When the girls were hustling they would wear real short dresses and the very best of silk stockings to show off their fine, big legs. They all liked me because I was little and cute and I could play the kind of blues they liked. Whenever the gals had done good business they would come into the honky-tonk in the wee hours of the morning and walk right up to the bandstand. As soon as I saw them out of the corner of my eye I would tell Boogus, my piano man, and Garbee, my drummer man, to get set for a good tip. Then Boogus would go into some good old blues and the gals would scream with delight.
As soon as we got off the bandstand for a short intermission the first gal I passed would say to me: “Come here, you cute little son of a bitch, and sit on my knee.”
Hmmmm! You can imagine the effect that had on a youngster like me. I got awfully excited and hot under the collar. “I am too young,” I said to myself, “to even come near satisfying a hard woman like her. She always has the best of everything. Why does she pick on me? She has the best pimps.” (I always felt inferior to the pimps.)
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