You Rascal, You.
Mama, I Want to Make Rhythm.
—Cab Calloway
“Look’a here, Cussy. ‘Rascal’ and ‘Rhythm’ are two of his songs. And he’s done gave them to me.” She swooned and did a half twirl, arms flailing to ground herself.
I fidgeted with my other Bible, shifted, and reached for her again, worried what Reverend Claxton might say, fretting again she might be putting a strain on her heart with all this excitement. “Ma’am, please sit—”
“Don’t you go getting fussy Cussy on me,” she admonished.
I dropped her arm, surprised by her feisty spirit.
“Now, not a word to Mr. Claxton. I do love Cab’s music.”She tucked the Bible and record carefully into her large pocketbook, hooked her arm into mine, and rolled out a wobbly, zig-zagging verse from Cab’s song, lifting it above the scorching July streets:
“Mama, I wanna make rhythm
Just wanna go zoozi-zah-zah-zoozi
Ooh-cah-dee-doodle-oodle-aah-doo.
Just wanna go wookee-ah-kay-a-kaya-kaya
Yag-a-yag-a-yag-a-yag you.”
***
A heady aroma of vanilla, cigars, and cologne greeted us inside the Badger Drug Co., which advertised Venida hair nets, Dan’l Boone cigars, guaranteed rubber goods, and expert prescription work.
Lightly humming Cab’s tunes, Mrs. Claxton looked over toiletries, then inspected the rack of nail polish, finally settling on one advertised as RATTLE-MY-RACY-RED-TALKIN-TATTLE. Above, an advertisement showed a lady with her slip hiked up, just enough to reveal the scarlet necessaries she wore.
The librarian held the polish in front of me, a playfulness in her eyes, the scars of the Depression stamped across mine. I hid my raggedy nails behind my skirt.
She picked up a round flower-covered box of Dorothy Perkins Lilac Dusting Powder, opened the lid, and sniffed, then held it up to my nose.
“Smells real pretty, just like the flowers.”
“Mm-mm, sure wish I was wearing this when I met Cab.”
I studied the woman, worrying what would come next, curious at the amount of money spent on such frivolity. Two other women nearby were selecting expensive store goods as well.
“Cussy, pick you out a little something to make you feel pretty. My treat.”
“Much obliged, but I couldn’t. How do these cityfolk afford such? Never seen so many expensive things.” I glanced down at my ugly black prison shoes and thought about Honey wearing my worn riding boots.
“I’m a mountain woman, too, but let me show you something, chile.” The librarian walked me over to the newspaper rack and pulled up a paper, flipping to the last pages. She ran her finger down advertisements for job employment. Turned page after page stuffed full of businesses begging for workers.
I know’d many could find good jobs in cities but never thought about it much. I couldn’t recall ever looking at any city newspaper’s job postings.
“Now, chile, back home in our hills, there is no opportunity for work unless you’re working for King Coal and fattening his pocket with the meager company script he pays you to shop inhisbusinesses, pay rent to live inhiscoal camps.”
“So many advertisements. I’d read of such, and Louisville is sure enough big, but I never imagined one city needed so much help.”
I took the newspaper and peered down the list. Column after column, jobs appeared for plumbers, electricians, painters, police and firemen, cooks, clerks, factory workers, and more.
“The pay is generous too,” I said, awed, turning back through the pages, hoping to check on the polio outbreak.
But she just grinned and reached for the paper. “Come on, I’m going to buy you a tube of lipstick.”
