While I was walking in the funeral procession a fellow ran up to me and gave me a message from Daisy, who was still in jail and not even booked. It must have been one of the jail trusties because no one else could have found that out so soon. As I explained about Black Benny, a trustie can go out on the street whenever he wants to, and can make money running errands for the other prisoners. I gave the guy with the message a couple of bucks and he told me Daisy was not even booked. Mad at her as I had been, I softened up right away. I told the messenger to tell Daisy not to worry, that I still loved her and that all was forgotten.
Luckily at that time I was still working on the boats, and my boss thought an awful lot of me. I knew that if I asked him to get Daisy out of jail he would do it quicker than I could say jackrabbit. As soon as the funeral was over I gave my pal back his John B. Stetson, thanked him, and made a beeline for the nearest grocery in our neighborhood. We always had to go to the grocery store to phone or receive a message.
I always kept in the good graces of the grocery man. It is important to be able to use his phone and to have him take messages for you, but even more important is the good credit he can let you have. All my gigs used to come in by phone, and old Tony, Mr. Caspar, Matranga, or Segretta never failed to let me know. That goes to show that no matter how tough an ofay may seem, there is always some "black son of a bitch" he is wild about and loves to death just like one of his own relatives.
The day I called up my boss on the boat he immediately phoned the police station and had Daisy paroled. Of course I went down to the police station and waited to take her home. I noticed she was limping a little in her left leg when she came out. For a moment she was glad to see me, and we kissed and made up. Then we started to walk toward the firing line where she had thrown all those bricks at me. (Thank God she was such a bad shot.)
The nearer home we got the more she began to think about our fight. I could see by the expression on her face that she was getting more and more angry. I still did not say a word about it. Anyhow she could not pretend any longer. All of a sudden she turned on me and started to curse and call me all kinds of dirty names. She said I had crippled her and that she was going to get revenge if it was the last thing she did. That struck me as a very, very strange thing for her to say to me, especially as I had begun to think that everything was all right, and that we had thrown away the hatchet for good! What is more, we were even. She had cut my hat to ribbons and swung on me and my friend. When I went home she had showered a whole flock of bricks at me as well as everything else she could get her hands on.
So when Daisy started her angry jive at me on the streetcar I said to myself: "Well, boy, you better get ready for another one of Daisy's cheap scenes." For every name she called me I called her the same, and I hit her with a few real hard ones for lagniappe (or good measure), which is what we kids called the tokens of thanks the grocer gave us when we went there to pay the bill for our parents. We would get animal crackers or almost anything that did not cost very much for lagniappe, and the grocer who gave the most lagniappe would get the most trade from us kids.
When we reached Melpomene and Dryades Streets near home we were still arguing like mad. After we got off the car we met a policeman patrolling the beat who happened to know me from my playing with Kid Dry's band in a lot of benefits around town. Instead of throwing the two of us back in jail he gave us a break.
"Dipper mouth," he said, "Why don't you take your wife home off the street before some other cop comes along and arrests the two of you."
That certainly made me feel good. I was recognized by one of the toughest policemen on the force. Instead of giving me a head whipping as the police usually did, he gave me advice and protected me.
When Daisy and I reached our little two-roomer the first thing I did was to lay my cards on the table and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.
"Daisy," I said, "listen, honey, this jive is not going to get us any place. I am a musician and not a boxer. Every time you get mad at me the first thing you do is to try your damnedest to hit me in the chops. Thank the lord I have been able to get out of your way every time. Now I am sick and tired of it all. The best thing for me and you to do is call it quits."
"Oh, no. Don't leave me," Daisy said, breaking into tears. "You know I am in love with you. That's why I'm so jealous."
As I said before, Daisy did not have any education. If a person is real ignorant and has no learning at all that person is always going to be jealous, evil and hateful. There are always two sides to every story, but an ignorant person just won't cope with either side. I have seen Daisy get furious when she saw me whispering to somebody. "I know you are talking about me because you are looking at me," she would say. Frightening, isn't it? However, it was because I understood Daisy so well that I was able to take four years of torture and bliss with her.
A man has to know something or he will always catch hell. But Daisy did not even read a newspaper or anything enlightening. Luckily she was a woman, and a good-looking chick at that. Looks make all the difference in the world, no matter whether a woman is dumb or not. So we made it up and toughed it out together a little while longer.
At that time I was playing a lot of funerals with the Tuxedo Brass Band under the leadership of Oscar (Zost) Celestin, a marvelous trumpeter and a very fine musician. He was also one of the finest guys who ever hit New Orleans, I was the second trumpet player in his brass band. At the same time my dear friend Maurice Durand was playing in the Excelsior Brass Band, another top-notch band. Old Man Mauret was the leader and first cornet man, and he would pilot those musicians of his just as though they were a flock of angels. All his boys gave him wonderful support. They weren't like present day bands, only working because they have to, and mad because they have to take orders from the leader.
That was not true of Maurice and those other boys who played for Celestin and Old Man Mauret. Maurice and I were youngsters together. Whenever we played at a parade or a funeral we were usually playing in different bands. Lots of times I would run across Maurice and would see how wonderful Old Man Mauret's discipline was and how much his musicians appreciated him. Celestin was equally well loved by his musicians.
Since I am on the subject of first rate brass bands, I want to speak about the cream of the crop, the one that topped them all – the Onward Brass Band. On Labor Day and other holidays it was a thrilling experience to see the great King Oliver from Uptown and the past master Emmanuel Perez pass by blowing Panama. The memory of that is so wonderful that after all these years I would like nothing better than to be able to talk it all over again with Maurice, who is now living in San Francisco.
chapter 11
By this time I was beginning to get very popular around that good old town of mine. I had many offers to leave Kid Dry's band, but for some time none of them tempted me. One day a redheaded band leader named Fate Marable came to see me. For over sixteen years he had been playing the excursion steamer Sydney. He was a great piano man and he also played the calliope on the top deck of the Sydney. Just before the boat left the docks for one of its moonlight trips up the Mississippi, Fate would sit down at this calliope and damn near play the keys off of it. He was certainly a grand musician.