Bud, Not Buddy

  Herman E. Calloway said, “What in Sam Hill is going on here? First off, don’t you be coming in here accusing folks of being your father, and second off, where is your mother?”

  Shucks, he said it like he didn’t already know. I said, “She’s dead, sir, she died four years ago.”

  Herman E. Calloway said, “I am truly sorry to hear that, but it’s obvious that you are a disturbed young man and you don’t have a clue who your father is. You just tell us who’s looking after you now, and we’ll get you sent back to wherever it is you belong.”

  “I belong with you now, sir.”

  Herman E. Calloway said, “Now you look here . . .”

  Jimmy said, “Hold on, Herman.” He seemed a lot nicer than this Calloway guy. “Bud, you got to understand Mr. Calloway here can’t be your daddy, nohow, no way, nuh-uh. I don’t know what gave you that idea, but whatever, we’ve got to get you back home. Someone in Flint’s got to be worried sick about you.”

  I said, “No, sir, I don’t have nobody left in Flint, that’s why I came all the way here.”

  He said, “No one, no one at all?”

  I said, “No, sir.”

  He said, “No brothers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No sisters?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about an auntie?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No grandma?”

  “No, sir.”

  Shucks, it looked like this guy was going to go over my whole family tree, but he whistled and said, “So were you living in an orphanage?”

  Uh-oh, I had to be careful how I answered this, one wrong answer and I could tell that these guys were ready to give me up to the cops or give me a one-way ticket back to the Home.

  I said, “Well, sir, I had some problems with some folks that were supposed to be looking after me and after I hid their shotgun and poured water all over Todd Amos I busted out of the shed and had to go on the lam and then I thought it was about time I came and met my father because it’s been—”

  He raised his hand to stop me.

  “That’s fine, son, but just answer what I asked you. What orphanage were you in?”

  “Well, sir, I used to be in a Home and then I wasn’t and then I was with some people that were kind of mean and then I tried to find Miss Hill but she moved all the way to Chicago and that was too far to walk so—”

  He raised his hand again to shut me up.

  “Hold on, Bud. Do me a favor, go wait by that door for a minute.” He pointed to the side of the stage.

  I walked over and waited to see what was going to happen. I tried pushing the door open a little bit in case I had to make a quick escape but it was jammed tight. I’d have to leave out of the same door I came in.

  The man named Jimmy and the guy who had to be my daddy started whispering. After while Herman E. Calloway raised his arms and said, “Hey. But don’t forget, this is your little red wagon, you pull it if you want.”

  Jimmy said, “Fair enough.” He waved me back onto the stage.

  “Bud,” he said, “you look like you might be a little hungry, so I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re all done rehearsing and were about to head over to the Sweet Pea. You’re invited to come along under one condition.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Once you get something in your belly you’ve got to be straight with me, you’ve got some explaining to do, we’ll feed you but you’ve got to tell us the truth. Do we have a deal?”

  He stuck his hand out for me to shake. But I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.

  “What’s the Sweet Pea, sir?”

  “Best restaurant in Grand Rapids. Is it a deal?”

  I don’t know how grown-ups can tell I’m always so doggone hungry but I sure wasn’t going to turn down getting my very first real restaurant food. I grabbed his hand and made sure I gave it a hard squeeze like Momma told me to and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled. “No problem.”

  Herman E. Calloway said, “Well, James, like I said, if he’s gonna be doing some explaining it’s got to be to you, I don’t need to listen to this scamp’s nonsense whilst I’m trying to digest my supper.”

  He stuck a pipe that wasn’t lit into his mouth and walked off the stage.

  Shucks, if my father had to be so doggone old I was starting to wish that Lefty Lewis or this Jimmy guy were him, Herman B. Calloway seemed like he was going to be hard to get along with.

  The horn player said, “Little man, my name is Jimmy Wesley, you can call me Mr. Jimmy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pointed at the younger men. “The drummer there is Doug ‘the Thug’ Tennant, the sax man is Harrison Eddie ‘Steady’ Patrick . . .”

  The saxophone player said, “Awww, man, it’s not Eddie Steady, it’s Steady Eddie, Steady Eddie Patrick.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Uh-huh, and on trombone we have Chug ‘Doo-Doo Bug’ Cross, and the palest member of the band, on piano, is Roy ‘Dirty Deed’ Breed.”

  He shook his head again and said, “Lord knows why these young musicians can’t just leave the perfectly good names their mommas gave them alone, but for some reason they can’t. Anyway, fellas, this here is Bud . . . what was your last name, Bud?”

  “Caldwell, sir.”

  “This here’s Bud Caldwell. He’s gonna be our guest over at the Sweet Pea for dinner. Y’all say hello to the little man and make him feel comfortable.”

  The Thug said, “What’s the word, Bud?”

  Dirty Deed said, “How you doing?”

  Doo-Doo Bug said, “Welcome, little stuff.”

  Steady Eddie said, “Good to meet you, my man.”

  I said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Mr. Jimmy told them, “All right. He’ll ride over with you four, me and Herm will meet you there.”

  The sax man, Steady Eddie, said, “All right, Mr. Jimmy, we’ll finish loading up.” The Jimmy guy went out the front door.

  The sax man told me, “Come on, little man, if Mr. Jimmy’s gonna spring for your supper the least you can do is help load the car. Grab that case over there and put it in the trunk of the Buick out back.”

  He pointed to a long skinny black suitcase that had a leather handle on top of it and said, “And be careful, that’s my bread and butter in there.”

  I must have looked confused because he told me, “That’s my horn, my ax, my saxophone, the thing I make all my money with, so don’t get butterfingers and drop it.”

  I said, “Oh. Yes, sir.”

  The trombone man, Doo-Doo Bug, said, “One thing you are going to have to drop, though, is all that ‘sir’ stuff. The only two folks around here old enough for you to be calling them sir are Mr. Jimmy and”—he winked—“your long-lost dear old daddy.”

  The whole band busted a gut laughing.

  The Thug guy said, “I’ma let you in on a little secret, my man. I think the only reason Mr. C. is denying he’s your daddy is ’cause you went and hurt his feelings.”

  “How? I didn’t do nothing to him.”

  “There it is, that’s just what I mean. Here you two are getting together for the first time and you didn’t show the man no love.” He looked over at Doo-Doo Bug. “Bug, did you see any love being passed from this boy to his daddy?”

  Doo-Doo Bug said, “You leave me out of your nonsense.”

  The Thug kept going. “Shoot, man, seems to me like you should give the man his props, seems to me like you should’ve given the man a whole lot more affection.

  “You see, I know Mr. C. better than most folks do, I know that beneath that coldhearted, evil, wicked, nasty, mean—”

  Doo-Doo Bug said, “Don’t forget cheap, cheap’s got to be in there somewhere.”

  The Thug said, “You know cheap’s right up high on the list. But as I was saying, beneath all that festering nastiness is a tender, kind, loving human being. Why, I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that he’s outside right now sitting i
n that Packard sobbing openly about how you shunned him.

  “When you get to the Sweet Pea, rush right up on him, give him a big hug, yell out ‘Daddy,’ then plant a big juicy kiss right on the top of his shiny bald head. Shoot, you do that and you’ll be in his will so quick your head will spin.”

  I put this Thug guy on my list of people not to pay any mind to. Herman E. Calloway seemed like the kind of person that would rather get bit in the behind by a snaggletooth mule than have somebody give him a kiss.

  Steady Eddie said, “Let’s not get the little man killed before he’s had a chance to eat, Thug. Son, I hope you’ve got sense enough to let what he’s telling you to go in one ear and find the nearest exit. You just steer clear of Mr. C. for a while, he’s not someone you want to toy with, and for God’s sake whatever you do don’t call him Daddy or Poppa or anything that’s going to give anyone the idea you two are kin, you hear?”

  These guys really thought I was dumb. I said, “Yes, sir. But isn’t it just like my luck to come clean across the state to find my daddy and he turns out to be a mean old coot?”

  I slapped my hand over my mouth, I knew better than saying something like this out loud but it just fell out of my mouth before I could swallow it down. This was Bud Caldwell’s Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life and Make a Better Liar Out of Yourself Number 63.

  RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 63

  Never, Ever Say Something Bad About Someone You Don’t Know—Especially When You’re Around a Bunch of Strangers. You Never Can Tell Who Might Be Kin to That Person or Who Might Be a Lip-Flapping, Big-Mouth Spy.

  Sure enough, the drummer, the Thug guy, started acting like he was writing stuff down on a piece of pretend paper. He said, “Let’s see, was that ‘mean old coot’ or ‘old mean coot’? Shoot, baby, if I drop some info like this on Mr. C. I might be able to stay in this band longer than the last three drummers did. You see, kid, you ain’t the only one trying to get on Mr. C.’s good side, this is the best drumming gig in the state and I need to hang on to it as long as I can.”

  I wasn’t sure if this drummer guy really was a dirty dog or if he was just a big teaser. Whichever way, I’d have to work real hard on remembering Rule and Thing Number 68. Or was it 63?

  Steady Eddie said, “Thug, you’re gonna have to lay off the kid’s chops, the little man’s got problems enough and he sure don’t need to have you meddling with him. Let’s get that car loaded, me and . . . what’s your name again, kid?”

  “Bud, not Buddy, si . . . just Bud, not Buddy.”

  “Right, me and Bud-not-Buddy are too dang hungry to hear any more of your lip.”

  Of all the Dusky Devastators of the Depression or the Nubian Knights, Steady Eddie is my favorite.

  We loaded a bunch of funny-shaped black suitcases into the trunk of a big old black Buick, then climbed in. I got in the backseat and sat between Dirty Deed and Steady Eddie with my suitcase on my lap. DooDoo Bug got behind the steering wheel and the Thug got in beside him.

  The Thug said, “So, Bud-not-Buddy, I’ma come right out and ask what’s on everyone else’s mind. How’d you find out Mr. C. was your daddy?”

  “My mother let me know.”

  Thug said, “Uh, I ain’t trying to be funny, and I’d never play the dozens on no one, but let me ask you, was your momma, uh, how can I put this? Was your momma as old as sand when she had you?”

  Steady Eddie said, “Man, leave the kid alone, you got no call to go prying into his life.”

  I never minded talking about my momma so I told the Thug, “Yes, sir, she was pretty old when I was born.”

  Thug said, “Shoot, I knew she had to be either old or crazy to have anything to do with that man. How old was she, eighty, and was she blind?”

  I said, “No, sir, she was old, but her eyes didn’t go bad yet. She was twenty when I was born, and she was twenty-six when she died.”

  That news always kills any conversation you’re having with grown folks. The Dusky Devastators got as quiet as some mice with bedroom slippers on. The only sound you could hear for a second was the keys cling-clang-clinging up against the metal dashboard as DooDoo Bug turned the car into the front of a little house that had a sign saying THE SWEET PEA on it.

  The Thug said, “Things is hard all over, ain’t they?”

  Steady Eddie said, “You’re all right, little man, you’re a tough little nut, I like that. Most folks your age would be bawling their eyes out if they got teased as hard as that fool drummer was teasing you, but you ain’t even close to crying, are you?”

  I said, “No, sir, I don’t know why, but my eyes don’t cry no more.”

  Steady Eddie said, “I like that, ‘my eyes don’t cry no more.’ You mind if I borrow that? That sounds like a great name for a song.”

  I said, “No, sir, I don’t mind at all.”

  He reached over and rubbed his hand over my head and said, “Yeah, you’re all right, little fella. And don’t you worry none too much about the Thug, Mr. C. changes drummers the way most folks change their drawers. What you see in that front seat is a man on borrowed time.”

  Thug said, “Awww, man, what did you hear?”

  Doo-Doo Bug cut the car off and said, “All right, gentlemen, that’s enough, let’s go stuff our craws.”

  WHEN WE GOT into the restaurant I could see that it was someone’s living room that they’d set about ten card tables and some folding chairs in. Every table but one was filled and there were five or six people standing in the doorway waiting to sit down. We said, “Excuse us,” and walked right past. Then the smell of the place got into my nose and I could tell why folks were lining up to get in.

  I closed my eyes and took in a big snort of air. It was like someone took a old pot and poured about a hundred gallons of hot apple cider and a hundred gallons of hot coffee into it, then stirred eight or nine sweet potato pies, crusts and all, into that, then let six big steamy meat loafs float on top of all that, then threw in a couple of handfuls of smashed potatoes, then boiled the whole thing on high. This must be exactly how heaven smells!

  I could tell by the smell that Mr. Jimmy was telling the truth when he said this was the best restaurant in Grand Rapids. Shucks, I’ve never eaten in one before but I’d say this was the best restaurant in the world! I opened my eyes ’cause the smell was starting to get me dizzy.

  On the other side of the room Herman E. Calloway was sitting at a table with Mr. Jimmy and a woman.

  Steady Eddie pointed at the only empty table, one that had a sign saying RESERVED NBC on top of it, and said, “That’s where we’re at, over there, Bud. NBC stands for ‘Nobody but Calloway,’ Mr. C. changes the name of the band so much that no one can keep up with the new names so they call us NBC so’s they don’t have to change the sign.”

  Before I could sit down with them Mr. Jimmy saw us and said, “Here they are,” and pointed at me and waved for me to come over to their table. Shucks, I’d rather sit with the band than with Herman E. Calloway, it would be hard to have a good time eating if you looked up and saw him every time you took a bite.

  The Thug said, “Remember what I said,” pointed at the top of his head and acted like he was smacking some kisses.

  I walked to the other table.

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Bud, this here’s Miss Thomas, she’s our vocal stylist.”

  She could tell I didn’t know what that meant so she said, “I’m the singer, honey.”

  I said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  She laughed and stuck her hand out for me to shake. There were about nine diamond rings on just her right hand!

  She said, “Oh, my, a gentleman. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance as well.”

  Then she took all those ringed-up fingers and rubbed them across my cheek, held my chin and said, “Come here, child,” and pulled my face up close to hers.

  Uh-oh, I twisted up my face to get ready for a kiss but instead she looked real close at me and said, “What’s this, baby?” She rubbed her finger
s over a couple of sting spots that I’d been scratching.

  For a second I was going to tell her they were vampire bites, but something told me to tell the truth this time. I said, “That’s just some hornet stings, ma’am, I got bit up when the Amoses locked me in their shed.”

  It was her turn to twist her face up. “When who locked you up in what shed?”

  “They were the people the Home was paying to look after me. I got bit by their fish-head guards.” I showed the woman the bite on my hand. I was surprised to see it was puffing out from pus.

  “My Lord!” she said. “Herman, this child’s hand is infected. None of you men noticed how he looks?”

  Herman E. Calloway said, “Talk to James, far as I know he’s the only one who looked at the kid.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Well, Grace, to be truthful I did think the boy’s face was a little swole up, but you know how dark it is in the Cabin, and, by God, there are some folks who just naturally have lopsided heads.”

  She said, “Dark or not, even Blind Lemon Jefferson could see something’s wrong with this baby’s eye. What happened here, Bud?” She touched underneath my eye as light as a feather.

  I said, “Well, ma’am, Todd Amos woke me up by shoving a pencil up my nose all the way to the R and when I went to punch him I slapped him instead and it left a big welt on his cheek so we put up our dukes and went at it and it didn’t take long before I knew I couldn’t whip him so I just curled up and fell down.”

  I looked at Herman E. Calloway to make sure he was listening to the next part. I wanted to let him know that even though he was real mean our minds thought about things in the exact same way.

  I said, “I fell down, ma’am, ’cause the Lord give me the good sense to know when enough is enough.”

  He acted like he didn’t hear. So I kept talking to Miss Thomas. “Then Mrs. Amos came and I could tell they’d gone through my suitcase even though they promised they wouldn’t and she locked me up in the shed where those hornets and fish-head guards got a holt of me.”

  Miss Thomas looked like this was some real amazing news.