High Cotton by Darryl Pinckney Page B

upstairs rooms of Buzzy’s house looked as though the walls were covered with a plush material, like the inside of a Lincoln Continental. I couldn’t put into words for Uncle Castor the trouble I thought I would be in if my parents found out that he had fallen into conversation with Buzzy’s mother and I had followed him into her living room.
    “Young lady, I was top cream.” Uncle Castor counted off the names again: Coleman Hawkins, Benny Carter, Will Vorderley, Willie “the Lion” Smith, Buster Bailey, Bub Miley, Tommy Ladnier, Don Redman, Wilbur and Sidney Deparis. He wiggled his fingers, as if he had inserted a large, sparkling emerald on each. Buzzy’s mother nodded from the bucket-seat position of an easy chair from which the legs had been removed. She wore a thug’s scarf and “pedal pushers,” stretch pants with stirrups under her soles. She looked naughty, like Eartha Kitt.
    The living room appeared as though it had been furnished with car seats. Except for the stereo cabinet, nothing had legs. I sat Indian-fashion on the low sofa next to Uncle Castor. A tonic-and-something stood on the sawed log that acted as a coffee table. Buzzy’s mother said she herself had painted the skyline that went around the walls. There were many Empire State buildings in it. She had had to experiment before she got one that satisfied her. Uncle Castor said that when he was in London he missed his chance to sit for a painter named Philpot because of the Palladium’s schedule.
    Buzzy’s mother said that before Buzzy was born, when his father was stationed overseas, she had sat in Hitler’s seat at the Olympic stadium. Her dream had been to compete in the Olympics in Rome. In an unofficial race she beat the official world’s record in the women’s mile.
    Uncle Castor said that once Sissle and the boys were flown over to play at the Cole Porter party at the Ritz in London. They held back on the open brass and outshone Jack Hylton’s band, then the toast of England.
    Buzzy’s mother said she once danced for a living on a pyramid. Her solo was to build to a crescendo as the spotlight fanned open. A stagehand missed his cue and instead of a pinpoint light he turned on the full spot. The glare frightened her so much she lost her balance.
    Uncle Castor said every nothing town with a depot now had a Ritz Hotel. At the Ritz in Paris the American clientele managed to keep out coloreds, no matter how famous they were. It did his heart good to see waiters and tradespeople spit on the tips white Americans left, though they were pocketed on second thought.
    Buzzy’s mother said that she opened a dance school when she came to Indianapolis, but she had to give that up, too.
    Uncle Castor said that a white woman on the Ile de France insisted that he vacate the chair that was too close to hers; an Indian on B deck accosted him with the insults he had learned on A deck.
    Buzzy’s mother said she let herself dry naturally when she got out of the tub. She didn’t use towels.
    Uncle Castor said whites in Paris cut in front of him at American Express and a woman from Virginia protested that she would not have been forced to share an elevator with him back home. Experts in “muleology” were forever approaching his table and saying to his guests that nice girls didn’t drink with tack heads. The Americans asked, “What do you boys want over here?” or “What do you boys have against the flag?” and the British said, “You, face-ache.”
    Buzzy’s mother said that what she liked most about the musicians who came out of Kansas City was that they were all so big and black. I said we had to go.
    Buzzy walked us down Capitol Avenue. He jumped on my back. Buzzy had his moments. Once, when I caught a high fly, he got me in a hammerlock and said, “Finally did something for the team.”
     
    I tried to keep an eye on Uncle Castor, in the way you worry that a relative might be giving away money to total strangers. When he wasn’t on the