He wakes up in the morning when his wife wakes him up. Today, a Friday, he puts her on a bus to Atlantic City where Edith Burns, his wife of 53 years, will play the slots. Then, Clarence "Du" Burns waits for the mailman to bring him his pension check.

Awards, still wedged in their Styrofoam, are stored behind the sofa and recliner in his East Baltimore row house, his home of 36 years. Du Burns has run out of room for his stuff -- the good stuff reminding him of his favorite year.

Has it really been seven years since Du became the first black mayor of Baltimore? There he was, the former locker room attendant at Dunbar High School, ascending in 1987 to the city's highest political office. Some people called him dumb; others called him street smart; and many others called him a fair and friendly mayor.

"I loved that job. In my case, I had to love it. Simple reason was all the praise and everything I got. I got standing ovations at churches -- I hadn't done anything for them but I was the first black mayor, you understand? And my gosh, I'd be happy, get filled up with tears. Here I am, good ol' me," says Du.

They named a gleaming, indoor soccer arena in Canton after Du. He wasn't crazy about soccer, but as mayor he got it built anyway. As a councilman, he helped find the millions to build Ashland Park Mews, an urban renewal home-ownership development. And a portrait of Clarence "Du" Burns hangs inside the East Baltimore Medical Center on Eager Street. As Du says, he was the first black man in Baltimore to have a bank loan him $4 million -- money the city used to build the medical center.

Then, Du was gone from office. He was defeated in late 1987 by a young, educated and popular guy -- "the other guy," as Du sometimes calls Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke. Du ran again in 1991 and lost again to Mr. Schmoke.

Now Clarence Henry Burns holds no office. He still speaks at schools or community groups now and then, sits on a community board or two. He has a few connections left; for example, he still can get a box seat at Camden Yards to see his beloved Orioles. But Du's not a player in city politics anymore. Yet, folks haven't forgotten the man who always kept his home phone number listed.

"Yesterday, a lady called me about the rats. 'You know, Mr. Burns, we never had no problems as long as you were in office,' she says. I can't help her now. I could make demands then. I can't anymore," says the former mayor.

You see, Du Burns says, that's all people want. They want someone to get rid of the rats in their lives.

Favorite hangout

The Palmer House Restaurant on Eutaw Street is Du Burns' favorite haunt. It's the kind of place -- all 40-odd years of it -- where the waitresses need two more hands. And the past and present seem melded into one tense.

Du usually comes in around 3 p.m. to join the late lunch crowd. At 75, he cuts a fit figure and looks like he could either play nine holes or fix potholes. Measuring at close to 6 feet tall, Du is a man of stature. Today, he's dressed in his Sunday best clothes. His tie is knotted in the perfect shape of home plate.

Some people call him "Mr. Mayor" but most call him "Du," also out of respect. In the 1940s, when Clarence Burns was knee-deep in local politics, people started calling him "Du" because he was always doing things for people.

He also delivered votes for Mayor Thomas J. D'Alesandro. That's how Du got the job at Dunbar High School, which was built on the grounds where Du's boyhood home had stood.

For 22 years, Du Burns picked up wet towels and washed uniforms in the locker room. All the while, he was talking and learning politics. He started his own political club, which evolved into the Eastside Democratic Organization. So, it was no shock to Baltimore in 1971 when Du ran for City Council from the Second District and won. He worked at City Hall for the next 17 years.

At the Palmer House, Du sits down near his old friend and the restaurant's longtime owner, Tom D'Anna.

"He really should have won that last election," says Mr. D'Anna, 80. "I always kid Du that he's going to run again." ("I'm not," Du says.)

The walls of the Palmer House are papered with photographs of everyone from Bogie and Bacall to Ron and Nancy. Du Burns is in a dozen pictures: Du shaking hands with President Carter; Du buddy-buddy with his political hero Gov. William Donald Schaefer; and Du posing in studio shots. The man does look sharp in a suit.

"He never has anything bad to say about anyone or anything -- except my hair," says waitress Josie Schonberger. Her hair color was gray but now it's sort of blond. And her hair is, well, tall.

"She's getting close to being a red-head today," Du says to Josie. "I got to take her to the barber to get it cut off." Another waitress, Connie Wyatt, brings him a Sprite. He holds her hand and raves about the Italian cookies Connie makes. Du then announces that she's not a real Italian.

In his barnstorming voice, Du talks the talk. If revved up, he'll start with The Early Years when he tried to make a living playing alto saxophone in now defunct Baltimore jazz clubs and how he knew Billie Holiday, of all people. (Du knows jazz.) But he's steered back to the present and to the shape of his life and to the shape of his city.

"I'd like to see something new come about. All the things you see that have been done, Camden Yards, Inner Harbor, started in the Schaefer administration. I just jumped on Schaefer's stuff and kept it moving," Du says.

Of his political hero, Du now says: "I think he, without a doubt, has got the worst personality I've ever seen in my life. As a politician, he's the smartest man I ever met. If he runs again for mayor, I'll work for him in the blink of an eye."

Gov. Schaefer says, "Du was one of the hardest working people I've ever served with. I counted on his friendship and help a great deal."

As the council president in 1986, Du automatically became mayor in January 1987 when Mr. Schaefer vacated the post to become Maryland's governor. Du had been in the City Council since 1981. He was chairman of the influential Urban Affairs Committee and held hearings all over town, including church basements and back alleys. Urban renewal was Du's baby.

"His legacy is acres of lasting things," says council President Mary Pat Clarke.

A practical politician

Ms. Clarke and Du Burns rose together in city politics in the 1970s. In 1983, Du Burns won a full term in the council presidency by beating a field of popular opponents, which included Ms. Clarke.

Du was a practical politician, a man who was "there to bring decent housing, education and jobs back to the community," Ms. Clarke says. "And Du delivered for the community."

In stories about Du Burns, the subject of education always bobs up. Du doesn't have a college degree -- his father, the senior Clarence Burns, had only a third-grade education. Du, who graduated from Douglass High School, tends to admire people who become successful without layers of formal education. To him, learning politics was like learning a game; it took watching, listening and practice. Lots of practice.

"Du knows government. He knew how to bring parties to the table," says Edgar Silver, a former circuit judge and member of the state legislature who is also a die-hard observer of city politics. "He was an adequate leader of the city, and he should have his place in history," Mr. Silver says.

George Piendak, a former budget director for Baltimore and now an investment banker, remembers Du being late for council meetings because someone cornered him asking for help getting food stamps or something. "He's a class act," says Mr. Piendak.

"The media and conventional wisdom said he [as mayor] would be a caretaker," he says, "and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Zoe Piendak, George Piendak's wife, was Du's chief of staff in 1987. Du was instrumental in forging the transition from white to black leadership in the city, says Ms. Piendak, now the deputy director of administration for the Baltimore Museum of Art.

She remembers her former boss as a man who always made time for his constituents.

"I learned from him that caring and hearing and listening are very important," she says.

Du's women

Du Burns is staring at "his women." Portraits of the three (wife Edith, daughter Cheryl, granddaughter Lisa) hang in prominence in his living room. Lisa loves him best, Du jokes.

In the end, we will be measured by our families and by our contributions, Du says. What did we do?

"There's a lot of knowledge I could still pass on," Du says. "But I can't talk to Kurt Schmoke and people like that. If I tell them no, no don't do this, do that -- who wants to hear it?"

Maybe no one at City Hall. Du says he doesn't think much of Mr. Schmoke as mayor, while Mr. Schmoke crafted a more mayoral reply on the subject of Du Burns.

"As a councilman, Burns played an important role in the development of black politics in the city," the mayor says. "His year as mayor had less of an impact on the political transition in the city than did his years as councilman."

But for that one year, 1987, Clarence "Du" Burns could get anyone he wanted on the phone. He could get the alleys baited for rats. People listened to him. And in the churches, people gave Du standing ovations that about made him cry.

"Somebody had to be the first black mayor and set an example that a black man could be fair to everyone," Mr. Mayor says.

"I proved to everyone in this city that I was fair, and people loved me for that."