Cold as Hell. A cold Hell? Sure, why not? No better way of saying that this was as evil a night as he could remember. Everything was late, railroad upside down. Well, as his mother always said, you took the good with the bad. At least the car men’s shanty was warm and dry. Tonk Mason took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes. It was four-thirty in the morning and cold as Hell.
The door opened to an icy blast and a slight, leather-faced man in grimy overalls. Mullen. “Twenty’s ‘bout half an hour out,” he said.
“Mm,” grunted Mason. He knew Mullen would have been happier not working beside a colored man, but the guy at least had the decency to not show it. Others weren’t so polite. Graveyard shift was a bitch, but it was a good job, a damn good job, all things considered. Not only that, the job had been deemed—and he, Tonk Mason, with it—“essential to the war effort.” Beat that.
It sure as hell beat slogging around the damn warehouse under “You-there” Schwimmer. “You there,” what he called every man in the place, as it would have pained him grievously to actually remember, let alone use, any of their names. Especially the colored men’s names. No, with a guy like Schwimmer, Mason knew that, try as he might, it was only a matter of time before things came to a boil. And that would only mean one thing: a knock on the head and jail, if not worse. Lucky for him his dad-in-law had an in at the Kansas City Terminal Railway Company and steered him to Mister Weems, terminal superintendent at Union Station.
The receptionist’s voice was curt. “Mister Weems will see you now.” She jerked her head toward a frosted glass door. Heart thumping, Mason opened the door and saw a man with white hair, a red face, glasses. Black suit. The man stood and said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Mason.” Weems carefully explained the requirements of the carman’s job: “This is very rigorous work, Mr. Mason. Please consider whether you are up to it.”
After another moment’s conversation, about things that seemed to have little relation to railroad work, Mr. Weems nodded, stood, and shook Mason’s hand. “Welcome to KCTR, Mason.” William Mason had never shaken the hand of a white man in his life. Then, Weems handed Mason a card. “Now, Mason, this is important. You must understand, and make everyone you come into contact with understand, that your work is vital to our war effort. We’ve got to keep those trains moving. You run into any trouble, day or night, you show that card. Have them call me if necessary. We are depending on you.”
Mason walked out the side door of Union Station into the mid-day sun trembling with elation, and that night he celebrated with the gang at the IXL.
“White man actually shook your hand?”
“Shit you say!”
“Damn, maybe this war is changing things.”
“So you a car tonk now.”
Mason frowned.
“Yeah, that’s what they call the guys who check out all the wheels and shit.”
“What’s that mean, ‘tonk’?” said another.
“Means you banging on the wheels with a hammer—tonk, tonk! Checkin’ out there’s no cracks and shit. Buddy of mine’s car-tonkin’ over at Argentine.”
“How’s he like it?” asked Mason.
“Tough job, workin’ all hours out in the cold. Good money, though.”
“How much you gettin’?” asked another.
“Three and a quarter an hour,” said Mason, “and medical.”
“Damn, that’s good money.”
“Sounds like an important job,” said a third.
“Yeah, you ‘Tonk’ Mason now!”
“Shiii…”
“Don’t let them wheels fall off!”
The men laughed and clinked glasses.
Mason drained his beer and headed for home, head spinning. Important job…good money…Tonk Mason….
Eighty miles west of Kansas City, Santa Fe train number 20, the eastbound Chief, was ninety minutes down and struggling. The locomotive pounded into the blizzard, the crew using every pound of steam the boiler could produce. The fireman shook his head, nodded at the engineer, and pinched the heating valve down just shy of cutoff, barely enough to keep the train from freezing solid. The conductor would bitch, but tough shit. Have to thaw ‘em out at KC. Passengers hugged their Pullman blankets closer and tried to sleep.
Ten cars back, a big man with a moon face could not. The compartment was an ice box. “Man,” he groaned, “can’t they do somethin’ about the heat?”
“I don’t know, Thomas,” said his friend. “You want me to ask the porter?”
The big man grunted. He didn’t want to bother the brother any. “Nah…Aw, hell, can’t do nothin’ about it, I guess.” He coughed again, deep and long. His breath came in short, harsh rasps.
“Man, that don’t sound good.”
Ever since LA, something wasn’t right. But why think about things you can’t change? “Aw, it’s nothin’, man, just same ol’ same ol’.”
“If you say so.” His companion wasn’t so sure. Not so sure at all. But what could he do?
The moon-faced man closed his eyes and thought of his warm Harlem apartment. Seemed like every time he left New York things went south. Los Angeles was okay: warm, you could say that for it, and the girls were fine. Well, okay, New York had girls, too. New York, that was the place, screw this other shit. Damn, it was cold. Lying on his back, trying to steady his labored breathing, he swore he would never, ever again step foot past the Hudson River. Straining to get his breath, Thomas “Fats” Waller pulled his blankets tighter. Gradually, he let his huge fingers relax.
It was tough at first, but Tonk Mason quickly found his rhythm and his slot with the men, most of whom took their work seriously and were not out to make life hard for a new pair of hands that happened to be colored. You had to figure it was the dignity that did it. Dignity got the job and the handshake and the card from Mister Weems, just as it had helped at other times, times like when the cops set their hard little blue eyes on you and asked, “Where you goin’, boy?”
Mason knew enough to remove his hat and say, “I’m going to work, sir,” or, “I’m going home, sir.” It worked, too. Amazing, what a little dignity could do. White folks loved that dignity, but you heard it from all sides, dignity-this and dignity-that, dignity will help the race, dignity will build us up, dignity will make us strong. Men who worked the Pullmans, they had it, in spades. What did dignity make them in tips? Yes, sir, dignity helped you on the street, helped you on the job, helped you everywhere you went, even with the cops. Yeah, old man dignity was your friend.
Still, you could be dignified from here to the planet Mars, dignified as old Abe Lincoln, and still, sooner or later, the white man would get you. Couldn’t change that, could only live as best you could. What did Deacon Harper say? “The Lord blesses the man who walks the narrow path.” What did he mean, narrow path? Home, family, church, and no fooling around outside, that’s what. A good man, the deacon, even if you didn’t always feel like living narrow.
Mason thought about something else the deacon liked to say: “We are all just passing through.” No doubt about that! Mason knew it, knew from seeing those long trains every night, rising up so big and fast and then fading away to nothing in no time. Just passing through: That was one thing held for everybody, black and white, all the same. You could sing a song about that.
The big man shivered. Motherfuckers, anyhow. That Carnegie Hall fiasco: The news is bad, said that damn critic. Well, who was some fucking white “critic” to say shit about him, Fats Waller? Had no business playing that damn mausoleum, anyway, and he knew it. Shows what goes when you let yourself be talked into something. “Be good for you, Thomas,” they said—“expose you to a new audience, Thomas…high-class people, Thomas.” Shit. More than a year gone, and still the damn thing gnawed at him. High-class, my ass, except when it comes to a big fat colored man settin’ down at the piano, and then all they want is “Handful of Keys.” Shit, they’ll bury me with “Handful of Keys.” What the hell—was he supposed to be a clown forever? He’d tried, Lord, he’d tried, but there was no figuring what the white man wanted, no figuring at all.
Waller turned away from the window, away from the cold white world outside. Where were they now? Kansas, maybe, sod-buster land, cracker-land, KKK-land. May they all freeze to death. “Where we at now, Kirk?”
“Comin’ near KC.”
“Hm. How come we got nothin’ here?”
“Couldn’t line it up in time, Tom, you know that.”
Waller grunted, something caught, hard. His halting rasp filled the compartment. He coughed violently and settled back.
“Thomas, we got to get you a doctor,” said Kirkeby. A decent manager, Kirk, as managers go, but here he was freezing his ass off out in the middle of nowhere instead of holed up in his nice warm home where he belonged. New York—Harlem—that’s where he belonged! So why was he forever busting his ass out on the damn road? For money, money, money, that’s why. Damn money. Got to cut down, get in off the road and settle down and play where he wanted to play. As for all those “high-class” motherfuckers and Carnegie Halls: Fuck them. He was Fats Waller.
Another cough wracked his massive frame. Why in hell couldn’t he catch his breath? Damn cold. Truth to tell, hadn’t been feeling right for a while, now. Too much booze, too much good food. Had to cut down, had to kick those bad habits and kick this damn cough and kick all those stuff-shirts and ofays who wanted to keep him down. He could do it. He was Fats Waller.
Tonk Mason spat a wad onto the track and thought of the Chief out there in the storm, and all his other trains out there struggling along with all those people snugged in there trusting in the equipment and the Lord—and in him—to get them in safe. Lord, he prayed, bring them in. Bring them in safe.
He thought about his wife of two years, home in bed. A good woman, May, sweet and soft-spoken and always watching out for him. He thought about Mr. Weems, who was around the tracks day and night making sure things were okay, checking that there was enough kerosene for the shed heater, looking after his men. Why couldn’t more white folks be like him? He thought about winning another yard from Jimmy at the IXL. Of course, Jimmy would be laying for him, laying for get-even time. Well, that’s okay! Everybody had a right to try to get even. Mason chuckled softly; oh, yeah, a man always had a right to try.
Near on Christmas. More of a white-folks’ day when you got right to it, but a good day even so, folks acting a little better, and with all that nice souped-up eggnog and punch. What was he going to get May with that sweet piece of money he took off Jimmy? Maybe a nice jewelry; May loved jewelry. Mason thought about May again, coming home with that record, Fats Waller’s “Swingin’ Them Jingle Bells,” all sweet and smiling.
“Our first Christmas song,” she said. Good old Fats: You had to love the man, he had dignity and style in spades, not to mention he was nobody’s fool. Could see that right on his face. He and May went to see that “Stormy Weather” at the movies, and they got a big kick out of seeing Fats playing the blues with Ada Brown. Mason thought about Fats living it up out in Hollywood with all the movie stars and palm trees and sun. Made you shiver just thinking about it—shit, might’s well be on Mars. Well, wherever he was, you could be sure old Fats was living it up, in spades.
The coughs were coming faster, now. The room, the bed, everything, it was all so damn tight. Hollywood was okay, but that Zanzibar Club was tight in there, too. All these damn little sweatboxes, got to cut down on them. Waller tried again for a good deep breath, but he couldn’t make it. Something was choking him up. Working too hard, damn clubs, damn agents, choke a man to death, Thomas-this, Thomas-that. Hell, I’m the boss! Get in off this goddamn road, get back home, no more trains, no more snow, no more sweatboxes. Maybe he would open up his own joint, work the way he wanted to work. Let them all come to him! Damn right! Waller coughed violently. Yeah, just might work.
And maybe he’d had enough of being single, too. Girls liked him fine, but so far he just hadn’t come across the right one. Maybe he was gone too much, too hard to pin down. Settle down, take it easy. Why not? He was Fats Waller. Fact is, maybe it was getting time to cut out that “Fats” shit, too. He wasn’t the only fat man around, and why call attention to it? Nothing wrong with “Thomas,” it was a fine old name. It was music that mattered, and there was so much music yet to make. Waller strained for breath and felt something big and wet stuck deep down. Damn. The big fingers trembled and clenched the blanket. So much music…
It started early. You asking too many questions, boy…hush, now…It’s a white man’s world, best remember that…
School, nothing but black faces, black faces lost in a white world. How far would they go? He wondered, even as a boy. All the time they asked him, What do you want to be? Asking him questions! Well, long as you’re asking, maybe might like to be a railroad engineer, an architect, a doctor.
But no. At Lincoln High he saw other kids, kids blacker than he, move out into medicine, law, business. But they had family with money. For him the money was never there. Get you a good, steady job, boy…work hard, boy…don’t ask questions. That’s what they said, and that’s what he did. And now: car tonk. Tonk tonk tonk. Was this all there was? White folks’ idea of what a black man was, tonk-a-tonk-a-tonk, some damn machine. Important work. Okay, maybe you could take that to the bank. Maybe that’s all any man could hope for. You want to be a doctor—how many patients die on you? How did you live with that? Railroad man, nothing wrong with that, not at all. Solid! Maybe him and May could find themselves a nice little house, get a bit ahead. But how long could his body stand it? Too damn many questions and too few answers.
Maybe some of the brothers coming back from the war would have some answers. Shit, or maybe their kids. Or their kids’ kids. Seemed like it was all going to go on and on and on. What kind of world was this, what kind of God? All that church-going and praying and singing, everything remain the same. That poor old deacon, his mother and father and their mothers and fathers, right on back—no damn bit of difference. Black man was down and white man was up, and that was that. He knew a man who went through that damn Tulsa mess back in ’21, and the stories he told were beyond terrifying. What was this country, this “America,” anyway, that it could do such things? Poor old Abe Lincoln, his name right up on the front of the school—they even got him. The devil’s side seemed like it was always the winning side. Well, not tonight, not if he had anything to say about it.
Everything was quiet. Signals gleamed red and green, steam hissed from waiting Pullmans, and the snow turned everything a ghostly white. Tonk Mason liked this time, the quiet time, the time when everything stood still and the world was at peace and a man could feel like a man. He lit a cigarette and cued on Coleman Hawkins, “Passin’ It Around,” a nice little swinger that could pick a man up even on a nasty night like this one. Mason nodded his head in silent time. Damn, that Hawk could blow.
Mullen poked his head in the door. “Twenty’s comin’ in.” Mason gathered his tool belt and torch and went onto the platform. To the west, a signal winked red and a moment later a headlight appeared. Big Black and its train snaked in out of the dark, drive-rods clanking, wheels crunching the snow. The rime-streaked silver Pullmans squealed to a halt and vestibule traps clanged open.
Mason shouldered his gear and headed up. It would be a job tonight, but he was the one to do it. He watched Mullen hang the blue Men Working light up on the baggage car, then following an unspoken agreement, Mason began working his way back along the “dark” side of the train away from the platform. He kept pace with his white counterpart, tap-for-tap, tonk-for-tonk, beating out time on the wheel rims and truck frames and pipes, listening for cracks and weak spots to betray themselves with a leaden thunk. Don’t let them wheels fall off. Mason ran his kerosene torch over the iced-up steam lines, restoring the life-sustaining heat. Not only comfort but lives depended on his hammer and torch—depended on him, William Mason, colored man. Okay, you can call me “Tonk.” Just never mind any Where you goin’, boy?
Porters put down their stools and a few passengers stepped bleary-eyed into lights. Grip in hand, the incoming conductor walked wearily toward the station and met his outbound counterpart at the gate. “Gonna have to stick you for the coroner,” he said quietly.
“Aw, hell, somebody die?”
“Yeah. Passenger in car ten.” He raised an eyebrow. “Fats Waller.”
“You don’t say!”
“Died in his berth.”
“Oh, geez…”
The off-duty man shook his head and hefted his grip. “Froze up pretty bad toward the rear end, probably hold you up thawing out, too. Well, have a good trip.”
Moments later a red light flashed and an ambulance crept onto the platform. White-coated men hurried into the vestibule and reappeared with a stretcher bearing something covered with a white sheet. They eased it gently down to the platform and carried it across the line to the ambulance. Beside his empty vestibule, the porter stood at attention, face etched with grief.
The ambulance turned slowly around and vanished into the night. Voices muttered in the cold: “That’s Fats Waller dead.”
“Fats Waller.”
“Fats Waller.”
“Fats Waller.”
“No.”
Tonk Mason pushed toward the end of the train, unrelenting. We are depending on you. Deep in his world now, away from billiards and cops and women, Mason beat time with a vengeance, tonk-tonk-tonk-a-tonk, playing tin piano for his people, the folks right upstairs, the little girls asleep in their berths, the old grannies, the young boys going off to the war. Hawkins, Fats, all the kings of the night, they would get it, they were right there with him, keeping the time, keeping the peace, keeping the wheels running the world turning and damn the weather and the snow and the shit and everything else. He, Tonk Mason, railroad man, was king of the night and he felt a strange surge of energy as he neared the last car, the heat of fire and steel in his hands as he faced down the demons in wheels and pipes and brake shoes. Demons were hiding in there, demons all scheming evil, for damn sure, but Tonk Mason would not give them an opening. Drive them down with hammer and torch! Couldn’t do any less, not with all the little girls and old folks and young boys going to war, and all the good folks, whoever they were, black and white and all else. What was that old Fats said in that movie? One never knows, do one? Got that right. Fats Waller, he knew the score. Knew it in spades.