My Life in Vaudeville: The Autobiography of Ed Lowry

Home Again—and Broke Again

36 Home Again—and Broke Again The pinch was really on. Hank had had a bad spell but was now rehearsing what promised to be a good act, “The Six Military Dancers.” It was in this act that he met Kitty DeLacy, whom he later happily married. Suddenly, Poppa got terribly ill. He developed pneumonia, and within three days, we lost him. Momma and the whole family were in a state of complete shock. Poppa was the head of our household, and after his death, we were hopelessly disorganized. Momma requested me to pitch in with my brother Willie to see if we could salvage anything of Poppa’s shoe-polish business. I started to work as a salesman and didn’t do too badly, but when we sold the stock on hand, Willie discovered that Poppa had never written down the formula. Bill tried vainly to mix the various dyes and ingredients, but after several weeks, we gave up. Now, the family was really broke, and the household depressed. I spotted an ad in the Morning Telegraph: “Wanted! Singers and Dancers. Tryouts between 1 and 4 p.m.” It was a Coney Island address that turned out to be a cabaret operated by Jeff Davis, “king of the hoboes.” He called his place the Hotel de Gink. Jeff was a colorful guy. He was always newspaper copy and a pretty smart operator. This ad, however, drew a lot of stew bums. Jeff got up on the platform and made a little spiel. He said in effect, “I am a hobo, and I am running a hobo cabaret. A hobo is a man who always works for his living but has wanderlust and loves to travel. A tramp is lazy and would rather have a handout than work, and a bum is a guy who is even lower than a tramp. I don’t want any tramps or bums. If there are any hoboes here who sing or dance well enough to entertain respectable people, please raise your hand.” I was confused. I wanted a job but didn’t know if I qualified as a hobo. I didn’t move, but Jeff singled me 37 hOm e Ag A i n —A n d BrOk e Ag A i n out. He said, “You, pretty boy, are you a hobo?” Before I could reply, he continued, “Ever been to Frisco, LA, or Chi?” “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’ve been all over the country. Name a tank town in America, and I’ve been there.” “Okay, Pretty, step up here.” The title “Pretty” was pinned on me then and there. If you had seen the other guys, you’d know it wasn’t so flattering. I started working that very evening as a singing waiter. In between waiting tables, I took my turn at doing a stint on the platform. Alice was no more amazed in Wonderland than I was at the Hotel de Gink. I made twenty-two dollars in tips the very first night. Immediately, I learned a completely new lingo. “Two up, one down,” I’d call to the bartender. That meant two tall beers and one short one. A big shot that was slumming called for his liquor by name: “Bring me a Chartreuse, son.” I hesitated, he repeated. I scratched my head and went to the bartender perplexed and called, “One Charlotte Russe.” The big, bulbous-nosed bartender roared with laughter, then he made like a fairy and said, “Tell the customer we’re fresh out of Charlotte Russes, but I’ll give him a Lady’s Finger, if he’ll supply the lady.” Jeff, ever on the alert, straightened me out. I had one advantage. No matter where the customer came from, I had been there. Of course, I was polite and well mannered, and Jeff liked that. He sold me big, and I started to clean up. Requests for songs were plentiful, and almost every request was good for a dollar tip. Some of the customers were roughnecks, and some were sightseers. The best tippers were a group of icemen who stopped in for their beer every evening after work. It took tons of ice to keep Coney Island going in those days before refrigeration , and the men who handled those huge cakes were really husky. After their work each evening, they would stop off at Jeff’s place. Downing a few beers, they would shout for Pretty to sing “Ireland Must Be...