you kindly.”
After I Left Home
Shorty
Shorty turned out to be a great guy except when he got to drinking—and he got to drinking a lot. When he was all out of money, he’d sell a pint of blood at Michael Reese Hospital for $5. A pint of gin was ninety cents, so could have a good time with that blood money. Shorty liked to dance when he drank, which meant he’d ask me to play the guitar. That part was okay, but then he’d up and disappear and leave me back at his place, alone with my guitar. If I hadn’t slept, I’d have a chance to rest in his bed. Rest was good, and I needed some ’cause hanging out at the all-night cafes was wearing me down. On the other hand, no one had taken me to see Muddy Waters or Little Walter or Howlin’ Wolf.
I was keeping all those frustrations to myself. My shyness was still ruling my mind. I also had a fear that Shorty might turn me out, so I stayed on my best behavior. If he had company over, for example, he might say, “Buddy, you go out and buy us some whiskey.” I’d do that, of course, ’cause Shorty was letting me stay at his place. I did that a lot. Didn’t want nobody to get upset with me, especially Shorty.
After some weeks of me walking the streets at night until I could use Shorty’s bed, I met a nice woman named Joyce. She took a liking to me and offered to show me how the busses and subways work. She took her time to explain how the city was laid out.
“You in the South Side now,” she said. “South and west is black and north is white.”
“How ’bout the music?” I asked. “Where do the blues guys play?”
“South Side and West Side. White folk ain’t interested in no blues.”
I already knew that was true in the South, so I wasn’t surprised to hear it was true in Chicago too.
After riding the trains with this lady, I got bolder about going out. I could see how the city worked. The Loop was downtown, where they had all the tall buildings and department stores. Never seen nothing like that before. Never seen so many people hustling and bustling. Looked like everyone had somewhere to go and money to spend. I also saw where you could walk along the river until it emptied into the lake with the wind and the smell of fresh water in your face. I liked walking along the lake and trying to let go of my fears. It wasn’t easy—my fears were deep.
In October the wind turned chilly. At the same time I felt chilly attitudes when I went asking for the kind of job I had at LSU. Took me a while to find the colleges where they might need a utility man, and when I did find the people in charge, they didn’t show no interest. That got me thinking it might be better to find work at a service station. A couple of them needed tow truck drivers, but when they asked me if I knew the city I had to say no.
“Until you learn the streets around here,” said one station owner, “you ain’t doing me no good.”
“Got a fine sense of direction,” I said. “I can learn the streets in just a couple of weeks.”
“Can’t wait no two weeks. Need someone now.”
So it was back to Shorty’s, where I had to bide my time. He called his little apartment a kitchenette. Shorty’s building was like hundreds of other buildings on the South Side that used to house large apartments. Seeing all these people coming up from the South, the landlords cut up those big apartments into tiny kitchenettes. That way they’d collect more rent. Before, you might have four apartments on a floor. Afterwards, on that same floor you might have twenty kitchenettes. In some kitchenettes a family of ten was packed in like sardines. This amazed me. I was used to the country, where there was enough space for everyone.
Bad as kitchenettes were, though, I wanted one of my own. Wandering around all night until Shorty went to work got old fast. Getting turned down for job after job was even more frustrating.
Because I wasn’t getting anywhere looking for a regular job, I started
After I Left Home
Shorty
Shorty turned out to be a great guy except when he got to drinking—and he got to drinking a lot. When he was all out of money, he’d sell a pint of blood at Michael Reese Hospital for $5. A pint of gin was ninety cents, so could have a good time with that blood money. Shorty liked to dance when he drank, which meant he’d ask me to play the guitar. That part was okay, but then he’d up and disappear and leave me back at his place, alone with my guitar. If I hadn’t slept, I’d have a chance to rest in his bed. Rest was good, and I needed some ’cause hanging out at the all-night cafes was wearing me down. On the other hand, no one had taken me to see Muddy Waters or Little Walter or Howlin’ Wolf.
I was keeping all those frustrations to myself. My shyness was still ruling my mind. I also had a fear that Shorty might turn me out, so I stayed on my best behavior. If he had company over, for example, he might say, “Buddy, you go out and buy us some whiskey.” I’d do that, of course, ’cause Shorty was letting me stay at his place. I did that a lot. Didn’t want nobody to get upset with me, especially Shorty.
After some weeks of me walking the streets at night until I could use Shorty’s bed, I met a nice woman named Joyce. She took a liking to me and offered to show me how the busses and subways work. She took her time to explain how the city was laid out.
“You in the South Side now,” she said. “South and west is black and north is white.”
“How ’bout the music?” I asked. “Where do the blues guys play?”
“South Side and West Side. White folk ain’t interested in no blues.”
I already knew that was true in the South, so I wasn’t surprised to hear it was true in Chicago too.
After riding the trains with this lady, I got bolder about going out. I could see how the city worked. The Loop was downtown, where they had all the tall buildings and department stores. Never seen nothing like that before. Never seen so many people hustling and bustling. Looked like everyone had somewhere to go and money to spend. I also saw where you could walk along the river until it emptied into the lake with the wind and the smell of fresh water in your face. I liked walking along the lake and trying to let go of my fears. It wasn’t easy—my fears were deep.
In October the wind turned chilly. At the same time I felt chilly attitudes when I went asking for the kind of job I had at LSU. Took me a while to find the colleges where they might need a utility man, and when I did find the people in charge, they didn’t show no interest. That got me thinking it might be better to find work at a service station. A couple of them needed tow truck drivers, but when they asked me if I knew the city I had to say no.
“Until you learn the streets around here,” said one station owner, “you ain’t doing me no good.”
“Got a fine sense of direction,” I said. “I can learn the streets in just a couple of weeks.”
“Can’t wait no two weeks. Need someone now.”
So it was back to Shorty’s, where I had to bide my time. He called his little apartment a kitchenette. Shorty’s building was like hundreds of other buildings on the South Side that used to house large apartments. Seeing all these people coming up from the South, the landlords cut up those big apartments into tiny kitchenettes. That way they’d collect more rent. Before, you might have four apartments on a floor. Afterwards, on that same floor you might have twenty kitchenettes. In some kitchenettes a family of ten was packed in like sardines. This amazed me. I was used to the country, where there was enough space for everyone.
Bad as kitchenettes were, though, I wanted one of my own. Wandering around all night until Shorty went to work got old fast. Getting turned down for job after job was even more frustrating.
Because I wasn’t getting anywhere looking for a regular job, I started
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