***The Roots Is The Toots- The Music That Got Them Through The Great Depression And World War II…

 

…he was glad, glad as hell, to be off the troop transports, away from the sinking sweat of men, nothing but men, in close quarters who had been getting on his nerves from about mid-ocean to the portals of New York. Who had been stinking too of too many cigarettes (and butt-fiend guys cadging them off of him and not returning the favor when they got their ration), too many carbohydrate- loaded foods (bread and mashed potatoes piled on mashed potatoes and a ladle-full of gravy, or what passed for shipboard gravy), and too much boozy talk (leading to occasional no room fist-fights once the cheap booze hit about the third drink) and card-playing bravado (ditto on the guys borrowing dough, borrowing dough on some screwy pair of deuces, and “forgetting the I.O..U., forgetting it quickly). Yes, he had had just about enough of that.

And tired too of the naval cadre (who was he kidding swabbies, nothing but in-your-face swabbies, the lowest of the low) who were stationed on the ship and who were the worst, taking advantage of their superior status as regulars on the ship to force G.I.s, guys who had seen plenty of action on all of the European fronts where there were fronts, to swab decks and other house-hold chores because those bastards were too lazy to do it. And because they could force the issue if it came down to it. Yes, enough of that too, thank you.

So once he hit New York, hit landlubber dry land he headed straight for the Diplomat (after the obligatory kissing of the New York port ground) with his pent-up dough and got himself a room with all the trimmings. Shower, big, big bed, a chair to sit on, sit on all by himself, and handy room-service-yes room service where for once after the previous three years he got to give the orders. Of course a guy who had been ship-bound and had spent some serious dough to repair his self-esteem was thinking of nothing so much as heading out, or in this case heading down, to the nearest hot spot and checkout, well, the women what else. His plan was to snag some loose woman lonely since her man was still away and she had, ah, needs, needs he could take care of, or some camp-follower not a floozy but not too hard to pick up either or in a pinch just somebody’s little sister who couldn’t make it in the looks department back home and figured she would try her luck when the ships came in with sex-hunger men, lots of them.

And so it was that night as he entered the ballroom of the Diplomat. That night when he from nowhere North Adamsville up in Massachusetts saw more young women dressed to the nines than he believed existed on the earth.  (Little did he know that these women were wearing last year’s, or from the year before, fashions and were not feeling dressed to the nines that night. Although they were as thrilled in their own way as he was), There they were with swaying hips, or just swaying, to the sounds of the new cooler be-bop sounds that had begun to take hold since he had been away. Sounds that reflected the hard realities of the European fights and now formerly beloved swing seemed too juvenile for grown battle-weary men and the women waiting for them.  

 

That night, from eight to two, he just danced, be-bop cool jazz danced, danced the way he felt inside, with every girl who would dance with him, drank an ocean of liquor, good stuff not that shipboard rotgut that would eat your insides out (and brought many drinks all around as well) and was happy. There would be a next time for finding some gal to share silky sheets with …