go to some of the after-hours places and speakeasies. When the downtown nightclubs had
closed, most of these Harlem places crawled with white people. These whites were just mad for
Negro "atmosphere," especially some of the places which had what you might call Negro soul.
Sometimes Negroes would talk about how a lot of whites seemed unable to have enough of being
close around us, and among us-in groups. Both white men and women, it seemed, would get
almost mesmerized by Negroes.
I remember one really peculiar case of this-a white girl who never missed a single night in the
Savoy Ballroom. She fascinated my friend Sammy; he had watched her several times. Dancing
only with Negroes, she seemed to go nearly into a trance. If a white man asked her to dance, she
would refuse. Then when the place was ready to close, early in the morning, she would let a
Negro take her as far as the subway entrance. And that was it. She never would tell anyone her
name, let alone reveal where she lived.
Now, I'll tell you another peculiar case that worked out differently, and which taught me something
I have since learned in a thousand other ways. This was my best early lesson in how most white
men's hearts and guts will turn over inside of them, whatever they may have you otherwise
believe, whenever they see a Negro man on close terms with a white woman.
A few of the white men around Harlem, younger ones whom we called "hippies," acted more
Negro than Negroes. This particular one talked more "hip" talk than we did. He would have fought
anyone who suggested he felt any race difference. Musicians around the Braddock could hardly
move without falling over him. Every time I saw him, it was "Daddy! Come on, let's get our heads
tight!" Sammy couldn't stand him; he was underfoot wherever you went. He even wore a wild zoot
suit, used a heavy grease in his hair to make it look like a conk, and he wore the knob-toed
shoes, the long, swinging chain-everything. And he not only wouldn't be seen with any woman but
a black one, but in fact he lived with two of them in the same little apartment. I never was sure
how they worked that one out, but I had my idea.
About three or four o'clock one morning, we ran into this white boy, in Creole Bill's speakeasy. He
was high-in that marijuana glow where the world relaxes. I introduced Sophia; I went away to say
hello to someone else. When I returned, Sophia looked peculiar-but she wouldn't tell me until we
left. He had askedher, "Why is a white girl like you throwing yourself away with a spade?"
Creole Bill-naturally you know he was from New Orleans-became another good friend of mine.
After Small's closed, I'd bring fast-spending white people who still wanted some drinking action to
Creole Bill's speakeasy. That was my earliest experience at steering. The speakeasy was only
Creole Bill's apartment. I think a partition had been knocked out to make the living room larger.
But the atmosphere, plus the food, made the place one of Harlem's soul spots.
A record player maintained the right, soft music. There was any kind of drink. And Bill sold plates
of his spicy, delicious Creole dishes-gumbo, jambalaya. Bill's girl friend-a beautiful black girl-
served the customers. Bill called her "Brown Sugar," and finally everyone else did. If a good
number of customers were to be served at one time, Creole Bill would bring out some pots,
Brown Sugar would bring the plates, and Bill would serve everyone big platefuls; and he'd heap a
plate for himself and eat with us. It was a treat to watch him eat; he loved his food so; it was
good. Bill could cook rice like the Chinese-I mean rice that stood every grain on its own, but I
never knew the Chinese to do what Bill could with seafood and beans.
Bill made money enough in that apartment speakeasy to open up a Creole restaurant famous in
Harlem. He was a great baseball fan. All over the walls were framed, autographed photographs of
major league stars, and also some political and show business celebrities who would come there
to eat, bringing friends. I wonder what's become of Creole Bill? His place is sold, and I haven't
heard anything of him. I must remember to ask some of the Seventh Avenue old-timers, who
would know.
Once, when I called Sophia in Boston, she said she couldn't get away until the following