Wednesday, 08 July 2009
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A MINOR BLUES, CHAPTER SIX
Reader's note: here is a link to all chapters that I have so far placed online.
Chapter VI
"Delano figured Spoonbill wanted to go quickly?" Jack asked the old man
when he stopped to take a drink from the bottle of spring water. Tobias
nodded as he drank.Then Jack remembered what else he had brought Tobias, at Burnside's
suggestion. He pulled the half-pint of Wild Turkey out of his briefcase.
"Let me top that off for you, fella." He looked to make sure Nurse
Register, or any other busybody, wasn't watching. Nope just the old guy
in the next bed, and he wasn't a snitch any more, if he ever was.Jack passed the open bottle under Tobias' nose before tipping a
healthy slug into the water bottle."Yes indeed, no doubt at all RL sent you, young man." Tobias took a long
drink from the newly-fortified water. The man was near eighty, and Jack
worried that maybe he wasn't supposed to be partaking of alcohol. But
then again, the man was near eighty."I don't get to do much drinkin' in here. What family comes to see me is
religious. Not that I ain't, but a man got have his faults, right?
Otherwise, we are presuming to be too Christlike, is my feelings. Isn't that so,
Mr. Moonlight?"I never heard it put quite that way, Mr. Plimsoll. But it makes sense,
of a sort.""Please, call me Tobias.", Tobias reminded his visitor.
"Please, call me Jack.""Well then Jack, I suppose we are ready to continue the sad tale of
Delano's incarceration.""I was told that you were wrongfully convicted, Tobias." You had to have
been awfully young when you were in Cummins.""Yes, Tobias said. "I was young. And no, I was guilty as sin. I did
have a temper as a young-un, and I did beat that bastard barber near to
death."Jack started to ask for details, but he knew the clock was ticking.
Thirty minutes had come and gone. The staff's laxity toward their
charges worked in his favor, but it couldn't last."Now, the 38 years at Parchman Farm? That was a miscarriage of justice.
I was the closest black man to the scene, and the sheriff needed to find
a culprit. They told the lady that I was the man who raped her, all she
had to do was say so in court."Jack shook his head, it was a story similar to many he had heard over
the years."Those wonderful people at the Innocence Project, plus some local state
lawyers, won me my freedom." Funny thing is, Jack, that the state was
working to free me at the same time. I went blind two years ago, my
arthritis got too bad to do work of any kind at Parchman. The state
tired of paying my medical bills, so it was looking like I would be free
by now anyhow. At least this way, with a wrongful conviction suit going
forward, Mississippi will end up paying for my care after all. Should I
live long enough to win it, that is. My lawyer is helping some, and she
assures me that there will be a settlement soon.""It's funny that me and Delano got to be so tight, Tobias mused."
Jack thought he had missed something, then realized Tobias was talking
to himself."What did you mean by that, Tobias?"
"We both signed confessions to things we did not do, Jack ."
-----------------------------------------Summer, 1941
Delano had time to grieve between beatings. The first came at the hands
of Tarver and his driver. Even though the man who shot Spoonbill said
that Delano came from up the street, and was nowhere near the residence
he fired at the crazy black man. For his part, Delano held no ill will
towards the shooter. Spoonbill was looking to die, it seemed. Delano
just wished his friend had waited until Delano was far enough away not
to hear the shot.It took two days for the police to figure out what to charge Delano
with. They settled on trespassing and attempted burglary. Had Delano
been a local, had someone to vouch for him, he might have walked.Once the charges were filed, the detectives went to work convincing
Delano that accessory to murder was the alternative to confessing to
the trumped-up charges. A few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder
later, Delano conceded their point. Then he was sent to hospital, taped
up, cleaned up, and made ready for his plea date.On Tuesday, August 12, 1941, Delano saw his new home for the first time.
It was to be the last time he saw it from the outside. He was looking
through a slit in the canvas cover of the transfer truck, saw flat
fields of crops, then a guard tower. Neither prisoner to which he was
chained, both white men, a pair of bank robbers, indicated any
curiousity. They had only talked to him once, to see if he had a
cigarette. They laughed when he said he had given up the habit years
ago. "So did we.", said the one named Earl. "For the next five years."That was the extent of integration at Cummins. Once he was processed.
Delano was walked, still in chains, to Block "D". The guards unshackled
him, one handed him a blanket and sheet. Another slid open the door, and
yet a fourth kicked him in the back, through the door, which shut behind
him with the dreaded clang heard in so many prison movies. So began
Delano's stay in Hell.He picked himself off the floor, looked around. He was in a room about
80 feet long and 20 feet wide. Six-inch gaps every ten feet, between the
walls and the roofline offered some daylight and the promise of cold
winter nights.
There was a double row of bunk beds with thin matresses, all unoccupied.
He had been told by a trustee that he would be assigned to a work detail
in the morning, and for now to enjoy the silence. "The men will be back
at dusk. Your block boss is Bull Red. Best give him what he wants, cigs
if your family sends any, extra biscuits from dinner, but.." He looked
at Delano's relatively slim build. "He may want sumpin' extra from you.""What you mean?", Delano imitated the trustee's whisper, sure that the
guards would hit them if they were overheard. But Delano knew what the
trustee meant. Spoonbill had made him aware that some men were to be
avoided, not to accept favors from them, not to hang around them, and
not to back down from them. "I won't always be there to protect you, boy.
That's why we're gonna teach you the sweet science, the pugilistic arts.
There's some people you cain't win over with a song."Towards dusk, Delano was sitting on the edge of a bunk that had no look of
occupation when he heard commotion outside. The door opened, men started
filing in, some started talking with one another, but they all got quiet when
they saw Delano sitting there. Some filed past him, one or two shook their
heads as they passed. The door clanged shut, and Delano saw the one who
had to be Bull Red take a piece of paper from a guard who passed it
through the bars.Delano made him for a Redbone, a people of complicated ancestry also called
Melungeons, who inhabit a portion of Southwest Louisiana. They are part
Caucasian, part Indian, and part Negro. Most Redbones, like the one who was
walking towards Delano, had copper-hued skin, high cheekbones,
and straight hair. Few were as bulky as Bull Red, neè Timothy Clark,
but, as with him, English names were more common than French by a wide
margin.Only one or two had gone into the shower room at the far end of the
dorm; most waited to see how this was going to play out. Delano was
curious as well, he made a quick calculation of pluses and minuses as
Bull Red walked towards him.Delano was five-ten, Bull was a few inches over six feet. This was a
plus, Spoonbill had taught him that punching upward gave one firmer
footing. But the big man had a reach several inches longer than his. A minus
for sure. Delano weighed one hundred and sixty pounds the last time he had
used a scale. He probably had lost weight since his arrest. He estimated Bull
Red to be close to twice that, not all of fat by a long shot. Another for the
minus column.The fellow was walking slow, but he seemed to be sure-footed,
not lumbering like a poorly-toned fake wrestler. Delano called that as an even,
as he was tired of minuses.Delano figured he was faster, due to Spoonbill's constant training and
demanding exercise regimen. He had kept it up in jail, as soon as his
injuries allowed. Two hundred push-ups, then fifty one-handed with each
arm. He had worked his way up to five hundred sit-ups the day they came
to put him in the truck. He had found a fellow in jail who would practice
sparring with him, letting Delano hit his hands, while Delano let him
try to punch his face. It was the closest thing to fun he had experienced
since Spoonbill's death, and he hoped now that it made him faster than the
adversary-to-be who was now standing in front of him. Delano had risen to
his feet in a show of respect, also so he could move faster.Bull Red spoke, reading from the paper that looked tiny in his hands.
"Spoondog? Roosevelt? Spoonboy? Which do you prefer, slim?""I prefer Delano."
"I see, and you picked this bunk for yourself, did you?"
"It was unoccupied..." Suddenly, Delano was flying across the room,
grabbed and thrown before he saw the movement. So much for the speed
advantage, he thought as he banged into a bunk on the opposite row and
two beds down from his first choice."I choose who sleeps where on this block. That's my bunk, and that's
where you will sleep tonight. And I prefer to call you Pussy." Again he
was standing inches from Delano,"Is that what you called your Mama?" Damned if the man didn't blink, and
Delano punched upward, hitting Bull in the jaw. A piece of the giant's
tongue flew out of his mouth, trailing blood and spit. Delano followed
through with a left to his nose, savoring the crunch as his fist sunk
in the meaty face.It wasn't over. Delano left arm was gripped by a vise disguised as a
right arm, and he was pulled into Bull's chest, They were face-to-face,
and Delano could see that he had shaken off the effects of his surprise
attack. The contorted face, blood spewing down his chin split into a
broken-toothed grin as Delano wriggled in his grasp. Bull Red pulled his
left arm back in preparation for a powerful roundhouse that could surely
put him in the same dimension as his mentor. The larger man turned to the
wide-eyed crowd. "Guess I'll be screwing a corpse tonight, ladies."Delano hadn't been sitting on the bunk all afternoon. From tales heard
around hobo campfires, he had learned that improvised weapons could be
made and hidden in walls, ceilings, floors, bed frames, and bodily
orifices. Lacking the availability of the latter, or a desire to conduct such a
search anyway, Delano started feeling and scanning the former, checking
every corner and surface of the concrete-block walls. He was rewarded when
he found a tiny discolored circle in the cement where four blocks met. With
his fingernail, he scraped away the powdered concrete dust some enterprising
convict had used to cover a hole large enough to hide a sixteen-penny
nail. And that was what Delano pulled out of its hiding place. The
nail's business end had been sharpened almost to invisibility. He filled
the hole back up with dust and cement scraped up with the weapon. The
resulting patch would never pass close inspection, but he figured it
would be good enough for the encounter he was sure would ensue when the
crew returned from the fields.He placed the nail in his right armpit, under his tight t-shirt,
thanking the Lord for the prison system's careless regard for sizing.
Now, in Bull Red's grip, he wriggled it loose, felt it slide down his
shirt, and into his hand. He slipped it between his middle and ring
finger, the broad end of the head firmly against his palm, as he had
practiced for most of the time since he found it. Just as Bull turned
back from his aside to the audience, Delano punched it into the man's
fat neck with all his might. He heard air hissing out of the wound as he
was dropped, and the light-skinned ogre fell back, vainly plucking at
the nail. His windpipe had been pierced, and blood ran out of his mouth
and nose at an even faster pace than before.Delano took careful aim, and kicked the son of a bitch in the crotch to
great effect. He decided against kicking the nail further into the man's
nasal cavity. Turning to the open-mouthed crowd, he spoke calmly."The name is Delano. Not Spoondog, not Spoonboy, not Spoon anything. Do
not call me Roosevelt. Now someone call the guards, this poor man has
fallen and hurt himself."Voices could be heard outside, getting closer. Delano motioned for two
of the closest witnesses to help him pick Bull Red off the floor. He dipped
his fingers into Bull Red's neck wound, flicked blood on their shirts, and
whispered, "We all got a little messy helping him.""I didn't see nothin' boss. Mind if I call you boss? My name's Tobias,
and I hate to be called Toby". Delano suppressed a laugh as the guards
swarmed in.
Tuesday, 07 July 2009
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A Minor Blues, Chapter V
CHAPTER V
"The blues are in these woods, man. They live in the swamp water, they
grew under the heel of oppression, flowered, seeded, it's a circle." RL
just smiled, went on pickin'. They were in RL's cadillac, sitting behind
Leon's joint. The boys were loading the gear in the back, a lot more than Jack
remembered being onstage. He knew he wasn't making sense, but Burnside
seemed to understand, he played to Jack's rambling. They were writing a
song. The sounds of the equipment being loaded was the rhythm, Coquetta
was saying something, it became part of the composition. RL beamed at
Jack, his face shone in the bright lights, brighter than the moon,
bright as the sun, Coquetta sang to Jack, "Pancakes, honey...""Jack! Pancakes gonna get cold! Get up, you dancin' fool!"
It was Sherry, her voice hurt his head, almost as much as the sunlight
streaming through the curtain she had pulled open. He raised up in the
bed, a bad mistake. The room started spinning, the vise holding his head
got tightened one more turn. He lay back down."Here you go, fella, hair of the dog." Audie had walked in, and was
offering Jack a glass of light-colored liquid. "A little Rebel Yell, but
mostly water. Here, just sip it, son."In their boy's bed, with the two of them hovering over his damaged self,
Jack felt like a fledgling not quite ready to fly. Maybe they were
remembering tending to Marcus, their son's name, Jack recalled through
the fog of war, when he had a fever. He sipped the elixir, pictured the
water soaking into the membranes surrounding his brain, imagined the
hangover easing already. Jack realized he needed a bathroom break,
started to throw off the covers."Hold on, Sherry don't need to be seein' your package. Word is, she's
ready to run off with her new two-steppin beau as it is."Sherry slapped Audie on the arm. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not
going anywhere but the kitchen. Jack, do your business, get dressed, and
come eat. Pancakes and Tupelo honey, bacon and coffee with your name on
it are waitin' on you. She grabbed the glass from his hand on her way
out. "And no more dog-hair. That ain't no cure, just get you drinkin'
all day.""Fine, whatever, just stop all that damned yelling. Jeez, even my hair
hurts."Breakfast was good, Sherry had kept it hot, and his hosts had waited
until he was showered and dressed so they could all three eat together.
Over coffee, He thanked Sherry for the fine meal, and for ironing the shirt
and pants she had taken from his suitcase, and laid on the bed while he was
in the shower. She brushed off the thanks he offered, then remarked, "That
reminds me, your other clothes oughtta be ready to get out of the dryer by now."Jack sat up straight, uselessly feeling in his clean pants for the notes
he had taken in the van after the show. RL only had a Caddy in Jack's
dream, if not the bluesman's as well. His mood sunk, but Sherry read his
mind."Not to worry, I checked the pockets." She walked to the counter, picked
up some scraps of paper. "I saved Wanda's number", Audie chuckled.
"Coquetta gave you her number after all?" She looked at the last
piece of paper, then at Jack. "And I do not remember you dancing with
anyone named Tobias Plimsoll."
-----------------------------------"Melissa, how are you? I'm fine, thanks. Yes, I am on my way to a
nursing home in Cleveland, Mississippi. I left Euclidean this morning. I
have a good lead. No, unfortunately, but his cellmate in Cummins lives
there, one Tobias Plimsoll. I don't know about that, but there's always
hope on that score. At the very least, I will have more background on
Mr. Partlow. Georgia is my next destination, unless Mr. Plimsoll gives
us a new lead. You too, Melissa. Good day."Jack had hoped Melissa would ask how he got the lead. He was dying to
tell someone about his adventure on the chitlin' circuit. The night was
still fresh in his mind, although the headache had abated significantly
since breakfast. He had said goodbye to the Boulware's after Audie had
told him the best route, making Jack repeat it twice. Sherry had hugged
him tight. He settled for a handshake from Audie, who told him to come
back anytime. It wasn't politeness, he meant it, and Jack was equally
sincere when he promised to return.He pulled the Burnside CD out the player; it had started for a third
time. He popped in the disc with What's My Name?, the closest thing
Spoondog ever had to a hit. According to Billboard magazine's archives
it had cracked the R & B top 200 for two weeks in 1950, peaking at #178.An odd song, it starts with the band already playing a fast jumping
blues riff, almost, but not quite the same as Rocket '88. Spoondog is
introduced by an anonymous announcer, and yet another chorus is played
before he asks the crowd, What's my name? 'Spoondog', some in the crowd
respond. "What?", he yells. 'Spoondog', more joining in now, and louder.
Then Spoondog asks, "Is this a party? Yeah, comes the rejoinder. "Why am I
here? He asks, 'To party!'. Why are you here? 'To part-eee'.
"(unintelligible)you wanna party?" The crowd's response is muted, maybe
due to the lead guitarist (Spoondog?) ripping out a distorted solo that
ends when Spoondog screams his real name, and adds 'I wanna go home, an'
I got no home." For four rocking minutes, long for a single back then,
it goes on, and ends with a scream and a roar from the crowd, the band
still playing the same riff, but something is different, the band is
quieter, the bass drops out completely after the scream, leaving the
drums and rhythm guitar to play out the fade."Strange", Jack mutters. But compelling all the same. There's more
passion in Partlow's voice on this record than in all his other songs
combined. In Jack's considered opinion, Spoondog should have done
more live recording.He entered the town of Shaw, and turned north on Highway 61. The highway
was the exit route for blacks leaving the south to go to Chicago seeking
work and to escape the brutal segregation practiced in the South back then.
In honor of the road, Jack had burned every song he could find that
mentioned Highway 61 on a disc, which disc he put in the rental car's player
now. The first cut, featuring Mississippi Fred McDowell's Highway 61 Blues,
began playing. 'Lord that 61 Highway, it's the longest road I know.." Jack
sang along as he drove north. He was yelling along with Johnny Winter on his
version of Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited when he passed the Cleveland
city limits sign. 'Welfare department wouldn't give him no clothes...".Audie had recommended that he eat lunch at the Airport Grocery, and the
food was surprisingly excellent. After finishing a plate of ribs and sweet
potato fries, he found the Willows, a nursing home for indigent and
Medic-Aid patients near the Municipal Airport, just off Hwy 8.He had called ahead, and was greeted by the lead nurse, a tall, spare,
no-nonsense kind of woman, named Register. Jack doubted that she needed
a first name, didn't look like the type to have friends close enough to
use it with her. She took his card, insisted on seeing two I.D.'s (with
picture), then grudgingly allowed him to follow her down the hall. It
was a crooked path, with the lunch carts and cleaning carts seemingly
abandoned in the hall. An alert bell was ringing in one of the rooms. No
one paid it any mind. Patients that were ambulatory or semi-so wandered
in and out of rooms as the nurse led Jack to the last doorway, next to
the emergency exit. Jack heard gospel music playing on the radio in the
room."Mr. Plimsoll! your visitor is here!", Nurse Register shouted over the
Winan family. And she motioned Jack through the door. "You have thirty
minutes, Toby needs his sleep.", And left Jack so she could continue
ignoring the bell.Toby was not alone; In the bed closest to the door lay an old white man.
His eyes followed Jack past the curtain divider to the bed that was
cranked up so the occupant could drink from a plastic bottle of water."Mr. Plimsoll, I'm .."
"Jack Moonlight. R.L. called me this morning. Said you had some
questions about Spoondog Partlow." The old man smiled,"Don't we all,
son, don't we all." He put out his hand for Jack to shake, which he
did. Toby was staring over Jack's shoulder, and he turned to see who was
there. Nothing. He turned back. The old man's eyes were on him, but
unfocused. Jack realized that he was talking to a blind man."Yes. I am without the use of my eyes, Mr. Moonlight. May I call you
Jack?"Of course. May I call you ...?"
"Tobias, I dislike Toby, and that damned nurse knows it. The name is
Tobias, if you please."
"No problem, Tobias."
"Do my eyes bother you, Jack?" I can put on these glasses, but they pain
my ears after a few moments."The sunglasses were on the tray in front of Tobias. Cheap, Jack could
see the sharp edges on the frames, where the mold had leaked molten
plastic during the injection process. Jack took his sunglasses out of
his shirt pocket. "Here, Tobias, try these on. He fitted them over the
old man's ears, let Tobias slide the nosepiece around til they felt
comfortable.
"I guess my wandering eyes were getting to you."
"A little", Jack admitted. And you keep those, Tobias. I wanted to bring
you something for seeing me on such short notice, but I had no idea what
you might need.""These'll do, young man. They feel mighty fine. These and an answer to
the question of why you are looking for my old friend."So Jack explained in a few sentences about his client, and her Father's
friendship with Spoondog.
"That would be Frank Hatton. Spoon spoke of him a lot, and he was right.
Frank was a good fellow.""You knew Frank?" Jack had not expected this.
"I met Frank, if that's what you mean. I knew Spoon. I was already in my
second year at Cummins when Spoon was throwed into our block." He
paused, collected his thoughts. "You know how Spoon came to be in
Cummins, I guess." Jack confessed that he knew only of the conviction
for burglary."Then let me fill you in, insofar as I what I know. Spoon told me he and
Geddie had come to Arkansas looking for a job, a bare-knuckle match,
anything to make some cash...."
-----------------------------June 12, 1941
"You done whut I tol' ya, tha'd be a twenty in yo' han', not a ten!"
Spoonbill was drunk, again. His words were slurred close to
incomprehension.
"We split the pot, dammit, Spoon! Shit! The guy was bigger 'n' me,
stronger 'n' me. And still it was a draw.", Delano said proudly."An' yo face lools like a sausage, Roosevelt." Spoonbill was looking for
an argument when he called Delano that. He knew Delano hated that nickname
worse than Spoondog, even though he liked the President, thought he could
make things better for the black man, maybe after the war everyone knew was
coming."I tol' you", Spoonbill continued, "When you fightin' someone you can't
win fair against, get up close, say somethin' bad about his Mama. He
gon' blink, thas' when you hit him with all you got. Don't say somethin'
'bout his Mama, then not hit him, 'cause then you in worse trouble.""Man, you been sayin' that since Frank and I were sparrin'."
"An' I'll keep sayin' it, cause it's true. It's ..true." Spoonbill got a
pained look, suddenly doubled over, and threw up. Again, there was blood
mixed in with the hootch and bile.Delano grabbed the bag with the bottle from Spoonbill's hand. That's it
partner. No more drinkin' the profits. Not only are you drinkin' us out
of a room, you're gon' kill yourself."Spoonbill made a wild grab for the bottle, missed and fell down. He got
to his knees, vomited a thin stream of blood. Both men, for Delano was
at least 21 now, watched the excreta run down the sidewalk, back the way they
had come from the Dunbar neighborhood. It was a black section of town,
and the cops didn't give a damn how many blacks there killed each other.Spoonbill staggered back to his feet, fixed his yellow eyes on Delano.
"Roosevelt Spoondog De-lano Sambo pickaninny..." He forgot what the
point of his rant was, besides getting his only friend's nuts in a
twist.Delano kept the bottle out of Spoonbill's reach. Just then a spotlight illuminated
both of them. The two men shielded their eyes."Let me see your faces, boys!" It was, of course a Little Rock
policeman, sitting in a paddy wagon neither man had seen pull up. "Give
me one good reason not to add you to my collection of niggers in the back.""We are just headed for the bus station, sir.", Delano spoke up. "Leavin'
town, not comin' back."The policeman put his light on Delano. "You, come here." Delano walked
up close to the side window. "Gimme that bottle. Delano did so. the
officer smelled it, passed it to the driver. One drunk in the caged
interior suggested they pass it around, and there was some laughter."You aren't drunk, are you boy?" But your, who is he, your dad? He's
three sheets in the wind. Is that blood he's spitting up?""Sir, he raised me, but we ain't kin. And that is blood. He's awful
sick. I just wanna take him home"Delano was close enough to make out the tag on the policeman's chest.
Tarver. "Officer Tarver, he can't take another stint in jail, I got bus
money for both of us. Won it in a fight tonight."Tarver looked at Delano's face. "That's winning? Look, I feel generous
tonight. Anyways the back is filled up. But you are in the wrong
neighborhood. Go back down the hill, go ten blocks east, and come up
Main street to the bus station.""But that's three miles out of our way, the station's only.."
Tarver's sap hit Delano on the shoulder. He felt the pain down to his
wrist, up to his ear. Behind Tarver, the driver snorted."We can discuss this all night, you want to?"
"No sir," Delano winced when Tarver drew back to repeat the blow.
"Around the way it is. Nice night for walking."The paddy wagon started to pull away from the curb. "And don't stop
walking until you get on the bus. We're gonna dump this load, and come
back, looking for two coons ain't done what they were told."Spoonbill had gotten up. "You shoulda pasted him for that. You like
bein' called nigger better than Spoondog, Roosevelt?""Man, you are pressing me." Delano was working his shoulder, keeping it
loose. There was gonna be a bruise, a contusion maybe. By daylight, it
would be sore as hell. And the word did bother him, more than he was
gonna let on to his friend.Delano wasn't sure when the dynamic had changed, and he became
responsible for the older man.In a letter to Frank, who was in medical school at Tulane, he had
postulated that the switch was complete about two years after Frank's
dad had found out about the boxing and and their mixed-race
friendship. Doc Hatton had subsequently sent Frank to a private school
in Oxford. Frank sent Delano letters General Delivery to the post office
in Kosciusko, because his dad was friends with the postmaster in Euclidean.
They managed to keep in touch this way in the intervening years.The two started back down the hill, Spoonbill mad about the rousting,
pissed about losing the hootch, and ranting loudly about the detour.
"It gon' change one day. The black man gon' get his, you wait and see."
If FDR had his way, we'd get ours now. He's got to deal with too many
crackers and peckerwoods to get things done like they should."Delano just wished his partner would shut up. Still, the talk took his
mind off the pain some. His head was hurting from the beating he had
taken from the half-breed. Not that his opponent was going to be breathing
through his nose anytime soon, either.They had gone two blocks downhill, and Spoonbill had headed west,
despite Delano's protests. Maybe they could hurry, and get to Main Street
before Tarver came by again. But Spoonbill stopped to rest against a
live oak growing in a wide and deep front yard."Dammit, old man! C'mon!" Delano grabbed Spoonbill by the collar and
belt, and tried to pull him down the street. But the vet, who risked his
life for this thankless country, who had seen how it was to be treated
like a man, had other ideas."I ain't goin' pup!" I'm tired, too tired." He looked at Delano, just
go, get on the bus, leave me enough for my own ticket. "Delano saw Spoonbill's eyes had cleared, he saw sadness replace anger.
"All right, screw it. Spoon. I ain't gonna stay here an' attract
attention to us. But you gotta get to a charity hospital. Hide in them
bushes, I'll get an ambulance for you, some kinda ride, ok? Stay outta
sight.""Yeah, boy. you go on. Spoonbill gon' wait right here."
Delano looked one more time at his mentor, wishing he had quit drinking
when he made him and Frank stop. He turned, and started running. He
could make Main Street, find a black man with a car or truck, be back
here in a half hour.Spoonbill gagged and dry-heaved, felt something inside him shift.
He wasn't gonna hide. No sir, he wasn't gonna die hiding, or in no Charity
Hospital. He was a soldier, he killed men straight on, men who was
trying to kill him back. He pushed himself away from the tree, got his
bearings, headed for the front door of the house nearest him."Hey! Cracker! I ain't hidin'! I'm right here, I'm coming in, get me a
bed ready, you white son a bitch!", William Geddie, American soldier,
said with a laugh. He was almost to the door, his knife somehow out of
his pocket and open in his hand. The door opened....Three blocks away Delano heard the gunshot, the sound booming from
somewhere behind him. As fast as he had been running for help, he was
even faster getting back. The sky was getting lighter, and Delano could
see that Spoonbill wasn't by the oak tree anymore. He must be in those
bushes, that can't be him half on the porch over there, half on the
sidewalk. Maybe he fell. Maybe the man with the shotgun had pushed
him..."Don't come any closer, I'll shoot you too!"
Delano slowed up, not because he heard the man, who was fumbling with
the shotgun. He just did not want to see that it was Spoonbill with the
big hole in his belly. But it was. He heard the man repeat his warning.
Delano knelt down, saw Spoonbill smile up at him, heard him take
his last breath.The homeowner dropped the shells, bent to pick them up, saw the
younger negro cradle the dead man's head in his lap. The boy began to
shake, he started to sob, then moan in between broken breaths. The
shooter began to cry, his wife appeared behind the screen door. She saw
the paddy wagon pull onto the lawn. She saw the doors open, the
uniformed men step out, start walking towards the porch, slapping their
nightsticks in the palms of their hands.
Saturday, 04 July 2009
-
A minor Blues, Chapter IV
CHAPTER IV
"But where were the black people? Ain't no town in the south, not today,
not ever, that lacked a colored section, a shinetown. It was a good
show, but Mayberry was a white man's fantasy, is all I'm sayin'."If one had to be arrested, there were worse places to do time than
Audie's front porch, where the two new friends had settled after a fine
dinner of red beans and rice, pork chops, and fresh-picked greens. The
men had graduated to Kentucky bourbon, Jack's with a splash of water,
Audie's darkened with cola. The current topic of discussion was one of
many the two had started, one blending into the next.Sherry, Audie's wife, an ample and handsome woman, clearly enjoyed the
company. Jack's presence was a respite from the emptiness of the nest
since their only child, a son, had left for basic training a few weeks
earlier. Of course Sherry had shown off his graduation photos. He was
clearly a Boulware, maybe a little less stocky.They were sipping the whiskey, respectful of its power, enjoying its
smoothness. Jack was feeling as good as he ever had, and suggested he
might move to Euclidean, become Barney Fife to Audie's Sheriff Taylor,
After his sentence was up, that is. Obviously, Audie had honed his
opinion of the Andy Griffith Show over the years, and Jack's reference
was his cue to deliver it."I remember one episode," Jack replied, "That had a black guy in it."
"Yeah, he was passin' through Mayberry, I remember that one. All I'd
ever do in that cracker town". That seemed exceedingly funny to both
men, and Sherry poked her head out the door to see what was so funny.
She had changed clothes, and looked ready to go somewhere.Jack conceded. "Okay, you aren't Andy. I'm not Barney, and Sherry is
much prettier than ol' Aunt Bea.""Well, you just come for dinner any time, handsome. Honey, we are still
goin' to Leon's?" It was a question, and not, at the same time."Yes, yes, my sweet magnolia." Audie's W.C. Fields was, though
recognizable enough, atrocious. "Jack, for your benefit, I am initiating
a program of rehabilitation, starting with some community service. You
may find the following coupla' hours useful as background in your
current endeavor as well."Jack was up for anything. "What have you got in mind? And, by the way,
outside of hassling tourists, do you ever do any police work?""Matter of fact, insolent one, this is an investigation in progress on
which we will soon embark. "Leon Whittington, a cousin of Sherry's
Momma, has been rumored to operate an unlicensed establishment, at which
liquor is served in copious amounts, and people smoke, drink and dance
with abandon." Audie heaved his bulk out of the rocker, slapped Jack on
the shoulder and his wife on the rump as he walked past them into the
house. "Go take a shower while I get my uniform on, you white people
have a funny smell."
---------------------------------------------"This is a pre-fab home", Audie shouted into Jack's ear. "The owner
finishes the interior after the builder erects the exterior and roofs
it. I wish I could have seen the fellow's face when Leon asked him to
save the sawdust."Jack chuckled appreciatively. All Leon had finished was the bar and the
bathrooms, He had added no interior walls, just a post here and there to
support the roof and the occasional patron. The bar ran most of the
south side of the structure, stopping at the restrooms. The band was set
up on a foot-high platform 10 foot deep and 15 foot wide. There was
seating for 20-25 people, including the barstools, two of which Jack and
Audie occupied. Sherry was at one of the tables with some girlfriends.
The rest of the building's floor space was devoted to dancing, and one
more person could not have been shoehorned onto it without committing
an act of frottage. As it was, some of the dancers appeared to be
flagrantly delicting without a thought as to who might care."I wanna know how in the hell Leon got R.L. Burnside to play in his
gin joint to begin with." Jack noticed, too late, that the music had
stopped when he was halfway through the remark. Several faces turned in
his direction, none white, none friendly. From the stage, R.L., one of
the last of the Delta-style blues artists, spoke into his microphone.
"Go on and tell him, Sheriff. It's okay deppity, I remember my first
beer."Jack turned suitably red in the face, pointed at his drink, waved his
hand as if swearing off booze forever. This got the crowd laughing with
him, not at him anymore. From behind the bar, Leon said, "No one takes
the pledge in my place of business.", and poured Jack another shot of
Glenmorangie. People returned to their tables, forgot about the
Sheriff's strange choice of drinking companions. "Besides", Leon
continued, "I opened this bottle just for you, and I'll never get another
customer with such distinguished taste in single-malts. It gets drunk
tonight or I have to finish it before it goes stale.""Leon here did a stretch with RL, Jack. A long time ago. Mr. Burnside
plays here when schedule and proximity allow."Jack was familiar with Burnsides' music. He also knew that the bluesman
had done time for murder. He remembered a quote attributed to RL years
after his release. "I didn't mean to kill nobody...I just meant to shoot
the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord.""Ten years my junior, and Leon here schooled me, kept me alive in that
place." R L had come up behind Jack while Audie and Leon were talking.
"Didn't even ask for no booty, not that he would've got any.""Shit, them hard boys din't ask, they took." This was Leon weighing in.
The two old friends punched each other, fairly hard, too, and Leon made
his way down the bar, filling some glasses, denying more to others whose
bearers had clearly reached their limit."Mr. Moonlight here is on Spoondog's trail, RL.", Sheriff Boulware
informed him.RL cocked an eyebrow. "How many cemeteries have you checked out?"
"One so far.", Jack answered. "I couldn't get permission to visit
Cummins.""Can't say you want to, son. A bad place now, worse back in the day."
Burnside paused, looked Jack through and through, measured him, and came
to some internal decision. "You stayin' for the last set?", he asked.Jack looked at Audie, who nodded in the affirmative. "To serve and
protect, Mr. Burnside.""I know someone who might know something. Come see me after the set, we
can talk while the boys pack up." He looked at his watch. "Time to round
up the band, gents. Get them to playin' for y'all, before they get too
stoned and forget how." The elder Delta statesman shook Jack's hand,
then Audie's, and headed for the back door. Jack watched him go,
thrilled as a girl who got to kiss Elvis. He noticed a few people in the
place looking at him, but when he made eye contact, they nodded or
smiled. Getting chatted up by Leon, Boulware, and Burnside had earned
him some cachet. It was a good feeling, a good night all around.Just then a man came up to Audie and told him there was a fight out in
the front yard. Audie excused himself quickly. "Got po-lice work to do,
Jack. Have fun, I may haveta take somebody to the hoosegow or the
hospital.""I'll go with you", Jack offered.
"No", Audie said over his shoulder. "Low profile, whitebread." And he
strode out the door, shifting to cop mode as he went.Leon came over with the bottle, but Jack put his hand over his glass.
Leon understood, he knew Jack was looking to lose his buzz so he wouldn't
look a fool in front of RL later. He gave Jack a coke instead, and then
went over to the bandstand. Leon pulled the mike close to his lips.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. He's got time for one more set, and he promises
you that it will be a doozy. Welcome back the Last of the Delta
Bluesmen, Mr. R. L. Burnside and the Sound Machine!"The applause was quickly drowned out as The band struck up Burnside's
best known song outside of Mississippi, "It's Bad, You Know", and
couples began filing out onto the dance floor. Sherry walked over to
Jack, grabbed him by the hand, and practically pulled him off the stool.
"Looks like my date left me, handsome. Shall we dance?""Sure thing, babe. I cut a mean moonwalk."
"Don't you dare moonwalk, Mr. Moon-light." But she was laughing. They
found a reasonably unpopulated space, and began to dance.
The room was still spinning a bit. Jack was feeling good, just loose
enough to get into the groove. Tentative at first, he watched the other
dancers for pointers, and then went to work. Bobbing and weaving,
counter-pointing Sherry's steps, he got a smile from RL as he sang, "My
baby asked me why. I done went and tol'her. My baby asked me why..."
When the song ended, they went straight into Willie Dixon's "Wang Dang
Doodle". Some in the crowd just bobbed in time to the music, in front of
the bandstand. They joined in when RL when got to the lines, "We gonna
romp and stomp til midnight, we gonna fuss and fight til daylight".Jack whooped, and did his Michael Jackson. He pulled it off, and Sherry
laughed in spite of herself. She turned her back on Jack, and did a rump
twitch that sent one cheek skyward, then the other. "You could beat a
drum with that junk, lady.", Jack yelled in her ear. The band slowed
down the tempo with a song about a girl named Mattie. Leon cut in on
Jack, took his cousin in his arms. Leon's barback, a girl named
Coquetta, joined Jack, and they swayed in time. Jack could feel the
sweat soaking through her shirt as his hand on her back guided them in a
circle. After the song, she kissed his cheek and went back behind the
bar. He was in love with her until another gal grabbed his arm, and the
bassline to "Let My Baby Ride" got the sawdust on the floor to shaking.Audie walked back in. Jack saw dirt-stains and mud on his shirt, but
Audie gave him a thumbs-up. Sherry went to her husband, visibly fussing
over the mess. They conversed, and Audie let Jack know with hand signals
that they would be back to get him after a change of clothes.The set ended with a medley from Burnside's "Ass Pocket Full of
Whiskey" album. "This one is for my new friend Curious Jack," He
announced, referring to Jack's faux pas earlier. Jack wasn't ready to
stop boogeying, but too soon the music ended, the house lights
brightened the room and Burnside was callingJack over. "Got a pen?",
He asked the star-struck gumshoe. "Good. Let'sget in the van, turn up the
air. Goddam, its hot."
When Jack walked back in, the place was almost empty. Leon and Coquetta
were cleaning up, and Jack had the first solid lead so far in the case.
He jumped on a stool, Leon took the time to pour five fingers for Jack,
who then proceeded to drink and chat up Coquetta until Audie yelled at
him from the doorway. Coquetta gave what even a drunk would know was
a "nice try" look, and he stumbled off towards the front door.In the car on the way back home, Audie was finishing up his story about
turning a knife back on some drunken fool. He had waited for the
ambulance to take the victim to County Hospital before he and Sherry
came back for their guest."Don't Leon ever get in trouble with the neighbors?"
"Hell Jack, that was a slap fight, the shit outside of Leon's. "We
weren't halfway to the house when I got the call about trouble at the
honky-tonk 'cross town. "You crackers cut each other up more'n we do.
Never did get my shirt changed, something a sober de-tective might have
de-tected."He looked back in the rear seat. Jack had passed out."Sherry, he throws up in my car, he's sleepin' on the lawn, hear me?"
Friday, 03 July 2009
-
We Interrupt This Novel...
In a strategic move that has taken her enemies off-guard, Sarah Palin is resigning as Governor of Alaska. As a former resident of the state (1958-1960), I am privy to information that many lack. There were many reasons for the Governor-not-to-be's decision, so I have been told by sources, and here are...
THE TOP TEN REASONS SARAH PALIN IS QUITTING HER JOB AS GOVERNOR OF ALASKA
1) She is taking a job at that turkey-processing plant.
2)Wants to get her own TV show, "I'm A Governor, Get Me Outta Here!"
3)She wants to spend more time shooting animals from aircraft with her children.
4) Bristol is dropping the baby off all the time. Who has time to govern?
5)Is seeking Carrie Prejean's spot as Miss California.
6)Realized that wasn't Russia she could see from her house, it was a Russian Orthodox Church, and she has the grace to be embarrassed.
7)The check for the pipeline deal cleared, wants to spend time shopping.
8)I can't think of any more reasons...I quit! -
A Minor Blues, Chapter III
FRIDAY NIGHT, September 6, 1935
"He's got strength and and one hard head, that's all. You got the speed
and the stamina, son. Wear him down, stay away from that right, watch
when he tucks his left arm in close to his chest, that's when he's gonna try
a roundhouse like the one that split your cheek". Grandy struck the cowbell,
signaling the start of round six, and Delano bounced out of his chair.
In the opposite corner, Horace Boulware did the same, a little less
bounce, a little more deliberation. He came at Delano at an angle,
protecting his punished left side. Out of the corner of his eye, at the
edge of the crowd, Delano saw Angela Beauchamp, the reason for tonight's
festivities.Spoonbill saw where his young partner was looking. He yelled out,
"Fight now, pussy later!" Horace charged, Delano dodged, took a hit on
his upper arm, then tagged Horace in his pained left side. It was a solid hit,
and Horace staggered. Delano pressed his advantage, repeated the blow.
Horace dropped his guard, and Delano pasted a right on the bigger boy's mouth.The crowd roared when they saw the blood, even the two deputies who had
happened on the scene were cheering Delano on now. A sprinkle of dust
fell from the rafters of the barn, mixing with the smoke-filled air.
Horace spit out a tooth, his eyes started to regain their focus. Delano
almost hated to do it, but Angela's lips were waiting, along with the
rest of her fine black body. He layed a right against Horace's ear, and
the big boy went down.
"Spoondog! Spoondog!" To Delano's ears, the hated nickname never sounded
so good. He raised his arms triumphantly, got locked in an embrace by
Spoonbill, then lifted up onto two sets of shoulders, from where he could see
Angela cradling Horace's head in her bare arms. She didn't spare a
glance for the victor, for whom she was supposed to be the spoils. His
supporters turned him around, and he saw the deputies ushering a white
boy out of the barn. It was Frank, Doc Hatton's boy. Spun around again,
he saw Horace getting helped to his feet, looking lost. Angela gave
Delano a look as if he had just slapped her Grandma. Delano was let down
to his feet, but nowhere near as fast as his heart had been."You should have seen yourself, boy. Jack Johnson would be proud of
you." Spoonbill had seen the reversal of fortune as well. He gave Delano
a drink from his flask. The crowd was calming down, some were settling
their debts, others were denying theirs. As soon as the deputies left,
there was bound to be more fighting, and more work for Doc Hatton in the
morning. Spoonbill dabbed at Delano's cheek with an iodine-soaked
kerchief.
"There's other women, son. Look at Shondelle over there giving you a
once-over. She respects a winner. Get cleaned up, I'll keep her busy
till you get dressed."
Delano shook Spoonbill's hand off his shoulder, walked outside, ignoring
the congratulations of the men in his wake. It was a hot humid night,
but cooler out here by about ten degrees than inside Gandy's barn. He
didn't want Shondelle, who was at least five years older than him, and
used one time or another by most everybody in the barn, including the
deputies."You smoke?" It was the Hatton boy, come out of the shadows, offering
him a cigarette from the pack in his hand. Silently, Delano took it ,
thanked him. Frank lit it for him, one for himself. They stood there
for a minute. Frank broke the silence. "You sure were good in there,
Spoondog."
"Better'n Horace was all I had to be. That ain't no big thing".
"Shit, you looked like Joe Louis in there, knocking out Primo Carnera two
months ago. Same number of rounds, too. ""How you know I looked like Joe?"
"I seen him in the newsreels. At the movie house in Picayune". That guy
with the nose taught you to fight?"
Movie house. Picayune. Delano had never seen either. They were from two
different worlds, him and Frank. He had only read about other places,
never seen an ocean. He knew Frank and family had just come back from
Biloxi after a two-week stay on the beach. Frank was still a white boy,
but his face had a little color now anyway."Yeah, what he knows, anyhow. He boxed some in the army. In France."
He said the name of that mythical country as nonchalantly as possible.
"When he wasn't consorting with French women, he was fighting.""Are they different? White women and Negro women?"
"Shit, I don't know. Spoonbill says they all pink inside." They both
laughed when this worldly observation caused Frank a choking fit.Spoonbill appeared out of nowhere. "This ain't good, young Frank. Your
Daddy will tan the rest of you, finds out out you been hangin' with the
coloreds."
"I just hope the deputies don't say nuthin'. I know your people won't."
Spoonbill nodded agreement. The blacks probably knew the family trees
of the town's whites better the whites themselves, most of whom couldn't
be bothered to learn colored folks names, much less who was kin to
who. And blacks sure didn't share gossip with anyone not of color."No, we won't. But you best run along anyhow."
"Could you teach me to box like that, Mr...."
"Spoonbill is fine, son. I'm used to it. And what would Doc Hatton say to
that?"
He doesn't pay much attention to what I do. As long as my grades are
good, he wouldn't notice if both my eyes were swelled shut.""Spoondog here needs a sparring partner, one who cain't hurt him none.
Right now, you fit that bill". Spoonbill said with a laugh and a long pull
from his flask. Want some?"Frank took the flask, started to wipe the rim. Aware of both Spoons
looking at him, he put it straight to his lips and took too big a sip.
Gagging and choking back tears, he passed the hootch to Delano."Was it the whiskey made you gag?" Spoonbill teased, "Or the nigger
spit?'"Both", Frank replied, getting a laugh from Spoonbill and a playful
punch from Delano."Okay, you get up tomorrow morning before church, and every day 'fore
school next week, you run to that lake of yours, and back. Every day,
you run that stretch. Then on Saturday, meet me an' Spoondog here at the
barn. We'll see what we can do wit' you. One more thing", The older man
said as he plucked the pack of Lucky Strikes from Frank's shirt pocket.
"That was your last cigarette, for both of you. Hear me?"
---------------------------------------------------
Jack finished his pulled pork sandwich, chased it with a long swallow of
beer from the plastic glass, and listened to Audie Boulware wrap up the
tale of his uncle's fight with Spoondog.
"He married Aunt Angela, they had three kids, a bunch of grandchil'ren,
he still dwells on that fight to this day.""So I know now why he dislikes Spoondog, I guess. Doesn't explain why he
rejects the possibility that the man didn't fake his death somehow."Jack had met Audie when he limped into town, the Grand Prix starting and
stopping as the last of the gas sloshed in and out of the fuel pump. He
saw the resemblance between the proprieter of the town's only service
station and Horace, even with the thirty-five year age difference. The
round face, widow's peak hairline, wide shoulders, thick fingers, were all
giveaways. For his part, Audie was curious about a white man that
could pick out black kin. He was even more curious about Jack's quest,
which prompted the meal at Ace's Up B-B-Q, on Melissa's nickel. Now they
were on their second pitcher and Jack's second sandwich, the big man's
third."Wishful thinkin', I guess, Jack. Hell, I've heard people say that they have
seen Spoon since then. And then there's the rumor about some record he
made in '53 or '54."Jack hadn't heard these rumors. "What was the name? Any idea?" Audie
replied while topping off both cups. "Don't know the name, don't know
the label, just heard tell it was his best ever."That was a low bar, Jack thought to himself. He changed the subject.
"What about his kin? Any left around here?""Never was none but his Mama's stepsister. No one knew who the Daddy
was, his Mama died birthing him. All the aunt did for him was give him a
last name and a bed. All this is before my time. I heard stuff as a kid
from Uncle Horace, and old man Grandy before he died. I remember hearing
how Delano was smarter than the teacher the state sent to town to teach
us Negroes how lucky we were."It was Audie's turn to ask a question. "I guess he's alive, you say he
sent a letter to Doc Hatton's boy. Here it is, 2000. That makes him
eighty, eighty-one. Where do you suppose he is? And how did he know
Frank had died?"Jack had wondered about that himself. "Maybe he's internet savvy, maybe
he and Frank stayed in touch. After all, he knew Melissa's married name
and address. I haven't got that angle figured out yet. I still have a Georgia
connection to check out. That P.O. box in Atlanta, and Spoon's big hit
was recorded in Augusta. I will be headed that way soon".Jack drained his cup and got to his feet, listed toward the restroom
sign, talking louder than he meant to as he went. "A matter of fact,
Brother Audie, I need to get goin', fin' me a motel."When he returned, he saw a fresh pitcher on the checkerclothed table,
which Audie was picking up with exaggerated care."Whoa, Br'er Audie! Thanks, but I've gotta hit the road, man. I'm
jailbait already.""Truer words never passed a pair of lips, son. Thusly, you are not driving
anywhere tonight." Audie set the pitcher down after filling both cups, a
commercial-perfect drip of foam running down the side of each."Sez who?"
"Sez br'er Sheriff, boy." Audie flashed the badge pinned inside his
wallet, then slid it back in his hip pocket. Now, sit down, and let's finish
this pitcher."
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
-
A MINOR BLUES, CHAPTER TWO
I got too much of nuthin', can't handle any more
I got too much of nuthin', can't handle any more
Now the sheriff wants to see me, he's a knockin' on my doorToo Much of Nuthin' --D. Partlow
Not a bad picker, Jack, thought, but Barney Fife could sing Spoondog
under a table. The pitch wavered, his voice cracked like a 13
year-old's, and there was little emotion to match the lyrics. The
tune itself was a standard blues, must be hundreds of songs like it.Jack pulled out the CD marked 'Spoondog', put in the one marked 'Field
Recordings, Clarksdale, MS., 1933'. He forwarded past 'Pick' Bayles-Got
a Solution, I Just need a Glass, past Jonah Wails' Wailin' Again Blues,
and let song #3, If Trouble Knew Me, by one William Geddie, play.If trouble knew me better, I wouldn't be in chains
If trouble knew me better, she wouldn't cause me so much pain
Once trouble gets to know me, I think we could be friendsI never looked for trouble, it just seeks me out
I never looked for trouble, but trouble's all about
I swam in trouble's waters, and got hooked like a troutOh trouble, why do you do me so doggone mean?
You and luck gang up on me, I got nobody on my team
Cut me some slack, trouble,give me a another chance
I wish I'd never met you, I wish I'd stayed in FranceAs bad as the recording was, probably done in a cotton field, Jack could
feel Spoonbill's pain, his weariness, his longing for a better place.Two days Jack had spent in the library in Hattiesburg. There he had
found a treasure trove of information, which is how he had learned of
Delano's mentor/father-figure. The historian had let him burn some songs
and interviews onto several discs. He had even found a photograph of the
two, Geddie (no mistaking that nose) playing guitar, and Delano, maybe
nine or ten, dancing. Both were smiling as a well-dressed black man
dropped a coin into the open guitar case. There were several whites in
the crowd, including a young boy about Delano's age.
------------------------------------------------October 19, 1930
Hey boy look at your shirt
It done got smeared wit' Miss'ippi dirt
Hey boy, where's your shoes
gon' blister dem feet, dancin' dese bluesDelano sang his part
Dat's okay Spoon, I don' care
feels so good i'se walkin' on airIt was a good day. They were back in Euclidean, after working the cotton
fields up towards Kosciusko. Sheriff Tully was nowhere to be seen, the
October air was cool, even at three in the afternoon. The after-church
crowd was feeling generous. There was even a yankee photographer there
taking pictures as they performed. Spoonbill was glad he had relented,
and let the boy sing some. In spite of, or maybe because of his atonal
voice, people were charmed. Their tips had near about doubled
wherever they played of late.
Reverend Martin threw a quarter into Spoonbill's guitar case. It
bounced once, and disappeared into a tear in the lining. A crumpled
dollar followed. Spoonbill followed the dollar's arc back to the hand
from which it was thrown. It was Frank Hatton's hand. The boy never said
much, but he was always good for a buck or two of his daddy's money.
More changed clinked and rattled in the case. It was raining money."Bless you, young man. Thank you sir. Ma'am, thank you so much. Boy! Say
Thank you, like I schooled you." On cue, Delano said, "Thank you, like I
schooled you". The crowd laughed. From the edge of the gathering, Grandy
remarked, "Lookee dere, Spoon's dog lernt a new trick". Another round of
laughter. Spoonbill started picking out an old 'track lining' song he'd
learned on the work farm. It was a good day.-------------------------------------------
Jack hit the pause button, started to talk, then decided to wait until
the road straightened long enough to pass the tractor in front of him.
The green-and-yellow behemoth had kept him below thirty for the last ten
minutes. He got his chance and hit the rented Grand Prix's accelerator,
felt that satisfying push of G-force pressing him into the seat, and glided
around the International Harvester, the chains on the discing attachment
rattling as the old machine bounced down the road. Money was no object,
she had said, she being one Melissa Harshbarger, his client du jour. Du
month, actually. Jack had figured when he talked to her earlier, with
his latest progress report, she might be inclined to call him off the
case. Happily, she was still willing to spend her estranged hubby's
money on this snipe hunt, this search for a secular grail.Jack had called his client an hour ago, while there was still a tower to
receive his signal. He explained to her his doubts about the likelihood
of Partlow's residing under the oak trees of Upper Pulaski County."The guy I talked to said it was a closed casket ceremony, naturally. No
relatives, no friends, just a minister and two mourners from the local
A.M.E. church. The cemetery records were destroyed several years ago. I
couldn't find any mention in the archives of the town paper, and no
coroner's report." I did find a death certificate, unsigned, at the
County Hospital, no attending doctor or administrator mentioned. Cause
of death was listed as accidental burning." He listened for a moment. "I
agree, Ms. Harshbarger, one man dying two deaths by fire is weird.
Sorry, Melissa it will be. Yes, I am on my way there now. I will call
you once I find out anything either way. You too, Melissa. Good day."Jack tried to picture Melissa as they talked. He saw her sitting at the
same barstool, swirling a swizzle stick in a cocktail glass as he gave
her his latest report. A green sundress to match her eyes, emerald
earrings. Open-toed sandals with glittery stuff on the straps. He
wondered if she was handling the break-up of her marriage well, if they
might get to have another drink together....
THREE WEEKS EARLIER....Jack had seen nicer houses, but never from an interior vantage point.
The foyer was as big as his office, the living room as big as his parent's
yard. As Mrs. Harshbarger walked across the marble floor to greet him,
the sound of her footsteps echoed off the walls and the three-story
ceiling. The maid who had let him in disappeared without a sound. "Gotta
be the shoes.", Jack thought inanely."Mr. Moonlight, I'm Melissa Harshbarger. I'm so glad you could come on
such short notice." Jack took the proffered hand, which could have been
designed by Fabergé, in his, which in comparison could have been one
tossed aside by Dr. Frankenstein.Jack looked around once more before replying, "No problem at all. I
never miss a chance to play a little handball."Her laugh was spontaneous and unaffected. "Father had mentioned you
were a bit of a smart-ass. I see he had you pegged.""I'm sorry. Did I know your Father?"
"You testified in a case in which he was a defendant. Westberry v.
Hatton. Apparently, it was your testimony that cost him quite a sum."Jack remembered the case. It was actually Westberry v. Hatton, et.al.
One of the et als was Puma Pharmaceutical Sales, and they had sold Dr.
Hatton a batch of Mexican knock-offs of a cancer drug that were of
insufficient dosage. Jack had been hired by the plaintiff's lawyer to
follow the paper trail back to Mexico, and prove the drugs were not part
of a legitimate shipment. He had done so, and when he testified, the
defense tried to discredit him by bringing up Jack's predilection for
wagering on the horses. Not only did Jack fail to be discomfited, he
knew for a fact that the lawyer questioning him used the same bookie.
When Jack mentioned that fact, plus the name of the horse, Fairweather's
Friend, on which they had both lost a bundle, the poor guy was
visibly shaken. When Jack got dismissed, he asked audibly if the
rattled attorney had heard any good tips lately. The courtroom burst
into laughter, except for the defense table and the judge, who pounded
his gavel and got the proceedings back on track. But it was over. Two
Puma executives went to jail, and Dr. Hatton, though cleared of criminal
liability, was found negligent, culpable and several other expensive
words.Later, in the cafeteria, Judge Hammell thanked Jack for giving him a
chance to bang the gavel. "But don't give me another in my courtroom,
understand?"
"So why recommend me?", Jack asked his prospective client. "I wasn't
that funny."Again with the laugh. "Father said if I ever needed a good PI, to call
you. He said you followed the trail that his lawyer's investigators
could not. Had they done their job, there would have been a settlement
reached out of court, less embarassment, and much less costly." A little
glow left her face as she continued. "Father died two weeks ago. And now
I find myself in need of your services. Come with me, please."Jack followed her into a den of sorts. He wasn't sure of all the names
rich people used for rooms that the unwashed rabble had no need for. But
there was a bar, and Jack was waved toward a pair of stools. He took
one, and checked out the single-malt selection while Mrs. Harshbarger
settled her sophisticated self into the other. She slid a letter in his
direction, indicating that Jack should read it."Sorry for your loss of your Father. I have lost a good friend. I would not
be writing this had Dr. Hatton not saved my life. More to follow.Yours sincerely,
Delano, although your father may have referred to me as
Spoondog."Jack looked at the return address. Atlanta, Georgia. A P.O. box.
He looked at the postmark. Hattiesburg, Ms. He looked at Mrs.
Harshbarger."Has more indeed followed, Mrs. Harshbarger ?
"Please. Call me Melissa. I am divorcing, and will be taking my name
back. And no, more has not followed.""Who, or what is Spoondog?"
"A dead man, Mr. Moonlight. That much I know. Or thought I did."
And she explained that her Father had known the struggling musician
since childhood. That they had met once or twice over the years. Dr.
Hatton had told his daughter little, except that in some way, he owed
the man more than he could ever repay."Once Father cried, Jack, when he was talking about Delano. He was drunk,
which was a rare enough occurrence, and said that we all owed this man.
He never explained what he meant, and he never mentioned him again.""And he's dead, or presumed so."
She held up three fingers. "Three times he's died. The last time
declared so by my Father. That was in 1955. I wrote to the Atlanta
address. The account had been closed.""What do you want from me, Melissa?"
"Find him, Jack. Money is not an issue. I want some answers, and I
can afford to get them."Jack was intrigued, and also thirsty. He looked at the bottles lined up
so beautifully, soldiers with their buttons polished, shoes shined,
ready for inspection, willing to die for the cause, whatever it was. "
Shall we seal the deal over a drink?"
-----------------------------------
Jack's audience was good at listening, but not much on feedback, so he
put the recorder back in his shirt pocket, and gathered his thoughts.
Spoondog was Euclidean's only celebrity, due to his one hit, "What's My
Name?", an upbeat boogie recorded live somewhere in Georgia. Jack
figured Spoon's fame might have cemented otherwise forgotten facts of
his life in the minds of some of the older residents of the small town.
The sign was so small Jack almost missed the turn. No 'Welcome to
Euclidean', Home of the Least of the Delta Blues Singers. No 'Voted Best
Barbecue south of Memphis' sign. Just 'euclidean 12 miles' on a post
that pointed ambiguously toward either of two forks in the road.
Furthermore, there was no gas station, nor a promise of one in either
direction. Jack had passed the last chance for gas a good 45 minutes
earlier, as the needle dropped under the quarter-full mark. Maybe a more
economical, less fun car would have been the choice of a more
economical, less immature private eye.
----------------------------------------------
Sunday, 28 June 2009
-
A Minor Blues, Chapter 1
Someone has to write my first novel, it may as well be me. This idea has been fermenting in my brain for a couple of years. It is now either ripe or rotten, but that is for my readers to say. A single-sentence synopsis might read as follows: A dedicated but mediocre musician records the greatest album never released. Or: Jack gets paid to eat barbecue and listen to the blues. Nice work if you can get it.
"Everybody hits at least one home run. No matter what the game is, you
hear me? The thing is, you gotta play all the time. Cause sure as shit,
you ain't gonna be lucky and show up only on the nights you shine."--
Delano 'Spoondog' PartlowConvict #126578, Delano Partlow, NMI. Aliases- Spoondog, Spoon, Spoonboy,
Roosevelt, Tiger. b. 1919, d. April 19, 1941. Served 7 months of a
12-year sentence for B&E of a private residence. Burned BR in kitchen
fire. Buried in pauper's grave on grounds.--from the archives of the
Arkansas State Prison at Cummins, AK"Although slightly out of tune and a bit derivative, Spoondog and the
Dogmen's infectious enthusiasm woke up the crowd and got them ready for
the main attraction. Yes, it was definitely Muddy's night...." from a
music review in The Tunica Weekly News, Monday, January 27, 1948"You want me to find a guy who's died three times, the last time over
thirty years ago? And yet sent you a sympathy card when your Father
passed last month? It's your money, honey. Drink? I sling a mean
singapore." -- Jack Moonlight
--------------------------------------------------"This is it?" Jack swatted a mosquito on his left hand with the notebook
in his right. The little fellow had been in the middle of lunch; now Jack had
to switch hands , hold the notebook in his left hand, while he fumbled
for the napkin he had saved from his own last meal at Lucky's Juke Joint
& BBQ Emporium. He wiped his patron's bloody remains off his hand as
Horace answered seriously Jack's rhetorical question."S'wat the headstone say, don' it? 'Sides, I helped dig the grave.",
Horace said, with a note of pride in his voice.Jack filed Horace's obvious dislike of D. Partlow, 1919-1952 in his
medium-term memory banks as he looked around. The Negro Cemetery of Upper
Pulaski County had its own entrance, on a road that led from the highway
to nowhere else but a true dead-end. Here, as opposed to the white
graveyard which it abutted, live-oaks and magnolias had been allowed to
grow tall and wide. The shade touched nearly every grave at least part
of the day. On their way back here, in a battery-powered cart driven by
Horace, Jack had seen a white burial in process. The handkerchiefs were
wet with sweat, not tears. The cart was quiet enough that the preacher's
platitudes reached Jack's ears, as did his pause when a big rig gunned
its engines on the highway that was certainly not foreseen when the
graveyard was originally divided along color lines. It was peaceful,
restful even, back here under the trees. Jack had no trouble hearing
Horace Boulware's recitation of the deceased's faults."...not that good a musician, couldn't sing worth a damn, 'less you
count screamin' and moanin', that Howlin' Wolf garbage. Still, the gals loved
him. Why, even when we were kids..."
------------------------------------------Euclidean, Mississippi, July, 1929"Hey Spoonbill! Yo' dog's followin' another trail". The old negroes on
the porch of Mattie's store variously laughed, coughed, or slapped
their knees at Grandy's witticism.William "Spoonbill" Geddie turned and looked at the boy carrying his
guitar. He was holding it like a growed man, slapping the strings,
eliciting a delighted laugh from a young light-skinned girl, pretty in
her braids and a pink dress."C'mon, dog. We got places to be.""Shawna Mae, see you around." Delano ran and caught up with his mentor."She likes me, Spoon. She was smilin' big and pretty.""She was laughin' at you, boy, you thinkin' you can play that guitar
already.""Maybe she was laughin' at your nose."Spoonbill unconsciously reached up and rubbed what had been a
proper proboscis before it was flattened by a jailer's boot a few years back.
Untreated, the cartilage had hardened with an inward curve and a
depression above the nostrils, which now slanted out to the sides,
looking for all the world like a chinaman's eyes."That mouth gonna get you a funny nose one day, boy. Now keep up, and
don't be letting the strap drag on the ground."Spoonbill was proud of his strap, with its American flag motif. He found
it in a shop in Poitier, France, where Negro soldiers were allowed in
all the stores, could walk in the front entrance like a man, tip their
campaign hats to the mam'selles. Why, they could even look the ladies
straight in the eye, if that was what you wanted to look at, that is. As
many french gals touched black skin for the first time in those
years as members of his own 25th Infantry did the same with white
skin. Several men in his company stayed in France after the war to touch
more, and to live as equals, a privilege denied them in the country of their birth,
the country many friends had died for. William wished sometimes that he had done
the same, and got to talking about it to little Delano when he'd had a few."We gotta burn it if touches the ground, like the flag?", the boy asked."Burn you, boy. That's what we gon' do, you let it drag.""I won't. We goin' to the park, Spoon?""Yessuh, pup. I'm gon' play, you gon' dance, and we'll make a couple
dollars before Sheriff Tully says move on. Then off to Uncle Whitey's
to get a bottle of hooch for me, and I'll give you a nickel so's you can
run back to Mattie's, get a Barq's. You can split it with little Shawna
Mae."A car cruising by, one of the few in town, caught Delano's attention. It
was Dr Hatton's 1925 Model T, the Open Tourer. The Doc was taking his
kids to the lake for the day. His boy grinned shyly at Delano from the
back seat. Delano grinned back, gave a little wave. He didn't know the
white boy's first name. Doctor Hatton treated sick black folk on
Tuesdays, and stitched up black knife-wounds on Saturday mornings when
need be. But he wouldn't let his young-uns mix with Negroes, not even a
little. Delano accepted this as just the way things were."Spoon? I'm gon' have me a car like that someday.""Yeah boy. Prob'ly be that same car, after it's rusted up and the
seats are worn to the springs.""You think I could get two nickels, Spoon? Shawna Mae might be thirsty
'nuff to want her own cola.""We'll see. You dance real good, promise not to sing along, I might give
you a quarter. Then you can buy a magazine, do all that readin' you like
so much.""Why can't I sing?""'Cause you cain't, boy.", Spoonbill sighed. " 'Cause you cain't".
Thursday, 25 June 2009
-
AT HOME, WORK, AND PLAY
A Picture from Home...A picture from work....
A most curious navigation aid. Actually, the smiley-face
marks the location of a sturdy cleat to which we can tie
off the tow while we wait weather, or if there is a long
delay at Industrial Locks. The bushes and a subsequently
laid rock revetment have hidden the cleat from view,
and an enterprising deckhand painted the ubiquitous
symbol years ago. Nowadays the face gets updated
by persons unknown whenever it starts to fade.And that leaves playtime pics
No Country For Trepid Men
Last Saturday, five of us dared the the tepid waters of Depot Creek, in search of Indian relics at a dig abandoned by the University of Florida. The average age of our intrepid crew was 56. The heat index was close to double that figure on the Farenheit scale.
Ken, one of our intrepid boatmen The soul of intrepidity
Ron, our other boatswain, who tends to the high end of the I-I (Intrepidity Index), was partnered with Ross, the least trepid of us all
Making landfall. Supposedly, there is an Indian mound several hundred yards inland.
We are here to ascertain, as intrepidly as possible, the veracity of said statement.
Ken bravely volunteered to stay behind to guard the boats and Lou's bottle of Rebel Yell.
Into the Heart of Darkitude we go.The mound itself was a silly place, not intrepid-worthy at all. It was 130 yards long by 50-60 feet wide, consisting of clam and mussel shells, maybe 5 feet higher than the surrounding swamp. Ross found the only Indian relic, a piece of pottery with intersecting horizontal and vertical lines etched into it prior to being fired. A foresting operation had been based on the mound in years past, and any archaeological value the site may have once had was gone.
At the de-briefing, it was agreed that
1) This dig was abandoned for good reasons,
2) It was still a fun trip and,
3) Rebel Yell is one fine Kentucky Bourbon; drunk straight from the bottle, it goes down smooth, is easy on the throat, with no afterburn.
Monday, 22 June 2009
-
The Health-Care Provider Will See You Now
(I'd Rather See) The Witch Doctor
(with apologies to David Seville, nee Ross Bagdasarian)
I asked to which doctor
am I allowed to go
A DVM from Pakistan,
so said my HMO
He was away, so his P.A.
attended to my woe.He said that
(Chorus)
You've not met your deductible
By cash or card, your bill is payable.
Checks are bad, c-notes acceptable,
Though we like smaller bills
Yes, yes, the pain's unbearable,
and it's theoretically treatable
if you're fiscally responsible,
Pay the bill, then get a pill .I inquired "Which, doctor,
credit or debit card?"
The P.A., well, he seemed to take
my sarcastic tone quite hard
"The doctor was called away today
by a grave emergency".He said that
(Chorus)
Doctor Satterjee was late, you see,
with this month's country club fees.
Also, he wanted to be
the first one off the tees.
(repeat)
Now you've been keeping care from me
and all of your other patients
like it's the gold a greedy miner hoards
We lose more time in waiting,
offered fewer and fewer treatments,
because less care is what an HMO rewards.It matters not to switch doctors
you call upon today
In the USA, the AMA
tells them all just what to say.
The time's nowhere near
that this land here
will switch to single-pay-er.(Chorus)
PPO's and HMO's and
Big Pharma company kickbacks,
the lobbyists for the AMA
are watching our MD backs.
We're organized, incomes are high
And accountants get our taxes back.
Unity is the golden key
and it's what the patients lack.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
-
Still Magnolias, Pelicans in Flight
I wish this was on my magnolia tree; I took the picture at a Florida Wayside Park on I-10This series of Pelican photos was taken in Mobile Bay last Wednesday
This pic may be a re-post; it was taken in the same area as the others, in what is
apparently a favorite fishing ground for the Brown Pelican (Pelicanus occidentalis).
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Our friend's in England have sent their son over to visit his kin. We are going for a hike on my favorite trail, at his request! Great kid
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Great TV viewing this A.M. watched Bernie Madoff walk into court. Hopefully his last steps as a free man.








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