The Midnight Boogaloo

The Midnight Boogaloo 

Lògèy ka mennen ou anlè... men li ka fè ou tonbé vit!

(Pride might lift you up… but it sure can make you fall fast!)

by Kateb  Shunnar

Now I ain't sayin' I was there, Lord knows I wasn't even a twinkle in my mama's eye back then, but I swear this tale right here has lived in my bones since the day my Grandmama Celestine first told it to me. We was sittin' on that creaky porch on Ursuline Street New Orleans, baby, deep in the heart of the French Quarter on one of those thick, hot-as-devil's-breath August afternoons. I remember sweat tricklin’ down my back like it had a mind of its own, and the air was so heavy even the flies was too tired to buzz. Shoot, it was so hot, I saw a lizard askin’ a dog for shade! Grandmama said the heat was so bad, it made the devil himself fan his face and ask for sweet tea.

Grandmama had that big ol’ straw hat on, the one with the pink flower that had long since given up lookin’ like a flower, and she fanned herself with a church program from three Easters ago. And just as I was driftin’ into a nap from the heat, she leaned in, dropped her voice real low and said, "Lemme tell you 'bout the Midnight Boogaloo..."

Lawd have mercy. I perked right up, 'cause whenever she lowered her voice like that, it meant the good part was comin’. And baby, it came in hot.

It all went down in the summer of 1950, when New Orleans was buzzin’ like a bee in a peach orchard. Folks was struttin’ their stuff in their finest duds, tryin’ to shake off the week's worries in the jook joints peppered all through the backstreets and alleyways. These joints? Sugar, they was more than shacks with a jukebox they was shrines to sweat, soul, and scandal. The kind of places where folks two-stepped their troubles away and danced their pain into poetry.

Now the crown jewel of ‘em all was Miss Hattie’s House of Shimmies a place so live the walls coulda caught the Holy Ghost. Miss Hattie, rest her gossipy soul, was a sassy big-boned woman with a laugh that could curdle milk and a switchblade tongue that’d cut pride at the knees. She ran that jook joint tighter than a corset on Sunday.

Friday nights at Hattie’s was the stuff of legend. You best believe folks came all gussied up men with pomade-slicked hair and razor-creased trousers, women in polka-dot dresses that clung in all the right places. The air was thick with cheap perfume, fried catfish, and the sweet promise of sin.

And then there was Big Earl Dupree.

Ooooooh child, Big Earl thought he was God's gift to rhythm. Walked into that jook like he was Moses partin' the Red Sea, leavin' behind a trail of envy and hair tonic. He had them shiny patent leather shoes, zoot suit swingin’, and a voice smoother than fresh churned butter on cornbread. Trouble was, he knew it. He thought the Lord made the moon just so he could dance under it.

“Y’all can stop dancin’ now, the main attraction has arrived,” he’d holler every time he strutted in, tossin’ his coat like he was throwin’ shade.

And the women? Oh, sugar, they swooned like debutantes in a thunderstorm. But Grandmama said, “That boy’s so full of himself, he don’t need a mirror he just stares into his own shadow.”

Now on this one particular Friday night, Hattie had lined up Cornbread Jenkins and the Dirty Rice Rhythm Band, a group so funky they made yo’ feet tap involuntarily. Cornbread himself was a little man with fingers that flew over that piano like they had secrets to tell. The drummer, Lefty Joe, had a beat so tight, it could hold a family reunion together.

The dance floor was packed tighter than a biscuit in Grandma’s oven. Folks was cuttin’ up so wild, I swear I heard floorboards screamin’ for mercy. There was jitterbuggin’, Lindy hoppin’, twistin’, shoutin’, and one old man tryin’ to moonwalk before it had a name.

And then she arrived.

Delilah Bea Fontaine, baby. Built like a saxophone solo curvy, smooth, and dangerous. She wore a red satin dress that shimmered like temptation itself and had a walk that could stop traffic in a thunderstorm. When she opened her mouth and let that song out, the whole joint held its breath. Her voice was thick and sweet like cane syrup, and she sang like heartbreak and honey were havin’ a tug-of-war in her throat.

She sang, “I Left My Blues in Bayou Town,” and baby, I swear the lights dimmed all by themselves.

Big Earl, sittin’ in the corner sippin’ his ego with a splash of bourbon, saw her and damn near fell out his chair. “That there,” he whispered, “is a woman worthy of the Boogaloo Prince.”

He strutted over like a rooster late for his crowin’, gave a little spin and tipped his hat. “Say now, sugar, how’s about you and me do a little steppin’? I’ll lead, you swoon.”

Delilah blinked real slow and said, “Boy, you smell like too much cologne and disappointment.”

Wheeeew, child! The crowd hollered. One man spit his gumbo out his nose.

But did Earl back down? Naw, that man doubled down like a fool at a blackjack table. He waved to Cornbread. “Hit me with that Boogaloo beat, baby! Let me show this lady what real rhythm look like.”

Cornbread gave a sly grin, cracked his knuckles, and the band launched into the dirtiest, funkiest, back-bendin’ rhythm this side of Treme. It was the kind of beat that made your knees move without permission.

Big Earl started in. Lawd, that man twirled, dipped, glided, moon-crawled, and even did a spin so fast his suit changed colors. Folks was gaspin’, cheerin’, droppin’ their drinks. He pulled out all the stops threw his hat in the air, did a double backslide, and even attempted a split.

That’s where he messed up.

As he dropped down like James Brown caught in a prayer meeting, one of his shiny shoes caught a loose board. Next thing you know, Earl’s feet went one way, his pride went another, and his behind went straight to the floor with a crack so loud somebody yelled, “Was that thunder or just judgment?”

His pompadour flew clean off and landed in a bowl of red beans. Miss Hattie covered her eyes and muttered, “Lawd, strike me blind if I ever praised that fool.”

The room went silent for a hot second.

Then the laughter hit like Mardi Gras beads on Bourbon Street.

One lady fanned herself yellin’, “That man fell harder than my soufflé at Thanksgiving!”

Somebody else shouted, “He looked like a catfish jumpin’ out the skillet!”

And Delilah? She just stepped around him, looked down, and said, “Sho ‘nuff. That’s what pride getcha.”

Grandmama said Earl limped out that joint like a man walkin’ away from a broken engagement. Never showed his face there again. Some say he opened up a bait shop in Baton Rouge and learned humility one worm at a time. Others say he joined a gospel choir and found salvation in harmony.

But everybody remembered that night as the one when pride boogaloo’d itself straight into humiliation. And to this day, whenever you get too big for your britches in New Orleans, folks say, “Don’t go pullin’ a Big Earl now.”

So let that be a lesson to all y’all:

When the beat is hot and the floor is callin’, don’t let your ego lead. Dance from your soul, not your pride.

And as Grandmama used to say, with her hat floppin’ and that church fan waggin’, “Baby, if you think you’re too important to fall, just wait ‘til the universe pulls the rug out from under your tap shoes.”

Now go fetch me some sweet tea and a slice of that peach cobbler. Telling this story done wore me out. I’m full as a tick on a hound dog and twice as sleepy.

But before I drift off like a leaf in a bayou breeze, lemme leave you with this here:

They say in the old days way back, child, before even Grandmama’s mama there was a spirit called Papa ZigZag, the jook joint watcher. He was a trickster of sorts, wore two-tone shoes and a fedora tilted just so, and he’d show up invisible to anyone struttin' too hard, dancin' too proud, or talkin’ too loud. They say he’d tug your ankle right in the middle of your best move, trip you up, and leave you face-first in the cornbread. Folklore says if you feel a sudden wobble on the dance floor, it might be Papa ZigZag remindin’ you to humble yo’self before life does it for you.

So let this be a reminder, darlin’ when you’re dancin’ through life, be graceful, be kind, and never let your feet move faster than your spirit can carry.

And if ever you hear a faint chuckle over your shoulder while you boogaloo, don’t fret. That’s just Papa ZigZag havin’ himself a good ol’ laugh, blessin’ you with a second chance to get it right.

Now hush up and pass me that fan. I’m sweatin’ like a sinner at a baptism.