Drumsticks (3 page)

But I did. I needed a lucky break.

Four days a week, the north quadrant of Union Square Park was converted into a farmers market—a heady mix of ravishing wildflowers, spices, craft works, and seasonal produce. Twenty varieties of apples and squash and arcane hybrids of potatoes; pumpkins as big as a Volkswagen, homemade pies, sheepskin blankets, and brick oven focaccia; hand-churned butter and organic honey—an endless list of goods that city folks craved and were prepared to pay dearly for. By night, the same patch of the park became a gathering place for teenagers polishing their rollerblading skills.

So, the question was, Did I really need that bunch of authentic, gritty broccoli rabe, or was I inventing an errand just so I could get a look at the doll's creator, the real-life Mama Lou?

With the bustling market on my left, I walked and scanned the skinny strip of Broadway—or Union Square West, as the new street sign was calling it—running along the park. There was a vitamin store at the corner of 17th, and next to it, a McDonald's. I'd always found that kind of amusing.

A few doors below, there was a pissy-looking wine shop, and then the terraced seafood restaurant where middle-aged lovers liked to gather on summer nights.

I continued south. Past the hugely successful all-night coffee shop where the younger crowd flocked, naively hoping to spot a few supermodels consuming their midday yogurt and heroin.

Finally, 15th Street. That was where the dolls were sold, Justin had said. I'll be damned, there they were! A bevy of dark dolls dressed in riotous colors. The folding table, set up in front of the office building with a bank on the ground floor, was thick with them. And the real Mama Lou was at her place, on a metal chair. No customers around, she was playing solitaire at one edge of the table.

I didn't go up to her right away. Instead I looked at the goods on the unattended folding table next to hers, which contained a sea of unctuous body musk in dark little glass vials. Some people find those scents sexy, I think. I don't get that.

“He'll be back in a minute, honey,” the doll lady said, placing a ten of hearts on the jack of spades. “I'm watching his stuff for him.”

“Oh, that's okay,” I said. “I'm just looking.”

A black man with matted hair, who had been dozing near the entrance to the ATM, roused himself and approached me, paper cup extended.

I gave him a buck, but when he wanted to engage me in one of those panhandler flirtations, I shook him off and sauntered over to the doll lady's table.

“What's the matter?” she said with a teasing laugh. “Don't you need a new boyfriend?”

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I do. Since I can't get the old one back.”

“Oh, you'll get him, honey. Just let me know if his granddaddy is single.”

We had a good laugh together.

“What's your name, baby?” she said.

“Nan.”

“I'm Ida Williams.”

She swept all the cards together then, ending the game. I looked at her ebony hands, nimble even though they were old, with knuckles like little marbles.

“You've got some worries on your mind, huh?” she said.

I was taken aback. “Does it show?”

She didn't answer.

“I guess I haven't been having the best luck lately with—well, with anything.”

“Um hum. Well, that's going to change, baby.”

“You think so?”

“Everything in its time, honey, everything in its time.”

Mrs. Williams patted my hand then. I was crying, and I hadn't even known it.

Three young women laden with shopping bags walked up to the table just then. A lucky thing that they did. Because otherwise I might have unloaded my worried mind on Mrs. Williams. Which would have been incredibly dumb. I'd known the woman for all of five minutes. There was just so much empathy in those old eyes of hers. She was friendly and funny and salty. But, oddly enough, there seemed to be sadness in her as well.

The potential customers began examining Ida's wares. She went into her spiel and I stepped aside.

“Nice to meet you,” I called to her as I began to walk away.

“All right, you have a beautiful day, honey.”

I looked back, more than a little skeptical.

“Just look up,” she added. “See? It's already beautiful, isn't it?”

She was right. I removed my scarf and let the strong sun play on the back of my neck. It felt wonderful.

I could do no wrong.

Yesterday was yesterday. Today, I could do no wrong. Or should I say “we” could do no wrong. The Mama Lou doll sat there beaming with pride while I played my ass off.

I had planned to play outside the big soulless café on 53rd Street and Seventh Avenue for only an hour or so and then head back downtown. But the crowd wouldn't let me go. The case was fat with dollar bills.

One nattily dressed older man, hammered on martinis by the smell of things, had me play “Save Your Love for Me” three times. With every rendition he would drop another ten-dollar bill. When he was young, he said, he had a terrible crush on Nancy Wilson. He was staying at the Sheraton, which was just across the street, by the way, if I was interested.

Then a lady in a fur asked if I knew Stevie Wonder's “Ribbon in the Sky.” Not really. I bumbled my way through it. Ten bucks from her, too.

Your girl was money that day.

I finally did close up shop, put the loot in my wallet, and walk to the nearest station for the downtown Lex.

Maybe I ought to buy Mama Lou a fur, I thought as the train whipped along. Keep her warm all through the winter.

At the 23rd Street station I took the stairs two at a time. And practically floated up the stairs to my apartment.

That night's phone message beat the one from the magazine by a mile: my old music coach, Jeff Moses, was phoning to say he had a regular gig for me, if I wanted it. I would be filling in for an ailing saxophonist, part of a trio that played three nights a week at a restaurant uptown.

Damn right I wanted it.

I ran over to my instrument case, tore Mama Lou from her prison, and gave her a big wet kiss.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Williams.” I greeted the thin, dark-skinned woman wearing a red windbreaker over her brightly patterned dress.

“How you today, honey?” she answered with a smile.

“I'm fine. Much better. And I just wanted to thank you.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Let me explain,” I said. “A friend of mine gave me one of your dolls a few days ago. Like you said, I've had a lot of worries. But my luck has totally changed.”

“Well, of course,” she said. “These dolls have got some powers, girl. Powers we don't even know about.”

“I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Williams. And by the way, do you make all these yourself?”

“Just call me Ida. Yes, I make them. Each one is different, see, just like us. But they all have the power. And I'll tell you something else about 'em, baby. They only work when you ready for them to work. So you musta been ready.”

As she talked, she was subtly moving a couple of the dolls forward on the table surface. “Of course, some are a little more special than others. Look at this one here.”

“She's beautiful,” I said, “and she looks like she means business, too.”

“She” was a tall and lanky black one—a kind of mamba priestess in an intense blue sarong and orange headdress. There was a circle of wire at her neck and she wore an ankle bracelet. She, too, carried a little medicine pouch.

Ida picked up the doll and pressed her into my hands. “Now I'm not saying the one you have can't bring you what you need to be happy. But with this one, honey, you could rule the world.”

Quite a claim.

I had been playing my belief in Mama Lou for laughs, more or less. Even Justin's credence seemed a bit tongue-in-cheek.

Was it possible that Ida's faith in her creations was the real thing—that she actually believed what she was saying?

“How much?” I asked.

“She's a really special one, remember. But for you … eighteen-fifty.”

Ida couldn't possibly support herself by selling these, I was thinking; I mean, realistically, even on the best day, how big is the demand for voodoo picaninnies? But on the other hand, she was a very smooth saleswoman. If she was able to play everybody else as deftly as she was handling me—well, maybe there was enough in it to cover the rent.

I pulled a twenty from my money belt and told her to keep the change.

“You are a sweet thing,” she crooned. “Just you wait and see what kinds of good things are gon' come to you.”

I was halfway across the park. But then I turned back and ran over to her table again. “I want to invite you someplace, Ida. I'd like you to come as my guest.”

“Me? Where you want to invite me?”

“To hear me play. You like music, don't you?”

“Do I look like I don't? We wouldn't be nothing without music.”

I wrote down the address of the restaurant where my three-day-a-week gig was to take place and told Ida I would leave her name with the host up front.

“This sounds like a pretty fancy place.”

I shrugged and made a motion with my hand that signified “Don't worry about it.”

“That's okay with me, girl. I got a dress that'll knock 'em out.”

I laughed. “Cool, Ida. I can't wait to see it.”

“What kind of music you play—piano?”

“No. Sax. I'm in this trio.”

“Lord, if that don't beat all. I bet your mama and daddy real proud of you. Will they be there?” she asked.

I smiled. “Not this time.”

I put the second doll in my case, so that Mama Lou wouldn't be lonely. I just hoped she wouldn't be jealous.

I took pains, usually, to avoid Soho.

But I did have that $350 windfall, and the restaurant where I was going to be playing was kind of grownup/dress-up, and there was that one nice shop on Prince Street that sold some of the world's greatest black skirts—black chiffon skirts with lace overlays; black wool skirts slit up to where even your doctor shouldn't be looking; ballgown-length black taffeta skirts; tight ones, long ones, short ones. I like them all. So when I left Ida, I set off straight down Broadway to find something to wear to the gig.

My luck was holding. I even found a quarter on the ground.

I didn't hang on to it for very long, though. Before I reached 8th Street, an aged, pitiful-looking drag queen with big old feet hit me for money. It didn't even occur to me not to comply. I gave her the quarter and all the rest of the change I had in my pockets.

I was getting arrogant—spreading my good luck around.

CHAPTER 3

Repetition

The audience at Omega, an upscale eatery way up on First Avenue, came primarily to eat, not to hear the music. Jeff had told me that from the git. But the clientele was too sophisticated to treat us as mere white noise; there would be plenty of diners who knew the difference between elevator jazz and the real deal.

In other words, it was unlikely I was going to be discovered and whisked into the recording studio by the kind of scout who haunts the neighborhood basketball courts or the comedy clubs looking for fresh meat. But I did have to have my stuff together to play with the consummate professionals who were to be my fellow musicians.

Roamer McQueen is the cutest fat guy I ever met. He is a talented bassist and, from what I could gather, the heart and soul of the trio that gigged three days a week at Omega. He was extremely kind to me in those rushed, nerve-wracking days when I was rehearsing with him and Hank Thayer, the elegant pianist at the center of the group. In fact they were both wonderful to me.

For whatever reason, men seem compelled to come up with pet names for me. Roamer had dubbed me Big Legs. Canny showman that he was, he promised me a juicy solo for every low-cut blouse I wore to the gig. He is a riot.

I was subbing for sax player Gene Price, the third Musketeer, whose penchant for cheese grits and filterless cigarettes had him in the hospital for bypass surgery.

If I have to say so myself, I looked incredible in that button-up-the-back number I bought on Prince Street. Before I left the apartment that night, I asked Mama Lou and Dilsey (that is what I named the new doll) to work their special hoodoo to bring me good fortune at the gig. I blew each of them a kiss as I breezed out the door. I hopped right on the First Avenue bus, whistling “Liza” as most of the sentient males checked me out on the long seat at the back. I was riding pretty damn high.

Yeah. Once again I was making the mistake of not paying attention to another old black female figure in my life. Her name is Ernestine and—being my stern if quixotic conscience—she can be a real pain in the butt. Ernestine doesn't seem to like it very much when I'm riding high. I'm sure she was trying to warn me, but that night I just wasn't listening.

They fed us at the restaurant; that was part of the deal. And the food wasn't bad. Certainly it was better than the pay. But in any case I was too keyed up to eat.

Both Aubrey and Justin were working that night and couldn't make the set, but they had promised to come see me later in the week.

I'd miss them, sure, but the one I found myself so looking forward to seeing was Ida Williams, the doll lady. It was almost like having your eccentric grandmother out there cheering for you on opening night.

I had gotten into the habit of dropping off containers of hot tea at her table every time I was in the vicinity of the farmers market. Sometimes Ida looked like the tough old bird and master salesperson I had first encountered, and sometimes she seemed frail as parchment, distracted and rueful. Complicated, in other words. I was hoping that someday soon I could talk my mom into coming into the city so that the three of us could go out to lunch.

I had been told that Omega did well. No lie, apparently: the ordinarily supercool maître d' was overwhelmed. People were pouring in. Drinks flowing. A good buzz in the room. Omega was a far cry from some smoky basement club where Monk and Charlie Rouse or Art Tatum or Max Roach was about to make history and (
your favorite junkie horn player's name here
) was out back scoring a nickel bag. But what the hell? This was still fun. I was still riding high.