When the funeral was over I rushed home, threw my few glad rags together and hurried over to the Illinois Central Station to catch the sfcven p. m. train for the Windy City. The whole band came to the station to see me off and wish me luck. In a way they were all glad to see me get a chance to go out in the world and make good, but they did not care so much about having me play second cornet to Joe Oliver. They thought I was good enough to go on my own, but I felt it was a great break for me even to sit beside a man like Joe Oliver with all his prestige.
It seemed like all of New Orleans had gathered at the train to give me a little luck. Even the old sisters of my neighborhood who had practically raised me when I was a youngster were there. When they kissed me good-bye they had handkerchiefs at their eyes to wipe away the tears.
When the train pulled in all the pullman porters and waiters recognized me because they had seen me playing on the tail gate wagons to advertise dances, or "balls" as we used to call them. They all hollered at me saying, "Where are you goin', Dipper?"
"You're a lucky black sommitch," one guy said, "to be going up North to play with ol' Cocky."
This was a reference to the cataract on one of Joe's eyes. The mean guys used to kid him about his bad eye, and he would get fighting mad. But what was the use? If he had messed around fighting with those guys he would have ended up by losing his good eye.
When the conductor hollered all aboard I told those waiters: "Yeah man, I'm going up to Chicago to play with my idol, Papa Joe!"
chapter 14
When I got on the train I found an empty seat next to a lady and her three children, and she was really sticking. What I mean by "sticking" is that she had a big basket of good old southern fried chicken which she had fixed for the trip. She had enough to last her and her kids not only to Chicago, but clear out to California if she wanted to go that far.
I hit the fish sandwich Mayann had prepared for me, but at the same time I was trying my darnedest to think of something to say that would make that lady offer me some of that good and pretty fried chicken. There was no place for colored people to eat on the trains in those days, especially down in Galilee (the South). Colored persons going North crammed their baskets full of everything but the kitchen stove.
Luckily the lady recognized me. She told me she knew Mayann and that she was going to Chicago too. We were both wondering about the big city, and we soon became very good friends. I lived and ate like a king during the whole trip.
Finally, when the conductor came through the train hollering "Chicago next stop" at the top of his voice, a funny feeling started running up and down my spine. The first thing I thought was: "I wonder if Papa Joe will be at the station waiting for me?" He expected me to come on the early morning train, but I had missed that because I had played at the funeral so as to have a little extra change when I hit Chicago.
I was all eyes looking out of the window when the train pulled into the station. Anybody watching me closely could have easily seen that I was a country boy. I certainly hoped Joe Oliver would be at the station. I was not particular about anyone else being there. All I wanted was to see Joe's face and everything would be rosy.
When the conductor hollered "All out for Chicago. Last stop" it looked like everybody rose from their seats at the same time. There was no sign of Joe on the platform, and when I climbed the long flight of stairs to the waiting room I still did not see any sign of him.
I had a million thoughts as I looked at all those people waiting for taxi cabs. It was eleven-thirty at night. All the colored people, including the lady with the chicken, who had come up from New Orleans, were getting into their cabs or relatives' cars. As they left they said good-bye and wished me good luck on my stay in Chicago. As I waved good-bye I thought to myself: "Huh. I don't think I am going to like this old town."
Suddenly I found myself standing all alone. And the longer I stood the more restless I got. I must have stood there about half an hour when a policeman came up to me. He had been watching me for a long time and he could see that I was a stranger in town and that I was looking worriedly for someone.
"Are you looking for someone?" he asked.
"Yes sir."
"Can I help you?"
"I came in from New Orleans, Louisiana," I said. "I am a cornet player, and I came up here to join Joe Oliver's Jazz Band."
He gave me a very pleasant smile.
"Oh," he said. "You are the young man who's to join King Oliver's band at the Lincoln Gardens."
"Yes sir," I said.
Then it struck me that he had just said King Oliver. In New Orleans it was just plain Joe Oliver.
I was so anxious to see him that that name was good enough for me. When I told the cop that King Oliver was supposed to meet me here he said:
"King Oliver was down here waiting for you to arrive on an earlier train, but you did not show up. He had to go to work, but he left word for us to look out for you if you came in on this train."
Then he waved to a taxi and told the driver: "Take this kid out to the place where King Oliver is playing." The driver put my bags into the cab and away we went toward the South Side.
As I opened the door to go into the Lincoln Gardens I could hear Joe's band swinging out on one of those good old Dixieland tunes. Believe me, I was really thrilled by the way they were playing. It was worth the price of my trip. But I was a little shaky about going inside. For a moment I wondered if I should. Then, too, I started wondering if I could hold my own with such a fine band. But I went in anyway, and the further in I got, the hotter the band got.
The Lincoln Gardens was located at Thirty-first and Cottage Grove Avenues. It had a beautiful front with a canopy that ran from the doorway to the street. The lobby seemed to be a block long, so long that I thought I was never going to reach the bandstand. The place was jammed with people and Joe and the boys did not see me until I was almost on the bandstand.
Then all hell seemed to break loose. All those guys jumped up at the same time saying: "Here he is! Here he is!" Joe Oliver took his left foot off the cuspidor on which he usually kept it when he was playing his cornet. He had a private cuspidor because he chewed tobacco all the time.
"Wait a minute, let me see him," Joe said to the boys, "Why I've not seen that little slow foot devil in years." He always used to call me "slow foot" whenever he visited me at the honky-tonk where I worked in New Orleans.
Joe began by asking me all kind of questions about what I had been doing since he and Jimmy Noone left New Orleans in 1918. He was tickled to death that I had gotten good enough to become a regular member of the well known Tuxedo Brass Band and that I had played on the boat.
"Gee, son, I'm really proud of you," Joe said. "You've been in some fast company since I last saw you."
The expression on his face proved that he was still in a little wonderment as to whether I was good enough to play with him and his boys. But he did not say so. All he said was:
"Have a seat, son, we're going to do our show. You might as well stick around and see what's happening because you start work tomorrow night."
"Yes sir," I said.
After the show was over Joe took me over to his house which was just around the corner from the Lincoln Gardens. Mrs. Stella Oliver, who had always been fond of me, was as glad to see me as I was to see her. With her was her daughter Ruby by another marriage. They were a happy family and I became one of them.
Mrs. Stella said that I must have a meal with them, which was all right by me. The way Joe ate was right, and there were no formalities and stuff. She fed us a big dish of red beans and rice, a half loaf of bread and a bucket of good ice cold lemonade.