WORTH MORE THAN A DOLLAR
Otis Johnson was sweating. The concrete was griddle hot. Otis' scuffed, black leather shoes were clean although unshined. The plastic, hot sausage bucket he used as a kitty had twelve coins in it: three quarters, five nickels, two dimes and two pennies. He'd been hoofing on the sidewalk a long time, too long for just a dollar and twenty-two cents, thirty cents of which he had used as startup money in the kitty.
He stopped dancing. None of the passing tourists seemed to notice the sad stillness of Otis. People flowed around him without breaking stride and without even the slightest modulation or hesitation in their conversation. Otis could have been litter on the banquette: a candy wrapper, an empty plastic beer go-cup, anything someone no longer wanted; that's how he felt as people stepped around him.
For a moment Otis had been so absorbed in his inner turmoil that all he heard was the replay of Hickey's effective pitch from when they had danced as a team.
"Thank ya, thank ya, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. You are enjoying the best tap trio in the world. Him is June-boy, I'm Hickey and that's Otis. We can out dance anybody on this here street. We is called the New Orleans Flying Feet. For our next number we gon show you how good we is and we would appreciate it if you would let us know how much you like what you see. When we finish our show, just drop in a few coins before you go. All we ask, as we dance so pretty, is that you reach into yo pockets and (all three of them would join in together, execute a spin and end with their arms outstretched and their fingers pointing to the bucket Otis' mama had given them) FEED THE KITTY!"
Then they would go into another routine Otis had choreographed for them. It was full of hesitations, hops, spins, shuffles and jumps. Since June-boy was fastest he always went in the middle. Otis went first, he'd get the people clapping. Then June-boy would have them goin' "oooohhhhh" and "aaaahhhhhh." Then Hickey would step in with his feet beating like drums. Nobody on the street could tap out rhythms as powerfully as could Hickey, whose short, stocky frame was surprisingly agile.
When they stopped, everybody would be clapping and then would come the show-stopper. Otis' cousin Marsha had told him: always save your best stuff for last. Otis thought what would be best was a dance that didn't use no singing or hand-clapping, only the music they had inside themselves. So Otis had worked up a secondline routine that the "Flying Feet" executed flawlessly.
They would start off dancing as a team, every move the same, right down to their finger movements, bugging the eyes and sticking out their tongues, shaking their heads and going "aaaAAAHHHHH." Then they would go into the solo part. Two of them would break and stand back to back, except they stood about two feet away from each other and leaned back so that it was really shoulder to shoulder, and they would have their arms folded across their chests. They would be looking up like they was searching for airplanes, and of course they would be smiling. The third person would be doing a solo, any solo he wanted to do, except that it had to be short. Then after all three had done their solo, they would link arms and high kick, end with some spins and jump up clapping. Then Otis would dance with his mother's umbrella that June-boy had artistically decorated in the same way he had painted the kitty-bucket. June-boy would go through the audience with the kitty bucket silently soliciting gratuities. And, of course, Hickey worked the audience asking them to give what they could to "keep the Flying Feet flying."
Afterwards, they would divide up the money and they would sit in the shade to rest. Hickey always said, "divide the money up on the spot and ain't nobody got nothing to say about how much they got."
Usually they did pretty good. Ten or fifteen dollars a piece, twenty on a really good day. Once they had made twenty-seven dollars a piece with eighty some cents left over which Otis gave to June-boy and Hickey since June-boy, who was good with numbers, kept excellent count of their profits and Hickey did all the talkin' that encouraged the people to give.
***
They had worked that way for six Saturdays and, even though it was hard work dancing for five or more hours, they had made good money. Then Hickey's old man left his mama, and his mama decided to move to Houston by her cousin.
Otis knew how badly Hickey must have felt. Otis had never known his father. His mama said that the man who was his lil' sister Shaleeta's father and who came around all the time, frequently staying the night, wasn't Otis' father.
Anyway, without Hickey it just wasn't the same. June-boy couldn't talk hardly at all and Otis couldn't talk like Hickey, so the money fell off drastically. Nobody could hustle the crowd like Hickey.
"Don't be fraid to give a dollar, don't be shame to give a dime. If you can't give nuthin' but a smile and say thanks, we 'preciate that too, cause we out here dancin' just for you. Now if you could spare a quarter that sho would be right swell, and if you could give a bill instead of silver that would really ring the bell. But whatever you give we appreciate it each and all, all we ask is that you FEED THE KITTY YALL."
When Hickey did it, it didn't sound like begging. It made people laugh and they would give. And of course it also helped a lot the way June-boy, who was real small and reed thin with big eyes and a bigger smile, carried the kitty bucket around staring up into the faces of strangers, silently pleading for their financial support. So when June-boy got sick and Otis tried going out on his own, he would be lucky to make four or five dollars a Saturday.
Dancing on the street used to be fun when all three of them were together, but now it was neither fun nor profitable. In the middle of his dance, Otis abruptly stopped, turned away from the street, stood stone still for two whole minutes, and then brusquely snatched up the kitty bucket with the $1.22 in it and started walking away.
He didn't know why, but today when he was dancing for tips he felt like he was doing something he shouldn't be doing. In fact he felt almost as bad as "that dollar day" which is how Otis always referred to the incident.
***
"Look at them lil' niggers. They sho can dance." The man laughed as he jovially poked an elbow into the arm of the guy standing next to him. It was a raspy, albeit almost silent, mouth wide open laugh of amusement.
June-boy had heard what the man said and was sheepishly walking away from him. With a familial pat on the shoulder, the laughing man stopped June-boy. In one fluid motion, the man went into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of bills held together by a gold money clip which had "R.E.T." floridly engraved on its face. Rhett, as he was affectionately known by both friend and foe, peeled off a dollar bill and dropped it in the bucket, "here you go, young fella. Yall dance real good."
June-boy looked at Rhett's mouth. Rhett was smiling. It looked like a smirk to June-boy. June-boy looked away, first at the dollar in the bucket, then at the other people standing around.
Otis reached into the bucket, pulled out the dollar, crumpled it in his small fist, and threw it at Rhett. The money hit Rhett in the waist and fell at his feet. "We can dance but we ain't no niggers."
Rhett was stunned. He looked at the man he had hunched moments ago. "I didn't mean nothing by it. They kind of touchy these days, ain't they? Even the little ones." Rhett kicked the knotted dollar toward the boys and walked off chuckling.
The small crowd that had been watching dispersed quickly and quietly. One guy dropped three quarters in the bucket and said, "Wish yall luck. Don't judge us all by the way some old redneck acts."
Hickey was livid. At first he had looked around for something to throw at the guy: a brick, a can, a bottle, a stick, anything. The only possible missile within reach was the dollar bill. After the first flush of anger, Hickey turned from staring at the stranger's back, and refocused his attention on the money lying on the sidewalk. As Hickey moved toward the dollar, Otis stamped his foot atop it.
"Naw, we don't need no redneck money. I ain't gon let nobody buy me like that." Otis snatched up the dollar, walked over to a nearby trash can and threw it in. "Come on yall, let's go." And they started walking home, heading out Rue Orleans. Otis was so angry, he simply half-heartedly waved and didn't even verbally respond when his friend Clarence, who was standing by the hotel door, said to him, "what's up, lil man?"
As the frustrated trio exited the French Quarter, crossing Rampart Street and taking the shortcut through Louis Armstrong Park, they argued about the money. Hickey was still angry. "Boy, I wish I'da had me a brick. I woulda bust that sucker all up in the back a his head. I woulda kicked his ass good for true and it wasn't gon be nuthin' nice!"
June-boy responded, "yeah and then what? The police woulda put us in jail for fuckin' with a tourist." June-boy walked over to one of the benches in the Congo Square area and sat counting their take for the day.
"They'd had to catch me first."
Otis ignored Hickey's verbal bravado. Silence reigned as June-boy finished the count.
"How much we got?" Hickey demanded, obviously still agitated.
"Twenty-six dollars and fifty cents. That's eight dollars and some change each."
"Yeah, and if Otis wouldn't 've been so stupid and throwed that dollar away. We could of had nine dollars a piece."
Otis spoke up, "you was mad enough to kick him but not mad enough not to let him kick you by putting a dollar in the kitty while he calling you out your name."
Hickey quickly retorted, "way I see it, Otis, we had earned that dollar, and we shoulda kept it."
June-boy divided up the money and gave each one his share. They rose from the bench and continued walking toward the projects. Nobody said anything for half a block. Finally June-boy broke the silence, "aw shit, it's over nah, let's forget about it."
Otis tried not to say anything more, but the words were burning his throat. "Money don't make it right." Neither Hickey nor June-boy said a word.
When Otis got home, the pain his mother saw carved into her son's furrowed brow was not on account of what the White man had said but on account of how June-boy and Hickey had reacted. Otis told his mother what the White man had said but didn't tell her that Hickey and June-boy wanted to take the money.
"Otis, you hear me. I don't want you going back out there. We don't need the money bad enough to have people mistreating you while you trying to earn honest money."
Otis knew that it was his mother's pride speaking, but he couldn't wear pride. They couldn't eat no pride. He had bought the taps for his shoes. He had bought the jeans and some of his T-shirts. He paid his own way to the show. He even helped buy pampers and things for Shaleeta. That little money he brought home was plenty.
"Mama, I can take care of myself. I'm allright. I got sense enough to stay out of trouble and sense enough not to let nobody misuse me."
Shirley Johnson looked at her son and smiled at how grown up he was acting. Just then Shaleeta had started crying. "I'll get her, mama," said Otis, glad for the opportunity to end the conversation before it got around to his mama asking what did June-boy and Hickey have to say behind what went down.
Otis picked up Shaleeta, held her in his arms and began dancing to the music coming from the radio which was always on either B-97 if Otis was listening, or on WWOZ, the jazz and heritage station, if Shirley was listening. OZ was playing ReBirth Brass Band doing a secondline number.
***
As the crowd flowed around him, Otis started feeling sick. He left the corner they had held down for over two months now.
After walking two blocks in ruminative silence, he passed Lil Fred and Juggy dancing on their corner. Otis waved at them. He knew they wouldn't wave back because there were five White people standing around them.
Suddenly it dawned on Otis what had so upset him about the dollar day. Otis stopped. He looked back at Lil Fred and Juggy. They were Black. He looked at the people they were hustling for money. They were White.
In his mind Otis surveyed the streets as far back as he could remember. The results stung his pride. He had never seen any White kids dancing on the street for money and he had never been given money by any Black tourists, indeed most of the Black tourists would walk by quickly without even looking at the youngsters mugging, clowning, and cutting the fool on the sidewalk. Only Black boys dancing. Only White people paying money.
Otis looked at Lil Fred and Juggy grinning at the White people as the dancing duo held out their baseball hats seeking tips. Otis shook his head, is that how he looked when he danced? While turning away from the image of his friends hustling on the sidewalk, Otis spied his own face reflected in the sheen of the brass hotel door held open by Clarence the doorman.
A well dressed couple walked pass Otis and Clarence into the hotel. Otis was eleven years old and dressed in worn jeans and a Bourbon Street T-shirt. Clarence was forty-two years old and dressed in a white uniform which incongruously included sharply pressed short pants with a black stripe running down the side.
"What's happenin' lil man?" Clarence genially greeted Otis.
Otis was frightened by what he saw. He saw his young face in the door and he saw Clarence's old face beside the door. Was this his future?
They had always told themselves they were hustling the White people. But that dollar day had started him thinking. Fred and Juggy across the street, clowning for tips had brought the thought to the surface of Otis' consciousness. And Clarence patiently opening doors, bowing, and servilely smiling a "welcome" made it clear as clear could be. Clear as that stinging, unforgettable southern drawl that constantly replayed in Otis' head: "Look at them lil' niggers. They sho can dance."
Otis walked resolutely out of the French Quarter, vowing never to work there again.
—kalamu ya salaam