Still High as a Kite
At least the white boy wasn’t pasty white. My friend, Baby Brother, promised (some might say threatened) to introduce me to one of his white friends from the race track. Brother and I had done our own thing a few years back. Since our friendly split, he had introduced me to two or three guys, all black, and I liked them all. Like Brother, they had been gentle souls with an appreciation of life’s better things; jazz, food, good scotch and even better sex. Turned out, the white boy was no exception.
My name’s Rae, spelled “R.A.E”. I’m a proud black woman and, if I say so myself, one helluva fine singer. I say “black woman” but others tell me I’m more a Lena Horne kind a color. My introduction to the white boy was a Saturday night thing. I was on stage at the Club Baby Grand on Huntington’s East Side with Junie Pierce, probably the best organ man around those parts. The tiny club was known for showcasing the best jazz talent on the East Coast and it sat smack in the middle of a rough neighborhood. As Junie and I were putting a wrap on “My Funny Valentine”, in walked Brother and the kid. I had just turned thirty five the previous month and was pretty good at guessing other peoples’ ages. It was one of my many talents. The boy looked about twenty to me; not old enough to legally be in there but he was with Brother so everybody knew he was gonna stay.
Baby Brother, whose real name I never did learn, worked the stables at the track and I looked forward to seeing him every summer in town. “From the 28th of May to the 4th of July” was the way the track’s theme song put it. He was a giant physical specimen and a jazz aficionado of the first order. He was also the heavyweight boxing champion on the racetrack circuit. Over scotch and soda, we hit it off in a steamy way during the summer of ’75 and, as I’ve explained, we’ve been friends since. To this day, I adore that big white smile from his round black face; the same smile that greeted me as I walked off the stage that night in ’77.
“Woman, get yourself over here and join us,” he laughed. “This here’s my friend, Robbie, who I told you about. Robbie does a little boxin’ himself at the track on Wednesday nights. He’s a lightweight and, like I told you, he’s pretty damn good. He be little….but he’s mean. He’s the onliest college kid I know with a checkbook.” We all laughed as we pulled bentwood chairs up around the table, the kid laying his brown leather, pork pie hat in his lap. Barney, the bar tender, turned the sound system on and Clifford Brown’s “The Best Thing for You is Me” serenaded the room. Brown, born and raised in Huntington, was a hard bop trumpet virtuoso who had died tragically on the Pennsylvania Turnpike in 1956. He had played the Baby Grand many a night early in his career and remained a home town favorite. His dozen albums were regular fare after midnight.
The white boy showed he had balls immediately, announcing to me that he would be the best thing for me that night. Hell, the kid hadn’t even really heard my pipes yet! Brother threw his head back and his roaring laugh filled the bar. “Sister Rae, I told you that you would like this man. As a Huntington lady, you will appreciate his fighting name too; goes by the name “Kid Connell” cause he growed up on Connell Street here in town. How about dat?” I demurred on the name game but asked the kid if he liked his music as much as Brother did.
“Rae, I dig jazz but I need to hear a melody too,” the kid answered. “That’s the way my own Mom puts it and I feel the same. In fact, I can’t wait to hear you back up on stage tonight. Everything I know about music comes from my parents, who were both addicted. I spent many a night in bed listening to the two of them playing LP’s and singing together. That’s how I know that Clifford Brown number that’s on right now and it’s how I can tell Ritchie Powell’s on piano too.” This white boy had my attention now. Under that mussed crop of dirty blonde hair, there was a lot going on. His voice was clear and confident beyond his years and dammit, the piercing blue eyes weren’t bad either. Brother ordered another round as my break time ended. I did strut my way up the stage stairs with a little “extra” for the kid’s benefit, my silk dress hiked up tight to avoid tripping, of course.
I led off the next set with “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”. I sang more than one song to the kid during that hour and my black brothers at the bar were clearly not appreciating my efforts as much as usual. I’d been around the bar scene long enough to know when a lady should apply the brakes so I did. Later, back at our table, Baby Brother excused himself so the kid and I could be alone. I loved calling him “Kid”. His take on music as a way to break down barriers to black-white relations fascinated me. He talked non stop about how “Louie”, the “Count” the “Duke” and “Lionel” had built bridges to understanding over the past several decades with their musical genius. I didn’t sense any game playing on his part; no bullshit. I also learned that the kid was a sax man himself, playing in a five piece group a few times a month. He volunteered that as the reason he could be a college student and have his own checkbook, as Brother had teased. After a half hour of playing “kneesies” with my new friend under the tight table, it was mutually decided that we leave but not, obviously, together. He asked me to meet him at Tenth and Church, where he said his “beat up” old Chevy was parked. I was relieved to see Brother leave right behind him to make sure the white boy was safe to his car.
The short version of the rest of this story is that I spent the night with the kid. Okay, so I robbed the cradle. He drove about fifteen miles to Harbison, where the University was located, and we went to a dormitory that had closed for the summer. The kid was supervising a student paint crew there and had a key. It was a big Victorian place and we shared a front porch swing after settling in. Over beers from the crew’s downstairs fridge, we talked for hours about my singing career, how much he loved my mellow voice and a bit more about life. And yes, there were hours of sex too. It wasn’t love-making; not at all. It was down and dirty, sweating, on the floor, on the couch, on the bunk bed sex. I whispered, “Now, ain’t that somethin’ nice,” in his ear, repeatedly urging him on. The kid was wiry, muscled and had the energy of a platoon. When it was over, I laughed out loud that I was able to keep up with his manic moves….and I felt every single one of my thirty five years.
I’m married now, I have just retired from a responsible job with the state and my life is full of joy. Like everyone else in the U.S., I still fret over race relations that have thankfully improved since 1977. I never saw the white boy, Kid Connelll, after that one memorable night when he had joked, “They say that when you’ve had black, you never go back. Well, I say that when you’ve had white, you stay high as a kite!” He was a funny young dude but I never learned his last name either!
To call that experience a “one night stand” now would be doing violence to the spirit of the occasion. Nineteen seventy seven was a long time ago. The kid and I took risks to spend those hours together. This ol’ gal is sharing them with you to provide just a bit of historical perspective. Seems that taking chances is how all people make fascinating things happen, even if they seem, to quote from the title of another of Clifford Brown’s compositions, “All Weird” They’re even more so thirty one years later but I do think the kid was right about the kite thing!