I was greatly impressed by Art’s talent, his sound, his concept of playing lead, and his creative ideas. He was a handsome, clean-cut, and most mannerly boy with a very affable disposition. I wasn’t aware at all of Art drinking heavily or using drugs. I liked him and have only positive memories of him at that time.
THANKS to Benny, when I got with Stan I was able to play lead. But while it had been possible to play solos by ear with Benny, with Stan things were different. He had a syncopated style, very original; things were built on an eighth note, three quarter notes, and another eighth note. It wasn’t easy to hear when you played a solo, and it got increasingly difficult. Finally, when we played the first record date that we did, on Capitol Records, and I did a solo on “Harlem Folk Dance,” it was just impossible. That’s when I realized I had to learn something about chord structure and the theory of music, so I started asking the guys in the band, “What happens with this? What happens with that?” And I gradually learned to read the chords. Red Dorris helped me a lot. He played tenor and sang with the band. He sang on that first date “Do Nothin’ Til You Hear From Me.”
Patti came to the jobs. She never did anything to excess. Sometimes she’d have a drink, and later on she smoked a little pot, but all she cared about was making love to me and watching me play. There I was. I had been a child living in my fantasies. Now I was a married man making lots of money. One of the first things I did, when I was still with Benny Carter, I took Patti downtown and bought her a watch with diamonds and emeralds. I remember that watch cost me a hundred and seventy-five dollars, almost a month’s salary. I’d buy her sexy panties and when we were riding on the bus I’d put my hand up under her dress when nobody was looking. We’d play games. Sometimes I’d make her pay her own way on the bus and we’d sit in separate seats like strangers. Then I’d start talking to her. We’d end up getting off the bus together and all the people would see it; it was so obvious. Guys would watch: “I didn’t think she was that kind of a girl! He must have a great line.” I’d look back and they’d all be staring. We were living down toward Los Angeles, downtown. We’d wander around and see an old hotel or one of those apartment houses and walk in the front door and down the hallway. We’d sneak into the hall bathroom, lock the door, and lie down on the floor and make love.
We’d go to the market together, and coming home I would slow up and walk behind her. We did this so many times and neither of us ever did anything to ruin it. I’d say, ‘Oh, pardon me, young lady, do you live around here?” She’d say, “Yes, I live down the street with my husband.” And I’d say, “I thought so because I’ve seen you and you sure are beautiful.” She’d say, “You shouldn’t say that because I’m a married woman.” I’d say, “I just can’t help it. You’re so gorgeous. I’d give anything in the world if I could make love to you.” I’d walk home with her. She’d go up to the house and look in. She’d come back and say, “Well, my husband isn’t home. I don’t know where he’s at. I guess you could come in. You could maybe kiss me or something.” I’d get all excited. We’d go in. I’d put my arms around her. I’d kiss her. Then she would say, “Please stop. I told you I’d give you a kiss but that’s all. I’m sorry, because you are a nice boy; you are handsome; and if I wasn’t married ... “ I’d say, “Oh, please, please, please! Anything you want I’ll give you. I’ll do anything. Just let me look at you. Just let me look at your breasts.” “Don’t say that!” “Oh, please!” “Will you promise that’s all you’ll ask of me?” “I promise. I swear.” So she’d pull up her sweater and take her brassiere off and stand there posing with her titties hanging out. And I’d ask if I could just touch them ... .
I used to like to scare her, too. She’d go to the store and I’d hide in the closet. She’d come home and she’d shout, “Art? Where are you? Come on, Art, please. I know you’re here.” Then I’d start making noises. Growling. She’d say, “Come on out. Don’t act silly. Please!” And she was always scared. I’d sneak out of the closet, and she’d turn around, and there I’d be with this horrible Frankenstein look I had. She’d say, “Oh stop it, honey, please.” I’d yell, “Hhhrrruuuuuaaaahhh!” And she’d shriek, “Stop that!” I’d be coming toward her with my hands in front of me; I’d be jumping—little, fast, jump-steps. I’d be bouncing and I’d have this horrible look on my face. She’d scream, “Stop that!” And she’d start running. “Stop that, Art!” I’d be bouncing after her, “Pt-pt-pt-pt.” She’d be hysterical. I’d chase her all around the room, into the kitchen and into the bathroom, and she’d scream, “Please! Please!” Finally, I’d kiss her, and everything would be alright.
I was doing well. People were getting to know me in the music business. I was starting to get a little following. And I was in love—after seventeen years of loneliness. I knew it couldn’t last. Then, one day in the latter part of 1943, after six months of marriage, I got my greetings from Uncle Sam.
| 4 | The Army1944–1946 |
THAT WAR was a real war. Every day the papers had casualty lists showing thousands of Americans killed. You’d go to movies and see newsreels of bodies. I was praying for some miracle. I was just one little person. Maybe they’d make a mistake and overlook me. And then I got the greetings.
I wish I could describe the feeling. It was as if I’d been given six months of happiness and now I was going to be killed. I did everything in my power to get out of it. I wanted to fail the physical so I kept taking the strips and bennies and drinking. I’d get in the shower on a cold night, put my clothes on, and, still soaking wet, walk around the block barefoot so I’d catch TB or something. I stopped eating. I stayed up for days at a time. I ran into a chiropractor. He checked my heart. I had a slight murmur, and he said I didn’t have anything to worry about. He wrote a long letter to the draft board to take with me when I went to my physical. I didn’t know that the word of a chiropractor is valueless, so I paid him and continued my escapades, and when I went to my physical I was so weak I could hardly get to the place. I went through the first part; they tell you to touch your toes fifteen or twenty times and they listen to your heart. I touched my toes once and was going down the second time and blacked out and nearly fell over. My heart was pounding, and I thought I had it made, but it didn’t work out that way.
I was inducted into Fort MacArthur on February 11, 1944. My dad drove me down, and I went in. I was a loner. Even playing with the bands, I was a loner. The only times I could act out or talk were when I was drunk. Sober I was completely cut off. Now I was in the army. I had trouble going to the bathroom; I couldn’t urinate in front of people. I couldn’t do the other thing.
I stayed at Fort MacArthur having physical examinations and being miserable, and then they sent me to Fort Sill, Oklahoma. You took seventeen weeks’ basic training to prepare you for overseas. We did everything imaginable at Fort Sill. We marched. We drilled. We scrubbed. It was a field artillery base so we fired all kinds of weapons. Whit, one of my stepfathers, had taught me how to shoot a 22, and I was an excellent shot. I got an expert’s medal. After that we threw hand grenades, and then we went through obstacle courses, climbing ropes, and infiltration courses with barbed wire around them. You crawl up onto the course from a trench and you have to stay flat on the ground because .50-caliber machine guns are being fired over your head, four feet in the air. If you raised up, you’d get killed. They had holes with land mines, and the land mines would explode, so you’d feel as if you were in battle. Since we were in Oklahoma there were water moccasins and copperhead snakes. They used to crawl down on the course, and a couple of people were killed while I was there because they ran into a snake, flipped out, stood up, and got shot. You go through it twice in the daytime and once at night, and at night every fourth or fifth bullet in the machine gun clip is a tracer, which means it lights up. You could see these flashing bullets going over your head.
The only other person that wasn’t from the south in my platoon of seventy-eight men was a guy named Dennis from Kansas. All the rest of them were from Texas and Oklahoma and Arkansas, and they really disliked northerners and me especially because I was from California—”Hollywood” they called it. They used to make