Free The Jazz Kid by James Lincoln Collier

that.”
    â€œBad luck if you don’t.” He took another swallow of coffee and another bite of pie. “That’s more like it,” he said. “We didn’t get off work till eight this morning and then Phil wanted to go eat some Chink food. I didn’t get to bed till ten.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have woke you up so early.”
    â€œNaw, it’s okay. I got things to do anyway.” He took another bite of pie and washed it down with coffee. “What kind of a horn you got there? Lemme see it.”
    I opened the case, and handed him the cornet. He looked at the engraving on the bell. “Hmmm,” he said. “Stratton. That baby’s been around awhile. Where’d you get it?”
    â€œFrom Hull House. I rent it.” It made me feel kind of proud to be talking about horns with him.
    He worked the valves. “Hand me my mouthpiece.”
    I didn’t dare take the mouthpiece out of his horn myself, for fear I’d break something, so I brought the whole horn over to him. He put his mouthpiece in my Stratton and blew a few notes. It amazed me how easy the notes spilled out, like he hardly put any effort into it at all. “Hmmm,” he said again. “You cleaned it out recent?”
    It never occurred to me you ought to clean your horn. How come Mr. Sylvester never said anything about it? “Not for a while.”
    â€œYou got to clean out a horn regular.”
    â€œI heard of different ways of cleaning your horn,” I said. “What’s your way?”
    â€œI never heard of any but one way, soap and warm water. You got a little brush for the crooks?”
    â€œMaybe I can get one.” I didn’t see how I could unless I stole it.
    â€œJust make sure you wipe the water off good afterwards or it’ll leave spots. Although in the case of this horn I don’t know as it matters too much.” He shook his head. “You oughtta put new corks in the valves to cut down on the leaks. Of course it ain’t your horn.” He finished off the pie and coffee and sat there licking his fingers to get the last taste of custard. Then he said, “How come you got interested in jazz?”
    â€œFrom hearing you that time we were fixing the pipes down there in the cellar of that joint. I got so excited by it I could hardly sleep that night.”
    â€œNaw,” he said, “I ain’t that good. You ought to hear those New Orleans guys, like King Oliver out at Lincoln Gardens or Paul Mares with the Rhythm Kings. I ain’t nothing compared to them.”
    â€œThe New Orleans Rhythm Kings? I got one of their records. Is that who the cornet player is?” It kind of gave me a thrill that he was called Paul, too.
    â€œYeah. Paul Mares. He’s one of those New Orleans guys. They’re the best. You can’t beat ‘em. Which record you got?”
    â€œâ€˜Oriental’ and ‘Farewell Blues.’ I’ve been trying to copy it off the record.”
    â€œOh yeah?” he said. He handed me my horn. “Go ahead. Play it. Let’s hear what you sound like.”
    I took the horn, feeling as nervous as could be. It was one thing to sit there in Hull House with a cup mute in and bang away. It was another to play it for a real musician. The trouble was that I couldn’t really get the feeling into it that Mares got—or Tommy got. That bounce, that sparkly feeling. I could play the notes right, most of them anyway, but not the feeling. But I was determined to try. I blew a couple of scales to warm up, and then I started off. About two bars in I hit a clam. I flashed hot. That made me hit another clam, and I stopped, feeling embarrassed and sore at myself.
    â€œTake it easy,” he said. “Don’t take it so fast. Just play it nice and easy.”
    It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to play it as fast as the Rhythm Kings did. “You mean play it slower?”
    â€œTake