would have been one who handled as lightly as Laura and who would have had the strength to
last through a long, tough showtime. But I knew that Laura wouldn't begin to be that strong.
In Harlem, years later, a friend of mine called "Sammy The Pimp" taught mesomething I wish I
had known then to look for in Laura's face. It was what Sammy declared was his infallible clue for
determining the "unconscious, true personality" of women. Considering all the women he had
picked out of crowds and turned into prostitutes, Sammy qualified as an expert. Anyway, he
swore that if a woman, any woman, gets really carried away while dancing, what she truly is-at
least potentially-will surface and show on her face.
I'm not suggesting that a lady-of-easy-virtue look danced to the surface in Laura-although life did
deal her cruel blows, starting with her meeting me. All I am saying is that it may be that if I had
been equipped with Sammy's ability, I might have spotted in Laura then some of the subsurface
potential, destined to become real, that would have shocked her grandma.
A third of the way or so through the evening the main vocalizing and instrumental stylings would
come-and then showtime, when only the greatest lindy-hoppers would stay on the floor, to try and
eliminate each other. All the other dancers would form a big "U" with the band at the open end.
The girls who intended to compete would slip over to the sidelines and change from high heels
into low white sneakers. In competition, they never could survive in heels. And always among
them were four or five unattached girls who would run around trying to hook up with some guy
they knew could really lindy.
Now Count Basie turned on the showtime blast, and the other dancers moved off the floor,
shifting for good watching positions, and began their hollering for their favorites. "All right now,
Red!" they shouted to me, "Go get 'em, Red." And then a free-lancing lindy-girl I'd danced with
before, Mamie Bevels, a waitress and a wild dancer, ran up to me, with Laura standing right
there. I wasn't sure what to do. But Laura started backing away toward the crowd, still looking at
me.
The Count's band was wailing. I grabbed Mamie and we started to work. She was a big, rough,
strong gal, and she lindied like a bucking horse. I remember the very night that she became
known as one of the showtime favorites there at the Roseland. A band was screaming when she
kicked off her shoes and got barefooted, and shouted, and shook herself as if she were in some
African jungle frenzy, and then she let loose with some dancing, shouting with every step, until
the guy that was out there with her nearly had to fight to control her. The crowd loved any way-out
lindying style that made a colorful show like that. It was how Mamie had become known.
Anyway, I started driving her like a horse, the way she liked. When we came off the floor after the
first number, we both were wringing wet with sweat, and people were shouting and pounding our
backs.
I remember leaving early with Laura, to get her home in time. She was very quiet. And she didn't
have much to say for the next week or so when she came into the drugstore. Even then, I had
learned enough about women to know not to pressure them when they're thinking something out;
they'll tell you when they're ready.
Every time I saw Ella, even brushing my teeth in the morning, she turned on the third degree.
When was I seeing Laura again? Was I going to bring her by again? "What a nice girl she is!" Ella
had picked her out for me.
But in that kind of way, I thought hardly anything about the girl. When it came to personal matters,
my mind was strictly on getting "sharp" in my zoot as soon as I left work, and racing downtown to
hang out with Shorty and the other guys-and with the girls they knew-a million miles away from
the stuck-up Hill.
I wasn't even thinking about Laura when she came up to me in the drugstore and asked me to
take her to the next Negro dance at the Roseland. Duke Ellington was going to play, and she was
beside herself with excitement. I had no way to know what was going to happen.
She asked me to pick her up at her house this time. I didn't want any contact with the old
grandma she had described, but I went. Grandma answered the door-an old-fashioned, wrinkled
black woman, with fuzzy gray hair. She just opened the door enough for me to get in, not even
saying as much as "Come in, dog." I've faced armed detectives and gangsters less hostile than
darsice
(darsice)
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