Document text
-TA LES
FOLKLORE
FORM C
NEW YORK
Text of Interview (Unedited)
STATE New York
NAVE OF WORKER Frank Byrd
ADDRESS 110 King Street
DATE March 9, 1939
SUBJECT Pullman Porters and Dining Car Folklore
FATSO, THE SLICKSTER
Some guys guys are too smart for their awn good. But you couldn't
tell Fatso that. He believed that a sucker was not only born every
minute, but that he was born to be taken by Fatso, himself, in
person. He also figured the world awed him a living...a soft living.
No other kind would do. And so, with only these simple rules to go
by, Fatso constantly kept his eyes peeled for a "square"; a soft -touch
on the loose.
Repeal hadn't come in yet and the porters in our crew were running
between New York and Chicago. One week -end we laid over in Chi, the
next we spent in New York. Fatso let no grass grow under his feet in
either place. He got himself a beat -up apartment in both towns and
opened up a corn joint; one of those places where porters, taxicab
drivers, occasional strays and local lushes hang out during their
spare time. In short, a clip joint.
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He did a good business in both places, too. What with corn selling
at fifty cents a pint and him being able to make five or six gallons
in one of his home-made stills for less than a buck a batch. He also
carted a good supply along with him on the trains and was able to clean
up when we ran into a bunch of traveling salesmen or good-time-Charlies
who used to need a quick one to wake up with. Once in awhile he would
make a pretty good sale to a group of chorus girls, jittery from a long
trek on the road and in need of a little something to celebrate 'their
homecoming. Yes sir, it was fatso's theory to catch every living
human.
"I misses nobodyl" he was fond of saying. "When dent quartahs start
jingling in mah jeans, I don' know duh diff'ence. Dey all makes de
same kinda sof', sweet music tuh mah yeahs."
But what I started to tell you about was Fatso's joint up in Harlem.
He had a cute little coffee -colored chick in there who had his chops
to the right turn and waiting for him on the back of the stove whenever
he hit town, and who had the week's receipts totalled down to the last
sheckle. She was hip too. ohenever any of the plainclothes boys came
gum -shoeing around, the kid knew what to do. She could look as innocent
as a M.G.M. starlet an' they never got to first base with her. No sir,
nary a drink could they get from that baby.
One Sunday night some of us went up to Fatso's, got to fooling
around playing tonk and pinnochle and it was seven o'clock in the
morning before we knew it. Well, we were due at the yards by ten, so
we decided to make a night of it. Some guy dressed in overalls and
looking pretty down in the mouth came in. He was a stranger to us but
he wanted to take a hand in the game, so we let him. Especially since
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Emma, Fatso's old lady, didn't seem to mind. We decided he must be one
of the boys from the block.
Not long afterwards, Big Tom, the collector, for the music company,
(you know, those nickel machines they have in the back of gin -mills)
came in. He fumbled around for awhile taking the back off the box and
collecting his change from the box. Then he played us a few free
records.
Pretty soon, the guy in overalls said: "flows about a drink, boys?"
"Don't care if i do.",Blue-Jay answers him.
"O.K. with me too," I says. "We may as well go in right this morning."
So the guy calls Emma.
"Knock us a little drink of King Kong, Babe." he tells her.
Emma don't make a move. She just stands there looking at him with
a queer sort of expression on her face. Then I figures something must
be wrong. Maybe the guy's a flatfoot.
"I'm sorry, Mister." Emma opines. "I ain't got no King Kong."
"Sure you have, girlie." the guy insists. "I'm all right. Don't
you remember me? I was up here th' other night with Steve an' Eddie ant
some uh boys."
"Naw suh." Emma says, backing away. "You all mus' be thinkin"bout
some otha place. $Twont hyeah."
Fatso is laying in bed in the other room with the door open and hears
the conversation. He raises up on one elbow and we hears the bed groan
under the weight of his 265 pounds.
"Emmal" he calls out, 'What you mean sayin' we ain't got nuthin' tuh
drink? Hyeah 'tis Monday molnin' an' I &in' broke duh ice yet, an' you
sayin' we am' got nuthinl? Gi'e dat man a drinkt"
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Emma always did what Fatso told her without question but this was
once when she stood her ground.
"Ef'n you all wants him tuh have one, Fatso, you beer come an' site
it to 'im yo'se'f."
The next minute Fatso came waddling out of the bed roam with his
pajama shirt flapping over his big belly and looking for all the world
like a flannel horse -blanket, shuffled over to the ice box and pulled
out a jug of corn. He set it on the table, gave each of us a glasseand
said:
"Go fo yo' se'f, boys."
To the man in overalls he said: "Ten cents a drink, brother."
The guy filled all our glasses, tasted the stuff, spat it out on
the floor and stood up.
"All right, Big Boy" he drawled, "Git your pants on. We're gonna
take a little walk."
*Well, you should a seen Fatso's face. I'll never forget it. It was
a sight to remember.