An Unfair Advantage

A privilege young white man in post-WWI France must make the decision either to support and be happy for his black friend and roommate or allow his jealousy and greed to overtake him.

Garrett Cutler sat slumped over the piano in the apartment that he shared with his roommate in Paris’s Rue de Pigalle, tie off and lying on the floor, shirt unbuttoned and untucked. Smoke curled up from the cigarette loosely balanced between the pointer and middle fingers of his right hand. Reaching for the tumbler perched on the piano’s sidearm, he poured the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass down his throat. Its warmth burned in his chest before it suffused throughout the rest of his body. He set the glass back down and ran his hand through his hair, careful not set his head afire. That would have been all he needed. The image of him running around the apartment with his head engulfed in flames popped into his mind and he snickered to himself. It would be the perfect way to end what had already been a fairly lackluster evening.

  It had not been a good night for Garrett. He had played at a set at a nightclub in Montmartre. While his performance wasn’t a complete and utter flop, it wasn’t all that it should have been. Because of le tumulte noir, French clubs pushed for more negro jazz musicians, convinced they were they only ones who could draw a crowd. Garrett’s performance had met with warm welcome, but when compared to the reception received by the performer who followed him�"a negro�"Garrett had been blown out of the water. He didn’t expect he would be asked to return. He just wasn’t the right color. Never would be. His white skin, straight, mid-length, sandy brown hair, and green eyes ensured that. Lifting the cigarette to his paper-thin lips, Garrett inhaled deeply as the fingers of his left hand danced over the piano, tinkering with its black and white keys. 

Across the room, he heard the sound of keys in the door and turned just in time see his roommate, Tom Hammond, slip inside and close the door behind him.

“Hey, Garry! Whatchu doin’ in so early?” Tom said, spotting Garrett on the piano bench.  “I thought you’d still be out paintin’ the town red.”

Garret took in the appearance of his tall, dark-brown figure as Tom made his way toward him. He was smartly dressed tonight in a black pin-striped suit. On his head, there was a fedora worn at a jaunty angle. A triumphant light seemed to glow from the coal black irises of his eyes. A pencil-thin mustache sat just above the wide smile spread across his face and showcased even white teeth between his thick, brown lips. Tom was a negro, and to Garrett, it seemed he didn’t have a care in the world.

  In America an arrangement like the one between Garrett and Tom could not have happened. It would never have been allowed. In fact, had Garrett met Tom back in the states prior to meeting him in Paris, there was every possibility that he would never have spoken to him. Back home, Tom was his inferior. If his family could see his living situation now, they would be appalled. But Paris accepted all manner of behavior. Paris embraced all manner of relationships, and here in Paris, Tom was Garrett’s equal.

“Nope, I’m in for good,” Garrett said, taking another drag from his cigarette. 

“So, how’d it go tonight? Everything turn out good?” 

“Swell, just swell. Couldn’a asked for better. Just a little tired, ya know?” Garrett said, exhaling smoke. “So, what about you? You’re in kinda early, too, aren’t cha? How’d things go for you?” Garrett didn’t know why his asked. He knew what the answer would be. It was always the same.

“Aw, it was better than I could’ve ever imagined! You shoulda seen it! We really knocked ‘em dead!” Tom exclaimed, enthused by the performance he and his band had given at Le Grand Duc. His excitement was so effusive it was almost palpable. “Afterward, we had us a small jam session, and I was able to come up with some new material.”

For the first time, Garrett noticed a few pages of sheet music tucked under Tom’s forearm at his side.

“I just come home to drop this stuff off before heading out again with the fellas,” Tom continued, setting the sheet music down on top of the piano along with his fedora.

“Time to go hunt up some dames?” Garrett inquired with a knowing smile as he crushed out the rest of his cigarette stub in an ashtray on the piano lid.

 Tom answered back with a sly grin of his own before heading to his room. If there was one thing that Tom loved more than music, it was his love for the dames. It didn’t matter if their skin was the inky black color of the Sudanese women from Africa, the medium-brown color of baked clay, or delicate and white as Brussels lace. He adored them all. It was lucky for him that France was a country that easily tolerated his proclivities. Garrett preferred to keep things uncomplicated and simply stuck to the woman of his own race.

From his place on the piano bench, Garrett could hear Tom rummaging around in his room. Minutes later, he emerged looking slightly more refreshed and smelling distinctly of aftershave. Making his way across the room, Tom stopped at the piano again to retrieve his fedora.

“You look sharp, kid, real sharp,” Garrett said. “Now, all’s you gotta do is go make whoopee.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Tom answered with a wink as he placed the hat over his trim and kinky coif and headed for the front door.

It was at that moment that Garrett noticed the sheet music that Tom placed on top of the piano earlier.

 “Don’t wait up!” Tom called.

“Hey, you forgot you’re--” Garrett began, holding the pages up in his hands

 But by then, Tom was already gone, having made his exit from the apartment as smoothly as he had made his entrance into it.

Garrett lowered his arm and held the sheets of music in front of him, scanning the first page. Flipping the through the rest of the composition sheets, he studied the notes and symbols Tom hand scrawled on each page. 

Born the only child of Stephen Cutler, a banker at BNY Mellon, and socialite Gertrude Cutler, Garrett had every imaginable advantage growing up on the Upper Eastside of New York�"a world as far away from the one that he currently inhabited. As a young a child, he’d been trained in the compositions of musicians like Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin by a master instructor. Each time he made an error, the instructor would reprimand him�"Non! Zhat ees not zhe way to do eet!�"by delivering a light but firm tap to his knuckles with a small stick. When it came to his schooling, he attended the finest private academies and received the best education money could buy to prepare him for the day when he would succeed his father in the business. 

By the time Garrett, started university after WWI, he was more than ready to let loose. It was the first time he was truly able to crawl out from under his parent’s thumb and escape their crushing demands. As one of his first acts of rebellion and adulthood, he went to Harlem with his friends to visit some of the negro nightspots there and see what they were like. That was the night he discovered the wonder of jazz music. 

Of course, as a young, white kid in a negro neighborhood, he was naturally nervous. He’d heard all about negroes and their brutish tendencies. They lacked control. They couldn’t help it. It was a part of their nature. He had been glad he’d gone with friends.  

From the moment Garrett set foot in the first nightclub, his nervousness melted away as he was hit by smooth, soulful, and seductive melodies that completely intoxicated him. It was nothing like the music from his piano lessons as a child. It was wild. It was free, and he wanted more. 

Apparently, he wasn’t the only white person to feel that way. Glancing around the room, he took in other white bodies besides those he’d come with, observing them. The easy way in which they behaved boldly proclaimed that many of them had already been to the place more than once. After that first night, Garrett would count himself among their number. The music called to him like a drug, and he would find his way back to Harlem time and time again for just one taste.  A love for it had seeped into to his blood, into the very marrow of his bones. There was no escape for him. He was hooked.

 Garrett followed his parents carefully laid plans and went to work at his father’s bank after graduation. By that time, simply enjoying jazz in the clubs was no longer enough. It happened one night as he sat trying to appreciate the music has he normally did. The tinkling sound of the piano keys had set his fingers dancing across his tabletop, moving of their own volition. They fairly to ached to play. He realized in that moment that he didn’t want to just listen to the music anymore. He wanted to be up on stage entertaining and creating those beautiful sounds. He’d begun buying the records of jazz musicians like James Scott and Jelly Roll Morton. He’d listen to them over and over again, pecking out the notes until he could play them without the recording. He’d made attempts to compose his own pieces. When he gained enough confidence, he’d begun booking spots at a few area nightclubs once or twice a week. 

It was not as easy as he had initially thought, getting up on stage and performing for a crowd. The first few times he tried, he’d become flustered and gotten booed off stage. He stuck with it, though, observing other musicians and learning from them along the way. Eventually, he was able to get regular gigs at some of the establishments where he played.     

After working for his father for almost two and a half years, Garrett finally had to admit to himself that he wasn’t cut out to be a banker. In fact, he hated it. He realized he felt more alive and got more excitement from the 10-15 minutes he spent on stage two nights a week than he would ever get sitting behind a desk as a paper-pusher. He’d made a decision that preluded the conversation he would have with his father. It was a conversation he did not look forward to having. 

When Garrett finally did broach the subject with his father, it went exactly as he predicted.

“You want to give up a life of security and comfort to play some jungle music in a night club!” Stephen Cutler bellowed as the stood in the living room of the house where Garrett and grown up.

“It’s not jungle music, and yes, it’s what I want to do. I like it and I’m good it,” Garrett answered calmly.

“What about all your schooling? What about all the sacrifices your mother and I made for you so you could have the best of everything? Do you really think we did all that so you could go play that vulgar music in the nightclubs with the negros?”

“I never asked you for any of that. I never wanted it!” Garrett answered back stubbornly, insulted by his father’s criticism of the thing he loved. It was the first time he had ever dared to defy his father. 

Surprised by his son’s outburst, Stephen Cutler stood momentarily speechless, his eyes opened wide in surprise before his face finally clouded over in anger. 

“I suppose next you’ll be painting your skin black as tar and buying wigs to make your hair look like theirs.”

Garrett stood silently, his mouth pursed in anger, his arms crossed over his chest in response. 

Frustrated, Garret’s father turned away from him only to face him again after a few seconds. He seemed to have arrived at a decision of his own.

“You want to pursue this silly path? Fine, go ahead. Do it,” Stephen Cutler began, his voice devoid of emotion. “But if this is what you want to do, you’ll get no support for me, not one red cent.  From now on, you’re on your own,” he finished before turning and leaving the room. 

 In the apartment on Rue de Pigalle, Garrett remained seated at the piano bench, clutching Tom’s sheet music in his hands. Though the music had been composed on the spot, the skill behind the pieces was obvious. This was Tom’s personal gift. He had the ability to both create and organize music as well as the ability to perform it. Tom’s musical brainstormings were better than anything Garrett had tried to create back in New York. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, Garrett could almost hear what the pieces of music sounded like in his mind. He could easily see himself performing these pieces at Bricktop’s, at Chez Josephine. All he’d have to do was…No, no, he wouldn’t even consider it. This was Tom’s music, proof of his efforts, proof of his skill.

 Uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts were traveling, Garrett got up, set the pages back on top of the piano lid, and walked away from the instrument. He hadn’t gone far�"maybe no more than a couple of feet�"when he stopped and turned around, eying the pages from where he stood rooted to the floor.   

 Garrett arrived in Paris to find a city equally as metropolitan in nature as the one he’d left behind. Everywhere he looked, sloe-eyed Asians, olive-skinned Spaniards and Italians, and Africans with skin dark as pitch mingled with the country’s natural citizens, traveling by foot, going from here to there. Cars passed up and down the boulevard, driven by those who could afford them. Cafes were on every corner and restaurants and other places of business lined the streets.

Use to the hustle and bustle of New York, Garrett expected Paris to be a city with the same fast-paced, frenetic energy. What he found instead was a delightful city with a charm all its own. Where New York was a city of people that were always on the move, Parisians operated at a slower pace. Here, no one seemed to be in any great rush.  

Garrett’s first order of business after disembarking from the ship had been to find a bite to eat. As he walked the streets of the city, Garrett observed some of its damaged structures and the efforts being made to rebuild them. Though it was one of the hardest hit cities, to Garrett, Paris seemed to be recovering nicely after the ravages of the war.

Garrett stopped at one of the many cafés to eat, and after a quick breakfast that consisted of a pastry tart and a cup of coffee, he found a place to stay for the night and set out to find a job. His search for employment didn’t take long. He was in Paris a grand total of a three days before he took a job as a dishwasher in a swanky restaurant. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most glamourous job, but it was easy work that would leave him free to pursue has craft. Plus, when the restaurant closed for the night he could use the piano for practice until he could afford his own, and as additional incentive, he could take home free food each night.

Garrett had worked a full week before he got his first day off. He’d slept in for most of that day, but that evening he decided take in the city and see what it offered by way of entertainment. He soon discovered that Paris really came alive at night. After the sun went down, all of the stiff suits called it a day and all the party animals came out to play. 

Music from within the nightclub poured out into the street before Garrett even entered it. Once inside, his senses were overwhelmed by the sheer spectacle of his surroundings. His ears drank in the brash and brassy sound of the jazz band. His nose scented the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke on the air. His eyes were assaulted by the blinding glow of a thousand lights that encircled a stage were a girl was dancing. In the clubs he frequented in Harlem, all the entertainment had taken place under the shadow of dim blue or pale-yellow lighting, as if it had to be hidden away and kept secret. Garrett liked this infinitely better. In fact, he liked it all.

Walking up to the bar, he ordered a scotch neat. While he waited for the bartender to prepare his drink, Garrett turned his attention to the stage and watched as the dancer shook and shimmied across the floor. Mere seconds passed before the bar tender plopped his drink down in front him. Picking up the glass, Garrett took a sip. Ahh, tastes like heaven, Garrett thought.

“Hey there, suga’, you new in town?” a flirty female voice said over Garret’s left shoulder.

Twisting around in his seat, Garrett was about to respond when he saw that the speaker was a negro woman. She was light-skinned and attractive with a dusting of brown freckles sprinkled across her nose. Garrett froze, shocked into speechlessness by her bold approach. No negro�"male or female�"would ever have done such a thing in New York. It was unthinkable!

“You are, aren’t cha?” she persisted gently with a giggle. “I can tell.”   

Before Garrett could answer her, their conversation�"if you could call it that�"was interrupted when the club’s proprietor called for everyone’s attention to the next performance: a piano cutting competition. Garrett couldn’t believe his ears.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaving the woman to make his way closer to the stage. 

Garrett had heard of cutting contests, but he’d never actually had the good fortune to see one. He couldn’t believe he would have the chance to witness one now. This was going to be a real treat. 

Two pianos�"one brown, one black�"had been rolled onto the stage and placed back to back against each other. A line of seven men formed on either side of the stage, many of them negroes. As the first two competitors walked across the stage and took their places at their respective pianos, the proprietor explained the rules. For 60 seconds, the two competitors would go head to head to display his skills and best his opponent. At the end of one full minute, the proprietor would check with the audience to determine a winner. Whichever competitor the audience cheered the loudest for would win the round, while the loser would be “cut” from the competition and a new competitor would take his place. The contest would continue in this manner until only one victor remained. Over the course of the competition, the music was never to stop. Even as the loser was being cut, the winner had to continue to play. With the rules made clear, the proprietor exited the stage and the competition began.

From the moment the first two competitors sat down, it was obvious who possessed more skill. It didn’t take 60 seconds to figure out that the contestant on the right side of the stage at the black piano would take the first round. He’d mopped the floor with his opponent in the first 20 seconds. His next opponent crossed the stage and took the seat only to go the way of the previous guy after the minute was up. The third competitor at the brown piano proved to be his undoing and the short reign of the victor come to a sudden end. The second competitor at the black piano soon knocked the new victor out of the competition only to be knocked out in turn by the fourth competitor on the brown piano. The competition was really beginning to heat up.

The next competitor to approach the black piano looked so young Garrett would have sworn he was just a kid. Long and lean, he wore brown pants with suspenders over a white shirt.  A pageboy hat worn atop his head completed his look. Garrett wouldn’t put his age past 20 years old. 

With a confidence beyond his years, the young man sat on the stool. Interlacing his fingers, flipped hands over, and pushed them forward, flexing. Then separating his hands, he held them in the air and wiggled his finger before getting to work. His hands fairly flew over the keys as his fingers attacked the piano. One minute passed in a blur, and by the end of it he’d sent his competition packing. The next challenger sat down to take him on and he dispatched him, then a third, then a fourth in the same manner. Eventually, the competitors behind him had to cross the stage to the brown piano in order to challenge him. Bit by bit, the line grew shorter and shorter as he eliminated each competitor. With each defeat, he won over the crowd as he whittled down the competition.

By the time his last competitor sat at the brown piano, the young man was showing signs of tiring. This would not be an easy round. His challenger was fresh and he’d had this time to observe and plan. Both contestants threw themselves in to their performance, doing their absolute best to beat the other. It was going be close. When it came time for the audience’s decision, thunderous applause and a few catcalls sounded for the young man’s competitor. But when the audience gave their decision for the young man, a giant cheer went up around the room. The victor was obvious.

As he came down off the stage everyone wanted to congratulate him, to pat him on the back, to buy him victory drink. He accepted their praise with humble thanks, but turned down their offer of drinks for a seat off in the corner by himself. After the crowd disbursed, Garrett approached him.

“That was really somethin’. You sure you don’t wanna take up the offer of a drink? You obviously deserve one,” Garrett said.

“Don’t drink,” the boy answered simply.

“Okay, well I’m Garrett. Garrett Cutler.”

“Tom Hammond,” the young man said, offering his hand.

Holding out his own hand, Garrett accepted the offer. It was the first time he’d ever shaken hands with a negro.

“You mind if I join ya?”

In response, Tom gestured to the seat across from him and Garrett sat down.

“So, how’d you learn to play like that,” Garrett asked, getting straight to the point.

“Music was always in our house when I was growin’ up. It kinda run in my family,” Tom said as if that explained everything. “You play?”

“Since I was a kid.”

While talking to Tom that night, Garrett learned that Tom had grown up on a cotton farm in Missouri and that he was actually just 19 years old. He’d moved to France just last year and had only lived there for six months.  

“So, what brought you to Paris?” 

Tom seemed to consider before answering. “The chance for a betta life. You?”

“The same.”

Over the next few months, they’d managed to build an unlikely friendship. They’d frequent different nightclubs all over Paris, go to the theater, or take in a cabaret show.  When one of them managed to book a gig, they would each show up to the others shows to offer moral support and celebrate each other’s successes. A few more months went by before they realized it would be cheaper to pool their resources and decided to move in together. Having a roommate to help foot the bills made it easier to find time to book more gigs. After the first two years of living together, they were almost able to completely live off the money they made from their music gigs. 

 They’d been roommates for the past three years now, and Tom’s music career had steadily risen. His income made it possible to afford the piano that currently sat in their living room, though Garrett had insisted on helping to make the purchase. 

Walking back over to the piano, Garrett stared down at the composition pages. At first things had gone swell for him. He had made more money than he even dared to hope for, but as more negros poured into the city, finding the work he wanted to do became more difficult for him. They were pushing him out. Tom was pushing him out.

What would it hurt Tom? He was clearly talented. He would produce more where these came from. Plus, he already had an unfair advantage. He had the gift of dark skin. He’d be fine. Garret made his choice. He picked up the pages and carried them to his bedroom. Minutes later, he emerged from the room carrying as many clothes as he could fit inside and the sheet music tucked under one arm. Striding across the living room, Garrett opened the front door, and paused to cast one last look around before stepping out into the hallway.