Chuck Connors, popularly known as the Mayor of Chinatown, is without
doubt, one of the best known of the many New York celebrities.
He was the original “Chimmie Fadden,” a character in a series of stories
and plays which have proved a gold mine for one enterprising writer on
a New York daily. He is picturesque, and if there was such a thing as an
American Coster Chuck would be the true type.
He is a philosopher as well as a story teller. He has been a prize
fighter, and his appearances on the stage have been successful ones.
When he fought, he fought well, as he does everything, and in the days
when he was in his prime, and everything went, he put away many a man
who was a great deal bigger than he was.
He has learned to read and write during the past few years, and has
added those accomplishments to his many others.
“It was a pipe,” he says, “to get next to doin' de act wid a pen an'
ink, an' as fur de readin' gag, oh, good night. I wuz Johnny on de spot
wid dat. But wot got me goin' was telling de time. On de level, it took
me t'ree months before I got next. Wot twisted me up wuz the little
hand always sneakin' by de big hand. Say, it was like a race between a
thoroughbred an' a piker. But I'm on now, all right.”
No tough boy in Gotham can equal his mannerisms and talk. His is the
original tough dialect untouched by education.
Chuck's distinction is attributed in a manner to his style of dress. A
blue flannel shirt, a short coat with white pearl buttons, a white tie
and a very small hat; that makes the character you read about. In fact,
his dress is as famous on the Bowery as himself.
It is in his talk that the remarkable qualities of the man are revealed.
Men of all stations in life are held by his wit, his originality, the
honest, forcible character of his mind, the uncompromising manner he
knows best. The life of the Bowery, “de lane” he calls it, the streets
he loves, he could not be torn from.
He is the supreme interpreter of Bowery slang. “De real ting,”
“Ah, forget it,”
“Go in under the table,” and “Oh, good night” are phrases that Chuck
invented.
His popularity with the Chinese is remarkable, and his honesty has never
been questioned for a moment by anyone.
[Illustration: 0009]
He has many strong personal and influential friends, who keep in touch
with him through correspondence, and among them may be mentioned Sir
Henry Irving, the actor, Israel Zangwill, the author; Count Albert De
Sichtervelt, of Bulgaria; Sir Thomas Lipton, Chauncey Depew, Admiral Von
Dietrich, of the German Navy; Hall Caine, author of “The Eternal City,”
and Nat Goodwin, the actor.
He has escorted them and hundreds of others through the Chinese
quarters, with which he is more familiar than any other man in that
section of the city.
He is a famous character, and in the following pages you will find him
at his very best. Read what he says, for it will be interesting, and you
will find a lot in it that will give you something to think about.
$1,000,000 TO SPEND
|A man who was seeing the sights in Chinatown one night, under Chuck's
guidance, said to him as they stood in front of the altar in the Joss
house:
“What would you do, Chuck, if you had a million dollars?”
“Nuttin',” replied Chuck, “fer I wouldn't hev to, see?”
I wuz out wid a bloke, showin' him de sites uv de Reservation, an' he
asks me wot I'd do if I had a million bones. It nearly took me bre'th
away t'inkin' uv it, an' I ain't got over it yet. Dat's a swell bunch uv
money fer a guy to hev, an' dat ain't no mistake, either. Every time I
t'ink uv it it makes me take a long bre'th, an' if I had it--say, en de
level, I don't t'ink I'd ever be able ter get me bre'th at all.
But I guess blokes like Carnegie and Rockerfeller hez got more dan a
million--I t'ink dey must hev two millions ennyhow. But if I had dere
cush I wouldn't be buildin' no readin' rooms, en libraries, en t'ings
like dat. Nixey, dey ain't no good. A guy wot's hungry can't eat de
cover off a book, kin he, an' if he's out uv work how is a brown-stone
front goin' ter put him next?
Dat's wot I want ter know.
An' besides, wot's de use uv holdin' on ter de coin. Yer can't only
spend it wunce, an' w'en yer die, yer can't take it wid yer, kin yer?
Dey ain't invented doze kind uv Mother Hubbards wid pockets in 'em yet.
Look et a rich bloke wot's bin workin' like a longshoreman all his life,
pilin' up de dough. He's bin so bizzy gittin' it dat he ain't had no
time ter hev fun--yer know, take it easy. An' de more he gits, de harder
he hez to work--'cause he hez ter watch it fer fear sum odder bloke wot
ain't bin so lucky, or ain't worked so hard, will put up er job on him
an' trim him--yer know, rob him. And dere yer are.
Dere's nuttin' ter it; furst dey work fer it, den dey watch it, an' den
dey die, an' den de surkus begins, fer everybody hez a mitt out ter git
er grab ez soon ez de hearse leaves de house. An' de poor, rich bloke
goes ter de same kind uv a hole in de ground dat ennybody else doz, an'
it's a hundred ter one shot dat erbout half uv de stuff he had ter leave
behind is goin' ter buy wine in de swell dumps fer a bunch uv stage
Tommies.
Are yer on?
If I had it I wouldn't hev ter watch it, 'cause I'd be blowin' it in so
fast dat it wouldn't need watchin', an' dat's no pipe dream.
De furst t'ing I'd do if I had a million would be ter go ter de
Waldorf-Astoria an' hire er sweet uv rooms--yer know, er bunch uv dem.
Den I'd give er dinner ter all de mob, wot u'd cost er hundred bucks er
plate, an' after I'd got dem all paralyzed wid real wine, I'd send dem
home in autermobiles. Den I'd go ter de guy at de desk, an' tell him I
wuz goin' ter turn in, an' I'd say:
“I want er good, strong bloke ter cum up an' call me at 7 o'clock in de
mornin'.”
An' den in de mornin', w'en he'd cum up an' pound on de door, I'd let
him hammer his nuckles fer erbout ten minutes, an' den I'd say:
“Git out o' dere, yer Skibboreen harp--I don't hev ter git up.”
I'd hire de parks every Sunday, wid Eyetalian bands ter play “Every
Day'll be Sunday By an' By,” an' I'd hev der swellest tallent you'd want
ter sit down an' listen ter.
Dancin? Sure. All de workin' fellers could hev der steadies an' twist
ter a knockout, an' if a bundle got freckles in her t'roat--you know,
got dry, see--I'd hev coon waiters ter bring her a couple uv tubs uv
milk so she could drown de freckles out. De fellers could hev everyt'ing
en de bill uv fare, 'cept cigarettes--I wouldn't stand fer dem.
I notice dere ain't no statues on de Bowery. Well, dere ought ter be,
an' I'd hev statues of Carrie Nation, Dowie an' Dr. Parkhurst put up,
an' I'd hev 'em decorated wid crape.
An' I wouldn't hev nobody carryin' de banner, 'cause I'd hev free
sleepin' cribs on every block. W'y should a bloke wot's poor hev ter pay
fer sleepin' ennyhow?
Me headqua'ters would be de Waldorf, but I would hev a telephone station
in Chinatown, so I could git a hot chop suey w'en I wanted it quick.
Ev'ry mornin' at 10 o'clock--or near dere--I'd call up me Chat'am Square
agent an' tell him ter give cologne ter der gals an' segars an' free
lunch ter der gorillas. Ev'ry bloke dat wuz hungry would have a feed bag
an w'enever he wanted it. How does dat crab yer?
I'd give out coupons ter all der mob ter go an' get a bath, a shave, a
shine, a hair cut, an' a shampoo, so dey would be all polished up like
a door knob, waitin' fer yours truly in his autermobile wid de Chinky
chaffer.
An' dis gag erbout art galleries. W'y, dat gives me stagnation uv me
liver an' I'll pass it up. Dere'd be no art galleries in mine. I'd hev
two or t'ree tons uv corn beef an' cabbage an' a hundred blokes wid
pitchforks ter shovel it out. If yer want ter git to der gang, give 'em
sumthin' ter eat an' not sumthin' ter look at--not on yer tin-type. A
bloke w'ot's hungry ain't stuck on listenin' to a long talk by a feller
w'ot's just filled in wid everyt'ing, from soup ter pie, an' a ham
sandwi'ch is better to him dan a t'ree t'ousan' dollar cromo.
Young Rockerfeller hez a class uv fellers in a Sunday school, an' he
slings a few t'ings at 'em, but he don't stake 'em ter nuttin' except
chin music, an' I could do dat meself, an' w'en he gives 'em a dinner
he makes 'em pay fer dere own grub. No wonder he's got er million
dollars--he ought ter own de earth, if he lives long enuff--I mean, if
his father does, cause dere's w'ere de cush cums from in dat family, an'
it ain't on der level, either, 'cause no bloke ought ter have more dan
he kin earn.
Between you an' me dere's strong arm guys in odder places dan de Bowery,
only dey work diffrunt. Stow dis in yer nut, cull, an' t'ink it over.
Dere's sum good laws in dis country, but dey needs fixin', an' dere just
about ez good ez a growler w'ot's full uv holes--de beer runs out an' de
froth stays in. See?
I'd have de Board uv Health go round ter every joint an' see dat all de
reg'lars is gittin' de right stuff from de guy behin' de fence. I'd cut
out de horse show, 'cause de horses git show enuff. I'd give de people
a show fer a change, and I guess by de time all dis would be done I
wouldn't have enny more uv me million, an' I'd spend me life in bein'
happy, wid nuttin' on me mind ter worry me.
Dat's de only way.
De poor bloke is de best after all, fer he kin be a king wid a ten spot,
an' he ain't got nuttin' ter lose.
If he gits wet w'en it rains he knows he'll git dry w'en de sun cums
out, an' if he's tied up ter a bundle an' has kids, dey couldn't look
enny more like him if he had enuff coin ter make Goold look like a
piker.