Baby do I feel high

Written for No Theme Thursday: 7/3/25

“Dry Martini, jigger of gin, Oh what a spell you have me in, Oh my, do I feel high!…”

The song was a request, and I struggled with it. It was just within my vocal range with a few careful adjustments. Afterward, there was a patter of applause from the audience. I’d used the Jazz-style standby for the closing number of my last set for the night. I was peeling out to go to Doug’s for a party. No stopping at Rienzi’s or the Minetta. Doug always stocked the best, and playing at his parties allowed me to eat and drink way above my pay level as a starving Basket House folksinger.

The scene at Doug’s was all uptown types out for a Friday night of slumming in the “exciting Greenwich Village.” Josh Cohen would be on hand to give an authentic Beatnik touch to the evening with his poetry reading. Good booze, food, Beatnik poet, and Folkie guitarist. The straights could go to work on Monday and talk all about how they had consorted with the hip world of the Village. A wee touch of the wild side to brighten up your staid middle-class style. A little coffee break conversation to tune up the day.

Around two a.m. I made contact with Sheila, she wrote copy for an ad agency, and cornered me for the rundown on all the lingo we used. She thought she could use it for an ad campaign. After my final set, she and I made the scene in Doug’s spare bedroom. Maybe I’d see you again, babe. But right now I gotta split.

On my way out, I grabbed my pay from Doug, a dime note. Not bad for free eats, drinks, and entertainment. Doug and I flipped the grip (shook hands) and I went back to my pad for z’s.

About a week later, Sheila and I both went in to see the doc for shots and a pill for a bit of the “drip, drip, clap, clap.” I thought I would work it into a song I was writing about life in the Village. Sheila thought it was cool, but wanted me to write a song about her. After she left, I looked through my love songs for one in which I could replace a two-syllable girls name with Sheila’s.

A week later, Sheila told me that the song was”endearing”, but we were over. That night I was back at the Cafe Why Not singing songs about lost love. Later at Rienzi’s, my sometimes squeeze, Sue, wanted to know who dumped me. She laughed at my anguish and noted that it hadn’t stopped me from eying that redhead in the front row at my last set. Hearing this Louie Lefkowitz pulled out his harp and began playing Mr. Jelly Roll Baker. I picked up my guitar and started singing an playing:

Hey, Mr Jelly Roll Baker, can I be your slave
When I’m dead and gone, I’m gonna rise up from the grave
For your sweet jelly roll, the best jelly roll in town
You’re the only man baking, and I’m gonna keep my damper down

Sometime around two, we got serious.