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I Remember Jazz • 73 outside, I noted that Bob Greene, too, had emerged from his room. We faced each other in front of Condons door and I tried the knob. No dice. Bob knocked. The painful groans and screeches continued unabated. I stepped back, preparatory to charging the door with the intent of breaking it down. Just as I was about to make my initial lunge, we saw Phyllis, Eddies wife, coming our way down the walk and carrying what looked like an overnight bag. "Good morning, boys," she greeted us, reacting not a tittle to the howls and screams we knew she couldn't help hearing. "Trouble getting to sleep?" "Eddies in trouble!" Bob shouted excitedly. Phyllis had her room key out. "No," she said calmly. "He's all right. He's just singing. He sings in his sleep." Phyllisexplained that she was the one who always checked them in at hotels. Without telling Eddie, she always rented an extra room so she could get some sleep, too. Then, early in the morning, she would join him in his room and he would never know the difference. We still insisted on looking inside after she opened the door, just to make sure that this time it wasn't mayhem instead of music. We saw Eddie, flat on his back, still fully dressed, emitting these terrifying sounds. Having satisfied ourselves that he was indeed alone, we left Phyllis with him and returned to our rooms. The last thing I said to Bob was, "Everybody Loves My Baby." We met Eddie in the coffee shop at noon, and I began to report to him the events of the early morning. Halfway through the recital, he interrupted, turned in his chair, and stared squarely into my face. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. Now its true that we hadn't seen each other for many years, and it's also true that in that long interval my appearance had changed far more than his. I said, "Wake up, Eddie. I'm Al Rose." He said, "The hell you are! Al Rose is a tall, skinny guy with glasses—and he's got no beard! Who the hell are you?" Bunny Berigan By 1937, Bunny Berigan had already hit the big time. He was still playing with Tommy Dorsey, but the fans had begun to note his name. And among his peers he had achieved optimum status as a sideman. What we did together, mainly, was drink. We had our favorite 74 • J Remember Jazz places in the Village. He wasn't a very social person and didn't associate much with other musicians. He wanted to talk about philosophy, infinity, psychology, or anythingelse that made him feel he was untangling the riddles of the universe. He wanted to know why he, or anybody else for that matter, was alive, and whether it was worth it. These considerations often made him irritable, and his impatience with the stupidity around him was ever apparent. He was always looking for quiet places where there was no music— places where one could talk. Although we shared an avid interest in the opposite sex, we never went on double dates. Our forays into the saloon life of downtown New York were always "between dates." Bunny's custom was to carry several packages of chewing gum in his pocket, not because he was addicted to the vigorous mastication of chicle. He had an even more practical use for the stuff. He'd put three or four sticks of gum in his mouth as we approached a boite with liquor in mind. Once inside, we'd sit at the bar and order our drinks. Then he'd excuse himself, promising to come back in a moment. He would walk purposefully off, to the men's room I assumed incorrectly. Early on I discovered that what he was doing was finding the jukebox, putting a wad of Wrigley's Doublemint through the coin slot, then pushing the slide in to assure the device's inoperabilityfor at least as long as we'd be there enjoying our drinks. He'd return to the bar secure and relaxed in the knowledge that our ears wouldn't be assaulted by bad music. Later on I took to doing that myself. Bunny had a statement to make on that entire subject. "There's no reason in the world why some stupid son-of-a-bitch with a nickel should have the right to...

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