers, but they refused to talk to me.” A barefooted boy of ten or eleven walked by, looking inquiringly at our stoop, and John beckoned him over. He gave the boy some money, so did Ben, and Al got up and walked into the house. “Went to the Western Union office,” Dolores said, “and wired them, requesting an answer. It was ignored.” Al came out with a large, shiny metal bucket, came down the steps, and handed it to the boy, gave some money, change, to John, and the boy left. “So I think artists working Texas and Oklahoma better watch out with these agents. They don’t look out after your interests, and the truth ain’t in them. You have trouble in Guthrie?”
“No, it was okay,” Ben said. “The Adelphi’s okay.”
I waited; no one said anything. Down the street, the acrobats finished their practicing, walking back to their stoop, the kid on the skate-wheel contraption scooting on, wheels grinding. I worked up my nerve, and said, “What happened with Sauer and Kraut?”
“Well, they were on maybe number four spot, and I saw them come out early, in costume, all ready, and they stood waiting in the wings watching. Opening act was a juggling team, I think, and then for some reason, some booking mixup maybe—nothing to do about it, you have to fill the bill—on comes another comedy team.” From one of the stoops across the street, a young man of maybe twenty came angling across the street toward us. “Hey there, Dippy.” He stopped before us, smiling at the general murmur of greeting. “Evening, folks.” This was Van Hoven, I learned, The Dippy, Mad Musician.
“You seen the beer boy, eh?” said John.
“Sure.” Dippy grinned, and sat down beside Ben. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“Well, this other comedy team walks on, right past Sauer and Kraut, and they’re dressed the same! Looks like two pairs of twins! They go on, and do the same act! Word for word, joke for joke, same knockabouts, everything! The guy sold the same act to the both of them.”
The others nodded, saying, “Yeah,” or, “Wouldn’t you know,” and the like. After a little time I said, “Well . . . what happened? To Sauer and Kraut?”
“Oh,” said Ben, voice surprised at the question, “they were canned. On the spot. They were no use now. Had to borrow money to get out of town. We all gave them what we could.”
Across the street, “Chinatown” ended. A pause, then piano and the same young voice began: “Honey, honey, can’t you hear? Funny, funny music, dear . . . Ain’t the funny strain goin’ to your brain? Like a bottle of wine, fine. Hon’, hon’, hon’, take a chance! One, one, one! One little dance! Can’t you see them all swaying up the hall? Let’s be gettin’ in line!” Then the familiar chorus: “Everybody’s doin’ it, doin’ it! Doin’ what? Turkey Trot!” And Maude groaned, and said, “Everybody’s overdoin’ it.”
A middle-aged woman came out of the house and sat down on the step just below Maude, and Maude leaned forward, murmuring something to her. Then she called to me. “Si, this is Madam Zelda, Mind Reader. That’s Simon Morley. She never heard of Tessie and Ted either.”
“I’ll let Maude know if I do,” Madam Zelda said, and I nodded and smiled, thanking her.
The beer boy came walking toward our house, tilted to one side, his arm pulled straight down by the weight of his filled bucket. Dolores went into the house, Ben was digging into his pants pocket, and I stood up quickly, saying, “Let me,” and got out a pair of quarters. Ben took the filled bucket; I gave the quarters to the boy, who looked down at them astonished. “Gee! Thanks, mister!”
Dolores came out carrying a Coca-Cola tray full of assorted glasses, Maude just behind her with cups and a pot of tea on another tray. Then we all sat comfortably leaned back against the stone, sipping. Across the street I saw a boy coming slowly from Eighth Avenue carrying two tin buckets. And over at Eighth saw the corner saloon I thought he’d come from. It was a good moment sitting here sipping beer with these people. The night was turning a little cool, but no one left, and in the easy silence it occurred to me that my morning newspaper had had columns filled with Taft and Roosevelt struggling for the Republican presidential nomination; and other stories on the growing troubles in Europe. But these people sitting out here lived in another world, the only one that mattered. Did they ever vote? I suspected not, and I’d have bet that in the entire house behind us, up in the rooms they lived in, there wasn’t a newspaper not called Variety or Billboard.