Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- The Drifter Of No Known Trade, Take Two

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

As the drifter of no known trade (that is the moniker that he gave himself although if you look for a birth certificate, driver’s license or, more importantly, through the police files you will no such name. You will however find William James Bradley, Willie Brads, William Lee, Billie Wills and at least one half dozen other aliases depending on where you look and the town but “drifter” and keep in mind the add on “of no known trade” will do here.) sat down on the windy day Boston Common park bench he eyed a beat cop eyeing him. A copper ready, willing, and able to add him to his resume, to his weekly quota, hell, maybe to his pension time the way those guys worked their retirement racket. The drifter had that look about him, the look, hell, these days too maybe the smell of con. Funny the park was filled with people, mothers or nursemaids with little children, a couple of young lovebirds, a wino singing to himself , a couple of girls, one white, one black, with the look of strictly trade about them, whom he sensed were walking the streets looking for tricks and who were just then gathering themselves for the next push.

All that was going on and that copper only had eyes for him. He didn’t know the cop from Adam and since he was new in town, had just drifted back a couple of days before, the cop didn’t know him either (and he looked too young to have nabbed him on anything at any time). But it was always the same story, the same story since childhood, but more recently since he had been on the nod it seemed every cop in every city had his number. Maybe they were right to take that stare what with him in a “seen better days” trench coat, soiled and spattered pants a size or two too big these days, worn-out shoes (worn from many miles of hobo wandering and hitchhike standing on desolate two in the morning no traffic side roads), needing a shave and a haircut and topped off with a soft fedora hat, fairly new and of a Kelly green color ,that did not in any way, shape or form, go with the rest of the outfit. But such are the ways of the nod, and maybe such are the cop antenna that they sense the nod, or at least in a park sense that some connection is about to be made and they should keep on their toes. As the cop started heading his way slowly, feeling his way, the drifter started working his way back in his mind about how it all had gone awry. When he thought such thoughts and they had not been often that indicated that he was in need of some fix, some connection, although he was only sitting on this bench just then to rest, to rest the rest of the weary. And think.

He swore as a kid back in those North Adamsville projects (the town located a short way from Boston and the Common he was sitting in just then) to his corner boy gang that he would never do a lick of work in his life, nine to five work, back-breaking work like many fathers, including his, did and had the damn tumbledown project life to show for their efforts. No that scene was not for him. He figured, figured almost right back then, back in the mid-1950s that he could take his good looks (all the girls were crazy for him then and he would give his “leavings,” his rejects, to his corner boys after he was done with them), his good singing voice, and his, well, style and make it as a rock and roll star with plenty of dough, girls and everything. And he almost made it except a funny thing happened. His voice changed, changed to a gruff if manly voice that might have later made it as some sissy boy folk singer but not as a rock star. So that dream road out smashed he had to hustle, hustle like crazy to keep up with expenses and the like.

That is where he started presenting himself under the moniker of the “drifter with no known trade.” One day a guy came up to him, a guy who was interested (not a cop) in finding out how a guy with no known trade had such a “boss” car, some nice duds, a couple of foxy chicks and plenty of dough. He replied that he was doing a little of this and a little of that, just a drifter of no known trade and that was that. End of story. Well not quite the end. See he was robbing everything that was not tied down, first around North Adamsville, then in Boston, and later in Philly. And he was good at it, made some dough and planned big heists, some that came off, a couple you might have read about in the newspapers that were never solved, until she came along.

No, not a woman she, sister, cocaine, snow, girl, although a woman was part of it. A young girl from Philly, a society girl that he was trying to ply for her society connections as well as trying to ply her, Ellen, took him up as partner in snorting every line put in front of her. She said she was bored with tea (grass, herb, marijuana whatever you call it in your neighborhood) and wanted to branch out. He liked it after trying it, liked that she liked it, liked that they got all sexy (for a while before the hunt to keep connected, always connected, took the edge off) and made endless bed time. Then the other shoe dropped. Her habit, and then his, got him to take more risks, to get “rum” brave and plan a big heist, a heist that went awry and which cost him to two to five (she, society girl she, got off with five years’ probation, but he wasn’t squawking).

When he got out, the world had changed a little, the dough wasn’t around, he had not been around, the cops started looking his way more closely everywhere he went. So he moved again. This time to New Orleans, New Orleans and graduation day. Cocaine, coke, was not doing it for him anymore, he needed more of a kick and then some whore he ran into on the street turned him on to boy, H, heroin. And the nod. A couple more years in stir, give or take, for this and that, mostly drug dealing now and then to keep even with his habit. And now a park bench, a cop heading his way and maybe thirty days “vag.” Hell, maybe this time he would go cold turkey and get well, real well, maybe even get a job, get a trade. Nah, he wasn’t built for that stuff …