Sugar House (9780991192519)

by Scheffler, Jean

  The boys waited for a signal to cross the street from a policeman stationed in a crow's nest. This was the city's busiest intersection; the nation's first traffic tower had been built here to provide additional visibility for police officers. The traffic cop stood six feet above the heavy traffic on a small enclosed pedestal. The Traffic Division had erected several semaphores two years before, but automobile traffic seemed to double on a daily basis thanks to Henry Ford's assembly line, causing the police department to continually think of new ways to deal with congestion.

  The policeman signaled for the boys to cross the street. They stepped onto the cement avenue and immediately had to dodge a bicyclist that was swerving through a bottleneck of horses, carriages, and motorcycles. Joe almost tripped on an iron streetcar rail, but Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the safety of the sidewalk.

  Joe could hear notes drifting onto the walkway before they reached the protection of the music store. Sam pulled open the heavy wooden door and Joe slipped inside. The raucous noise from the street immediately diminished as the oak door shut behind them. A middle-aged man with light olive skin was playing a piano near the entrance. Two darker men were leaning on the upright, listening and tapping their hands and feet with the rhythm. The melody was rapid and boisterous. Joe had never heard anything quite like it.

  "What kind of music is that, Sam?" he asked.

  "Ragtime! Isn't it great?"

  "Sure is" said Joe, his eyes and ears taking it all in.

  The trio at the piano were swaying side to side and one was pounding out the beat on the top of the upright. The boys listened in awe to the lively broken rhythm. The young men finished the song with a flourish. Joe and Sam clapped their hands in appreciation. The pianist looked over at the two young boys and smiled.

  "Thanks boys. Happy to have an audience. Been quiet as a convent in here today," he said. "Can I help you boys find something?"

  "What was the name of that song you just played, sir?" Joe asked, encouraged by the piano player's friendly expression.

  "That old song? That's 'Maple Leaf Rag,' by good old Scott Joplin. He was one of the best ragtime composers ever born. First Negro that ever had a piece of music published, I think. Wrote 'The Entertainer' a few years after that… 1902, I believe." The piano player started plunking down a few notes of the aforementioned and stopped after a small riff, then looked up at the boys again with a broad grin.

  "What do you mean, was the best composer?" asked Joe.

  "Ragtime's on its way out the door, boys. You just hearing it now? Ha! Sorry to say, but that syncopation been put up on the shelf. People want to hear lyrics, words, love songs. Marches are the thing now, boys!" The man began to play a slow melody.

  The two men near the piano harmonized a practice note and sang:

  In the good old summer time,

  In the good old summer time,

  Strolling thru' a shady lane

  With your baby mine.

  You hold her hand and she holds yours,

  And that's a very good sign

  That she's your tootsie wootsie

  In the good, old summer time.[1]

  "Why would anyone want to listen to that mushy nonsense instead of ragtime?" Joe asked.

  The piano player laughed. "Easier to dance slow to, my boy, and the ladies like it. But you two won't care about that for a few years yet. Here, I'll play you another rag. This one's called 'Echoes from the Snowball Club.'" The man turned toward the ivory keys and began to play another spirited tune.

  "That's the best song I've ever heard," said Sam when the player had finished.

  "Uh huh!" added Joe.

  "Well, thank ya kindly small gentlemen… you're looking at the composer of that rag. Harry P. Guy, at your service." Harry P. Guy tipped his imaginary cap.

  "You? You wrote that?" asked Joe.

  "Sure did, boy. Almost twenty years ago. Probably played it a thousand times since then. Still love it. I could play that rag every day and never get tired of it," said Harry.

  "Wow, a thousand times? And never get tired of it?" asked Sam.

  "No, and I'll tell you why. Come here closer boys. I'll let you in on a little secret… 'Echoes from the Snowball Club' is a musical story of sorts. Ya see, when I came here to Detroit over twenty years ago there was only one or two small Negro bands. All the white folk listened to classical music and such; ragtime had just come out a year or two before at the Chicago World's Fair."

  Joe interrupted for a moment. "Were you at the World's Fair?"

  "No boy, now be quiet and let me tell you this story, ya wanna hear it, right?"

  "Yes sir! Sorry." Joe sat on a stool near the piano to listen to the piano player's tale.

  "Now, I been playing piano since I was a boy. Some said I had a knack for tickling the ivories. Didn't much care what others said… just loved playing. Even got a scholarship to the National Conservatory of Music in New York! Can you imagine? A scholarship for a mulatto piano player! Family was so proud. Had myself a grand old time in New York. Even played at Carnegie Hall one time. I suppose you boys never heard of Carnegie Hall."

  "No sir, is it famous?" asked Joe.

  "Is it famous?" Harry laughed. "You could say that. Well, I meet this beautiful angel named Julia, and I follow her here to Detroit because she puts some kinda voodoo love spell over me and I gotta have her for my wife. So I look around and find me a job playing in a Vaudeville theater while I am trying to convince Julia to marry me. Soon I hear about an opening in an all-Negro orchestra called Finney's and I audition. Before I know it, I'm playing with the best musical group in the city, and we can't find enough nights in the week to play for all the requests we're getting; on account of the white folk are loving ragtime music and want us to play for all their dances and parties.

  "Woo Hoo! And did we have a good time playing. We played day and night! Played for the Detroit City Band afternoons on the steam ships on the river and for Finney at night! Rolling in dough we were."

  Joe and Sam stood next to the upright piano listening. Harry's arms and hands emphasized words and sentences for effect.

  "Well, good money for a colored man, anyway. We spent all of it too, but that's a story for another day. Did one thing right though, joined the Black Musicians Union. That's leading me to the point of the Snowball Club. The Negro bands and orchestras got so popular, the white musicians couldn't get any work. So the white boys decided they wanted to get a piece of the pie and they petitioned to join our union."

  Harry started laughing so hard at this point that a tear streamed down his light bronze cheek. "White boys tryin' to join a colored union! Whites were putting us down for two hundred years… we finally got a leg up, and they thought we were going to help them out?" Harry guffawed and slapped his knee. "So I was so tickled by this. I sat down and wrote a song about it. Called it 'Echoes from the Snowball Club' because that's what they called the union when we blackballed the white musicians."

  One of the other men picked up the story. "Best part is Harry's song's so popular, the white boys gotta play it when they do get a job!" The men laughed and laughed, smiling and playfully punching each other in the arm. The boys smiled at the men and waited for their amusement to subside.

  "Sorry boys, we get carried away with that story sometimes," Harry said, wiping his eyes. "You boys looking for something in particular?"

  "No sir," replied Sam. "Just having a look around."

  "You don't happen to be wanting to hear the gramophone, do you?"

  "Yes sir! I mean, if we can; that'd be terrific sir," replied Sam.

  "Come on boys. Let's show these young lads our new piece of musical machinery, shall we?" Harry said. The boys followed him to the other side of the store, where the gramophone was. Joe looked at the tall wooden cabinet with the horn attached and wondered how it could play music.

  "You mind if I choose the record?" he asked.

  Joe and Sam looked at each other unsure how to reply. "No sir," said Sam.r />
  Harry walked behind the gramophone and pulled a long thick envelope from one of fifty wooden slots on the wall behind it. He glanced at the title and put it back. "Too slow," he said. Pulling another he also returned it to its place. "Too lovey dovey." Pulling a third envelope out he announced that he had found the right record.

  "Here we go boys. This one'll tickle your funny bones." Harry took the record out of the envelope, placed it on the Victrola and set the needle on it. After a few bars of music, a man's comedic voice began to sing "The Little Ford Rambled Right Along." Harry knew a few things about young boys, because he couldn't have chosen a better tune. The singer crooned about a Ford automobile beating out a limousine. The little Ford could run over glass, smash up fences and telegraph poles, run into ditches, and speed out of sight of cops. The boys giggled at the verses, enjoying the antics of the car. When the singer sang "he ran into a mule and the darned old jackass kicked like a fool," the boys laughed out loud.

  When the record was over, Harry stopped the gramophone and placed the record back in its slot. "Well, boys… whatcha think?"

  "That was great, Mr. Guy," said Joe.

  "Now, don't be calling me that, boys. Harry will do just fine. I gotta get moving on out now. I'm filling in for one of the boys at the Pier Ballroom tonight. Hey, why don't you come down and watch a set? Just stand by the back door where it says colored employee entrance and I'll find you."

  "We're going to go to a dance at the Polonia Hall, but thanks anyway Harry. Maybe another day!" replied Joe. Joe and Sam looked around the store for a few more minutes after Harry left. Sam pointed out the player pianos to Joe and explained how they operated. Joe wanted to try working the pedals and make music on his own, but Sam was anxious to move onto to their next adventure.

  A cold wind swept down the avenue as the boys exited the store. Joe pulled his cap down over his ears and felt a chill go down his back.

  "Come on, Joe" said Sam excitedly. "Let's check out a real live show!" Sam took off down the busy sidewalk toward Campus Martius Park and turned right on Monroe Street. Large gaudy signs covered the buildings here and extended above them. This street was known as the Theater District, a broad term to describe the entertainment available there. Flashing lights advertised vaudeville, burlesque, and moving picture films. Nickelodeons and arcades sandwiched in-between larger theaters. Joe stopped to gawk at the bright lights.

  "We've gotta come here at night and take a look at these lights, Sam" Joe said. "It must look incredible."

  "Yeah, sure, come on Joe. Let's go buy a ticket for a show. What do you want to see?"

  "Your pick, Sam, I wouldn't know where to start."

  Sam appeared unsure himself as he looked up the bustling street. How to choose their afternoon entertainment with so many choices on one street? All within two blocks; the Palace, the Temple, the Liberty, the Columbia, the Royale, and the National Theatre all beckoned to acquire the boys' coins. Joe thought the National Theatre looked the best, with its two dazzling domed towers straddling an arched entranceway. But it was Sam's money and his choice, so Joe remained silent.

  "Here! Let's go in this one," Sam said, pointing at the Palace Theatre, next door to the one Joe wanted to attend. "Shows are only ten cents, and they are showing Charlie Chaplin in 'Shanghaied.' Sam paid their twenty cents to the ticket attendant in the booth on the sidewalk, and they walked into the theater. The lobby was small and dark, with posters of upcoming films haphazardly pasted on the walls. A uniformed man took the boys' tickets and opened the door to the theater. Joe and Sam walked down the narrow aisle and found a seat near the front of the stage.

  "Hey, look! See the organ?" Joe asked Sam.

  "Yeah, they play the music for the movies on it. Some bigger theaters have a whole orchestra that sits down near the stage and plays."

  Joe settled into his wooden seat, enjoying the warmth of the theater and the excitement of a new experience. The organ began to play a light tune. A couple appeared on the stage, which was thirty feet in length. They were introduced as Mr. Bee Ho Gray and his wife, Ada Sommerville. Bee Ho was dressed in cowboy chaps, neck bandana, and Stetson hat. Ada was in similar attire but wearing a tasseled leather skirt. Holding hands, they smiled at the crowd and moved to separate sides of the stage. Bee Ho began twirling a lasso above his head, and Ada mimicked the maneuver. They dipped and twirled their ropes in perfect synchrony. Bee Ho spun his lariat and began to jump through it and back.

  Then Ada brought out several objects onto the stage, a small beer keg, a Coca-Cola bottle, and a thimble. She placed the keg on a stool and stood back. Bee Ho easily lassoed the keg and caught it with his left hand. The audience clapped and stomped their feet. Next she placed the glass bottle on the stool and Bee Ho caught it as easily as the first. The audience responded with whistles and applause. When Ada place the thimble on the stool the crowd began to cheer in anticipation. But Bee Ho tricked them and just knocked off the thimble with the rope. The crowd laughed and Ada moved the props off stage.

  Ada threw another rope at Bee Ho and he began to twirl one above his head and the other at his feet. As he jumped into the second rope at his feet while twirling the first around his body the crowd stood on their feet. Joe and Sam had to stand on their chairs to see. A white horse walked onto the stage from the left, with Ada was sitting astride her. As they reached center stage, Ada whispered in the horse's ear, commanding her to bow before the audience. The audience roared, and Ada directed the horse to stand again and dance along with the organ. Joe had seen horses do many tasks but never dancing! He was delighted. The act ended with Bee Ho spinning three lariats and lassoing the horse by its neck and feet and his wife by the neck. Ada laughed; lifting off the lasso and jumped from her mount as they both took a bow.

  The theatre manager came onto the stage and announced that the couple had been secured by the Palace for a one-time engagement only and that they could be seen all weekend performing at the Orpheum Theatre on Lafayette, with their entire entourage of cowboys, Indians, rodeo clowns, and horses.

  Joe wiggled in his seat as a large white screen was pulled down by two ushers in matching uniforms. The lights dimmed. For a minute the screen remained black, and then it came alive with scenes of soldiers fighting in Europe. The newsreel had subtitles in English informing the audience of the latest battles that had occurred. Images of young men in muddy fields operating cannons and men in trenches shooting at the enemy flashed before Joe's eyes. The men looked crowded and dirty as they went about digging and fighting. Typed updates flashed at the bottom describing the progress of the war and reminding the audience of the continued state of neutrality of the United States.

  When the newsreel showed several young soldiers lying dead in a shallow grave, the audience began to murmur loudly. A man a few rows behind the boys spoke loudly to his companion. "America needs to join the war." His companion disagreed, and others chimed in with their opinions.

  "We need to stay out of their war. Europe is always fighting!" one yelled.

  "My family is over there! We need to join in and help the Allies!" shouted another.

  "Germany needs to be stopped! Remember the Lusitania!" shouted yet another, referring to the passenger liner that had been sunk by the Germans the year before, with many Americans aboard. Several men stood up and began arguing and pushing each other.

  The organist began to play a lighthearted tune to change the mood of the audience, and the theater manager quickly started the feature film. The crowd quieted and settled in to watch the show. A funny sort of Gypsy music floated from the organ as the opening credits played on the screen.

  Joe and Sam laughed uproariously as Charlie Chaplin kicked, punched and tripped about the ship he was on, never losing the small bowler hat he always wore. He rambled and danced on the screen. The crowd went wild when he tried to eat his dinner on the rocking ship. They clapped and whistled when he sailed into the sunset with his girl.

  The boys left the theater completely satisf
ied that they'd spent their twenty cents correctly. It was only four-thirty, but the sun was beginning to set. November sunsets come early in Detroit, and the air was cold and damp.

  "Come on Joe! Let's go to one more place!"

  "We'd better not, Sam. I don't want to get into trouble."

  "Aw, come on. It's on the way home." Sam started running down the sidewalk, dodging baby carriages and shoppers. Joe hurried to keep up but could not. His lungs were burning. He had to slow down to a walk. Sam was out of sight in five seconds. Wandering down the crowded sidewalk, he searched for a familiar landmark. Suddenly someone grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him off the sidewalk into a store.

  "Hey!" he yelled turning to knuckle his abductor, stopping when he saw it was Sam.

  "How you gonna run around the bases tomorrow at the game if you can't keep up with me for a block?"

  "Don't worry about me. I can beat you in baseball any day of the week. Hey, where are we?" Joe asked looking around.

  "The palace of sweets—Sanders Confectionery!"

  Joe looked around and grabbed a chair at a small rectangular wooden table near the front door while Sam went to the counter to order.

  "Pretty nice in here," Joe commented when Sam returned.

  "Yeah, my mom told me that the fountain over there on the back wall won a prize or something at the World's Fair in Chicago in 1893."

  "Boy, that thing is really old," Joe said.

  A waiter in a red-and-white-striped apron brought over two tall glasses and set them on the table with cloth napkins and spoons. "Anything else, young men?" he said, smiling down at the two boys.

  "No sir," they replied in unison.

  "What is this?" asked Joe.

  "Ice cream soda—you never heard of it? Mr. Sanders invented it right here in Detroit. Best thing you ever tasted. Dig in, Joe!"

  Joe picked up his spoon and took a bite. Sam was right. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. Sweet and tingly and spicy all at the same time. The boys ate every bite and thought about ordering another to share, but Joe wanted to get home. As they parted on their block Joe called out, "Thanks for the movie and ice cream soda, Sam!"