eyes.
"Ginger's making it with us, now," Jerry said. "Best damn blues-shoutin' you ever heard, and she don't weigh a pound over a hundred and ten." Ginger nodded happily. "But where the hell you been?"
"Living in town for about three months now," Joyce said.
'And you ain't even come around to see us? Man, you're flippin'!" Jerry expressed complete disavowal of such insanity. "And what ails Frank? He drop dead or something?"
"I haven't seen Frank for months," Joyce said.
"Gee, that's a drag." Then, with an agile tact, "Ginger's got a spot now, and I want you to dig her. Go on, take it Don. I'll sit with Joy at her table."
He led the way outside and they sat down. After a moment Don came out and went to the piano, feeling out a slow introduction.
They didn't give Ginger a spotlight, and she didn't need the microphone in the small room. She just came out and walked on the little space of dance floor carrying a chair. She plunked the chair down and sat down on it, not playing it for sex or anything. Then, as expressionless as, and with the folded hands of a little girl paying strict attention to a Sunday school lesson, she sang St. James Infirmary so it ripped great chunks out of your heart. She had a full contralto voice, with a low range that was almost a moan, but that could become as raw and sharp and edged as a slide trombone, and she made the words really hurt. Then she did other things--ordinary things, the kind of stuff everybody did; things like Georgia on my Mind and Lover Man and If I Can't Sell It, Goin' Sit On It--and each one came out like something new and strange.
Afterward, when Ginger had left the floor, Jerry asked her. "What happened between you and Frank? Something I can fix?"
"No," Joyce said. "Nothing like that. After all, he is married, and it couldn't last forever. In the long run it had to be Janice."
"She's a fine chick." Jerry said. "The greatest. I dig her."
"The funny part is," Joyce said, "I dig her, too, Jerry. But I couldn't go on seeing him and working with him every day after that. So when it happened I came to New York ... Let me tell you the truth, Jerry. First I was going to come down here and tell you I just wanted to see you to make a contact for some charge, but that wasn't really it. I don't know anybody in New York. I'm absolutely alone here and I don't want to let anybody know where I am, but I did want to see some people I know, and have somebody to talk to and everything." She felt the tears coming.
Jerry put his arm around her shoulder, right there in front of all the people in the club, and gave her a firm squeeze. "Cool, Joy. I dig you. Listen, after we get through here we're going up town tonight. After-hours place on hundred 'n twenty-eighth. Got a session all set up. We got plenty of pot and I'll lay some on you before we cut out to keep you straight anyhow, but we'd like you to make it with us ..."
"Hold on, man," Joyce said, suddenly smiling. "I don't dig you? What's pot?"
"That good, green Mexican grass," Jerry said. He chuckled--a sound as musical as his trumpet playing it sweet. "Going to have a jam session uptown and we'd like you came along."
"Cool," Joyce said. "The coolest."
"Solid. See you after the next set. We'll all get on a little out back."
11 ~ Transference
Things might have been all right if it hadn't been for Christmas. And they might still have been all right if, just at the beginning of December, Jerry Best's band hadn't gotten the telegram.
Joyce had fallen right in with Ginger and the boys in the band. All day long she would work like a machine tool for the Journal, and at night she would come downtown and have dinner in some Village spot, where it wasn't unusual for seven colored people to be seen together with a white girl, and go over to the Golden Horn, and Joy would hang around until about eleven or twelve o'clock and then go home to bed.
On Mondays, when the club was closed, she would spend the evenings with Jerry and Ginger in an
"Ginger's making it with us, now," Jerry said. "Best damn blues-shoutin' you ever heard, and she don't weigh a pound over a hundred and ten." Ginger nodded happily. "But where the hell you been?"
"Living in town for about three months now," Joyce said.
'And you ain't even come around to see us? Man, you're flippin'!" Jerry expressed complete disavowal of such insanity. "And what ails Frank? He drop dead or something?"
"I haven't seen Frank for months," Joyce said.
"Gee, that's a drag." Then, with an agile tact, "Ginger's got a spot now, and I want you to dig her. Go on, take it Don. I'll sit with Joy at her table."
He led the way outside and they sat down. After a moment Don came out and went to the piano, feeling out a slow introduction.
They didn't give Ginger a spotlight, and she didn't need the microphone in the small room. She just came out and walked on the little space of dance floor carrying a chair. She plunked the chair down and sat down on it, not playing it for sex or anything. Then, as expressionless as, and with the folded hands of a little girl paying strict attention to a Sunday school lesson, she sang St. James Infirmary so it ripped great chunks out of your heart. She had a full contralto voice, with a low range that was almost a moan, but that could become as raw and sharp and edged as a slide trombone, and she made the words really hurt. Then she did other things--ordinary things, the kind of stuff everybody did; things like Georgia on my Mind and Lover Man and If I Can't Sell It, Goin' Sit On It--and each one came out like something new and strange.
Afterward, when Ginger had left the floor, Jerry asked her. "What happened between you and Frank? Something I can fix?"
"No," Joyce said. "Nothing like that. After all, he is married, and it couldn't last forever. In the long run it had to be Janice."
"She's a fine chick." Jerry said. "The greatest. I dig her."
"The funny part is," Joyce said, "I dig her, too, Jerry. But I couldn't go on seeing him and working with him every day after that. So when it happened I came to New York ... Let me tell you the truth, Jerry. First I was going to come down here and tell you I just wanted to see you to make a contact for some charge, but that wasn't really it. I don't know anybody in New York. I'm absolutely alone here and I don't want to let anybody know where I am, but I did want to see some people I know, and have somebody to talk to and everything." She felt the tears coming.
Jerry put his arm around her shoulder, right there in front of all the people in the club, and gave her a firm squeeze. "Cool, Joy. I dig you. Listen, after we get through here we're going up town tonight. After-hours place on hundred 'n twenty-eighth. Got a session all set up. We got plenty of pot and I'll lay some on you before we cut out to keep you straight anyhow, but we'd like you to make it with us ..."
"Hold on, man," Joyce said, suddenly smiling. "I don't dig you? What's pot?"
"That good, green Mexican grass," Jerry said. He chuckled--a sound as musical as his trumpet playing it sweet. "Going to have a jam session uptown and we'd like you came along."
"Cool," Joyce said. "The coolest."
"Solid. See you after the next set. We'll all get on a little out back."
11 ~ Transference
Things might have been all right if it hadn't been for Christmas. And they might still have been all right if, just at the beginning of December, Jerry Best's band hadn't gotten the telegram.
Joyce had fallen right in with Ginger and the boys in the band. All day long she would work like a machine tool for the Journal, and at night she would come downtown and have dinner in some Village spot, where it wasn't unusual for seven colored people to be seen together with a white girl, and go over to the Golden Horn, and Joy would hang around until about eleven or twelve o'clock and then go home to bed.
On Mondays, when the club was closed, she would spend the evenings with Jerry and Ginger in an
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