first of every month Haverhill played a game with either Thornton or Wicks, and the loser had to pay the entire month’s rent. The game was Who Can Kick the Highest, Keeping One Foot on the Floor? If Haverhill kicked higher than Thornton or Wicks (who tossed to see which of them would compete), the trucking outfit paid the rent. If Haverhill was outkicked, he picked up the tab for the month.
On the first working day of June, the 3rd, I reported to the saloon for my weekly instructions, and that was when Mr. Haverhill explained the rent-kicking arrangement to me. He wasn’t in very good shape, looking as if he’d spent the whole weekend in the saloon. So I offered to help him over to the office for his monthly kick.
Mr. Haverhill was touched by my concern, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary. He simply wasn’t up to anything so strenuous. He wasn’t well, not well at all-the old liver, didn’t I know. He couldn’t win, and he couldn’t afford to lose. Therefore he designated me to take his place.
At that age my height was a full five-foot-two. `Thornton was six foot even and Wicks was six-foot-three. I told the boss I couldn’t possibly kick against either of them. “Nonsense,” said Mr. Haverhill. “Think big, m’boy, and you’ll be big. Think tall, be tall. If I didn’t have faith in you I wouldn’t let you handle the permits. Now go-show me you have faith in me.”
I went. I kicked. I lost. My opponent was Wicks. Even with cheating, my left foot three inches off the floor, I couldn’t get my right toe any higher than Wicks’s chin. I returned to the saloon with the rent notice. I wasn’t too upset because I was sure now it was all a practical joke.
It was no joke. Mr. Haverhill stared morosely into his shot of whiskey and said he would have to let me go at the end of the week. He regretted this deeply. I had been a good, diligent employee, he said, and I had a great future ahead of me-in any capacity except as rent kicker. When I collected my final salary he gave me an unexpected bonus: a package of matzohs, to take home for the next Jewish holidays. I had never known a nicer man. I felt he was a true friend, and therefore I felt sorry for him when he had to fire me.
I didn’t feel sorry for myself because I never had and didn’t know how to.
Wicks, the trucking man, who was the immediate cause of my leaving the brokerage business, was also the indirect cause of my becoming a professional musician. Through him one of his clients, a Mr. Wentworth, hired me for a special job delivering some flowers to an address in Brooklyn. He promised to pay me for this with a ride on a horse, any Sunday I wanted.
When I got to the house in Brooklyn there was an Irish wake in progress. It had been in progress for some time, and the mourners were no longer very mournful. They insisted I join the shindig. I was afraid not to. Somebody poured me a tumbler full of rotgut booze. Even the smell of it made me dizzy. The crowd yelled for me to drink ‘er down. I looked around desperately for a means of escape. I would have been happy to change places with the corpse in the coffin. Then I spotted a piano. How about if I played a tune for them? Everybody whooped and drank to the idea. What this wake needed was a little music to liven it up.
I parked my derby on the piano, upside down, and banged out “Waltz Me Around Again, Willie.” I wanted to switch to “Love Me and the World Is Mine” but they wouldn’t hear of it. They only wanted to hear “Waltz Me Around,” again and again, faster and louder. The faster and louder I played, the drunker the mourners got and the more they cried and the more dimes they dropped in my derby.
I came home with a hatful of silver. I now perceived what Chico saw in the piano, much as he detested it and much as he would rather be playing pinochle. There was money in it.
Being at liberty again, I gave this serious consideration. I asked Chico what he could do to break me into his
On the first working day of June, the 3rd, I reported to the saloon for my weekly instructions, and that was when Mr. Haverhill explained the rent-kicking arrangement to me. He wasn’t in very good shape, looking as if he’d spent the whole weekend in the saloon. So I offered to help him over to the office for his monthly kick.
Mr. Haverhill was touched by my concern, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary. He simply wasn’t up to anything so strenuous. He wasn’t well, not well at all-the old liver, didn’t I know. He couldn’t win, and he couldn’t afford to lose. Therefore he designated me to take his place.
At that age my height was a full five-foot-two. `Thornton was six foot even and Wicks was six-foot-three. I told the boss I couldn’t possibly kick against either of them. “Nonsense,” said Mr. Haverhill. “Think big, m’boy, and you’ll be big. Think tall, be tall. If I didn’t have faith in you I wouldn’t let you handle the permits. Now go-show me you have faith in me.”
I went. I kicked. I lost. My opponent was Wicks. Even with cheating, my left foot three inches off the floor, I couldn’t get my right toe any higher than Wicks’s chin. I returned to the saloon with the rent notice. I wasn’t too upset because I was sure now it was all a practical joke.
It was no joke. Mr. Haverhill stared morosely into his shot of whiskey and said he would have to let me go at the end of the week. He regretted this deeply. I had been a good, diligent employee, he said, and I had a great future ahead of me-in any capacity except as rent kicker. When I collected my final salary he gave me an unexpected bonus: a package of matzohs, to take home for the next Jewish holidays. I had never known a nicer man. I felt he was a true friend, and therefore I felt sorry for him when he had to fire me.
I didn’t feel sorry for myself because I never had and didn’t know how to.
Wicks, the trucking man, who was the immediate cause of my leaving the brokerage business, was also the indirect cause of my becoming a professional musician. Through him one of his clients, a Mr. Wentworth, hired me for a special job delivering some flowers to an address in Brooklyn. He promised to pay me for this with a ride on a horse, any Sunday I wanted.
When I got to the house in Brooklyn there was an Irish wake in progress. It had been in progress for some time, and the mourners were no longer very mournful. They insisted I join the shindig. I was afraid not to. Somebody poured me a tumbler full of rotgut booze. Even the smell of it made me dizzy. The crowd yelled for me to drink ‘er down. I looked around desperately for a means of escape. I would have been happy to change places with the corpse in the coffin. Then I spotted a piano. How about if I played a tune for them? Everybody whooped and drank to the idea. What this wake needed was a little music to liven it up.
I parked my derby on the piano, upside down, and banged out “Waltz Me Around Again, Willie.” I wanted to switch to “Love Me and the World Is Mine” but they wouldn’t hear of it. They only wanted to hear “Waltz Me Around,” again and again, faster and louder. The faster and louder I played, the drunker the mourners got and the more they cried and the more dimes they dropped in my derby.
I came home with a hatful of silver. I now perceived what Chico saw in the piano, much as he detested it and much as he would rather be playing pinochle. There was money in it.
Being at liberty again, I gave this serious consideration. I asked Chico what he could do to break me into his
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