And since Clarence has always been a nervous sort of fellow and was never able to work and earn his own living, I set up a routine for him in which he'd be happy the rest of his days. I managed to teach him the necessary things in life, such as being courteous, having respect for other people, and last but not least, having good common sense. I always managed to have someone look after Clarence whenever I had to travel or go to work. The musicians, actors – in fact, everybody whom I'd ever introduced Clarence to – they've all taken a liking to him right away. As we used to say in New Orleans, Clarence never was a "sassy child."
During those days, when I wasn't playing with Kid Ory in a funeral or a parade or an advertising stint, I would be at the head of the New Basin Canal, hanging around the charcoal schooners. We youngsters would wait for them to clean the big lumps o£ coal, put them in large burlap sacks, and then throw the small pieces into a corner of the schooner. We would buy small pieces from them. We would carry them away in big burlap sacks, put them in water buckets and sell them at houses for five cents a bucket. That is how I earned my living when I married Daisy.
Handling and selling charcoal was certainly a dirty job. My face and hands were always black, and most of the time I looked like Al Jolson when he used to get down on his knees and sing Mammy. But with that job and playing music I made a good living.
Whenever Daisy and I had a fuss – and how I hated it – I would put my clothes and Clarence's clothes into my charcoal sack and the two of us would move down to my mother's house intending to stay there forever. Then, two weeks later, along would come Daisy. She would make all kinds of apologies and promise never to upset me again and let me blow my trumpet in peace.
One day a member of my club, The Tammany Social Aid and Pleasure Club, died. The funeral left from the corner of Liberty and Perdido Streets. All the members had to wear black or real dark suits, and I had been lucky enough to get my black broadcloth suit out of pawn in time for the funeral. In those days we did a good bit of pawning. As soon as a guy got broke the first thing he thought of was the pawn shop. All out of pawn that day, I looked like a million dollars.
Living in our neighborhood was a gal named Rella Martin with whom I used to sweetheart. Somehow Daisy found out about this chick. She did not say anything about it to me but I suspected something was bugging her from the way she used to give me hell every time I came home only a half an hour late. Then we would just about tear the roof off the place calling each other nice names.
That day of the funeral, while the body was still in the church, I was standing on the corner talking to Rella and a dear friend of mine named Little Head with whom I had gone to the Fisk School. It had been raining all morning; the gutters were full of water and the streets real muddy. I had on a brand new Stetson hat (like the one in the song St. James Infirmary), my fine black suit and new patent leather shoes. Believe me, I was a sharp cat. The three of us were talking about nothing in particular, just killing time while we waited to walk the body to the cemetery. I was one of the pall bearers. All of a sudden I saw Daisy coming in our direction. "Oh, oh, now there will be trouble," I thought.
"Folks," I said, "there's Daisy coming down the street."
They knew what a jealous woman she was. Rella thought it best to leave me and Little Head standing there alone. As Daisy came closer we did not say a word and neither did she. Instead she whipped out her razor and began cursing. I swung around and started to run. I was fast on my feet and I made a fast start. As I jumped over the gutter my hat fell off, my good old John B. Stetson. That was the hat in those days, and I had struggled and saved a long time to buy it. Little Head was about to lean over and pick it up for me when Daisy rushed up to him and made a long swipe at his rear. He was off in a flash like me.
Daisy was so furious she picked up my hat and started cutting it to ribbons. My Gawd! Did that burn me up! I was about to go back and have it out with her when my club fellows grabbed me and told me I could not win.
"Look out boy! She's got a razor. You haven't even got a penknife."
By this time Daisy had cut my hat to pieces and was starting back uptown. I was foaming at the mouth, but I took the boys' advice and let her cut out. But God knows I wasn't going to forget about what she had done.
Just then the members started coming out of the church to the sad boom, boom, boom of the bass drum. Then the brass band struck up Nearer My God to Thee and we were on our way to the cemetery. All the time I was marching (with another boy's hat on in place of my cut-up one) I kept thinking about what Daisy had done to me in front of my friends, the members of the Tammany Social Club. The cemetery was not far from where Daisy and I lived. After the body was buried I did not wait to join the members as they marched back to the hall. I was so angry with Daisy I cut out at once and went straight home.
When I got home Daisy was not in. She was sitting at the window of her friend's house with about ten bricks sitting beside her. But I did not know this. Just as I was about to put the key in the lock one of Daisy's bricks hit our door. Wham! This really scared me. To my surprise, when I turned to see where the bricks were coming from, I saw Daisy cursing and throwing bricks faster than Satchel Paige. There was not anything I could do but keep on ducking bricks until her supply ran out. And when it did she came flying downstairs to fight it out with me. Quick as a flash I stooped down and picked up one of the bricks she had thrown at me. I cocked up my right leg as though I was going to pitch a strike for the home team and let the brick fly. It hit Daisy right in the stomach. She doubled up in a knot screaming: "You've killed me. You've killed me."
I don't know what else she said because I was not there to hear it. Someone had called the police station (people will do those things) saying a man and a woman were fighting, and they were certainly right. When I heard the patrol bell ringing I tore out for the back fence and sailed over it so fast I did not even touch it. I could hear the policemen blowing their whistles and shooting their pistols into the air to try to stop me. That did not faze me. I was gone like the turkey through the corn.
When the police are called to stop a fighting couple and find only one of them, they take that one to prison. That is what happened to Daisy. In spite of all her hollering, screaming and cursing they hauled her oft She raised particular hell with those cops. While they were trying to put her into the partol wagon she kicked one of them under the chin. He was so angry he hit her cute little Creole head with his licorice stick, making her head bleed terribly. She did not dare report that to the captain of the police because that same cop would have laid for her when she got out of jail and given her another head whipping. That is what the New Orleans cops did in those days.
Daisy played it smart. She went to jail crying like an innocent babe regardless of all the hell she had just raised. Just like a woman.
In the meantime I had run back and caught up with my club's funeral, borrowed another good hat from a friend of mine who was a bystander and forgot all about the one Daisy had cut to ribbons. In those days when a fellow wore a John B. Stetson he was really a big shot, as big shots went at that time. We poor young musicians would have to save for months to get the fifteen dollars those hats cost then. We wanted them so badly we would save every nickel we could spare, but even at that some of the boys could not make the grade. They would pay a deposit on one of them and would nearly finish paying the instalments when they would run short of money. Then the hat store would sell the hat they had been paying for to someone else. Now you can see why I got so angry with Daisy for cutting my hat to pieces. But as I say I forgot all about it when I heard that brass band showering down on one of those real fine funeral marches. Those brass bands could play a funeral march so sweet and with so much soul you could actually feel it inside.