As a tractor driver, sex was always on my mind.

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Got to the theater and discovered I was on the same bill as H. Bomb Ferguson. H. Bomb was explosive, the extrovert of extroverts. His idol was Wynonie Harris. H. Bomb was loud and cocky, one of those guys who seemed to know it all. Even though H. Bomb was from Carolina, he’d been living in New York and acted so slick, he made me feel like a hick. I’d brought the six-piece chart on “Three O’clock Blues” by Bill Harvey. “Won’t work,” said Tiny Kennedy. “We got eighteen pieces. This is a big band. You need a big-band chart.” “Where do I get one?” I asked. “At the liquor store,” Tiny answered. “What does that mean?” “Buy some booze for the cats writing the arrangements,” Tiny advised. “Let the cats fix you up.” The cats fixed me up. For the price of a few bottles of Scotch, I got me a kickin’ arrangement of “Three O’clock Blues” that let me shine at the Howard Theater. H. Bomb, on the other hand, refused to give the guys anything, so they played in keys that gave him fits.