Just Plain Folks

by Lorraine Johnson-Coleman

  Folks liked to call her his regular. He supposed “regular” was accurate enough, considering that when after all was said and done, he always somehow managed to end up right back to her. Now ’course, comin’ around every now and again for some occasional good loving was ’bout “regular” as it ever got, and ’bout regular as it was ever likely to be. He knew from the hopeful looks she threw his way that she would have preferred a more formal understanding, but he also knew deep down in his heart that would never be. He was fond of her, sure — after ten years of comfortable companionship he could freely admit to that much. From time to time he even missed her when she wasn’t near, but love had been his reality only once, and it had been for a woman who now lived in another place and another time. There was simply no looking back. He wasn’t sure he would even if he could.

  He looked longingly ’cross the hall. His daddy used to say that every town suplied its own women and its own opportunities; and now after years of drifting he knew that better than most. His woman back home wouldn’t like it — him messing around and all, but that was really too bad. She would have to just content herself with being “regular” and leave that other business for his tending to.

  He wondered if the woman ’cross the hall was one of those kind that would be looking for him to be somebody he wasn’t, and saying a whole lot of stuff he surely wouldn’t mean. If they did get together tonight, that was all that it would be, because tomorrow he would surely be gone to yet another place with its own beautiful women. He smiled as he thought of what Miss “Regular” would do if she found out about Miss “Tonight.” He’d seen that temper of hers — not too often, mind you, but enough to know that whenever it came around, it was best to get out of its way. The screaming and yelling weren’t too bad, but the minute her hands took hold of her hips, and her head started bobbing and weaving like something possessed, well, he made tracks to the nearest door. She’d told him once that if he cheated on her, he’d best to make hisself scarce ’cause she was going to take him clear on outta this world. He laughed and told her that wasn’t no woman ever gonna get the best of him so she’d best forget them crazy rantings and ravings. She didn’t like that though — commenced to rolling her eyes so ’til he thought they’d roll clear out of her head. Women! Lord, they were troublesome.

  He walked over to the bed intending to lay down easy, but instead found himself falling down hard, so hard that the punch almost sobered him — but, alas, no such luck, because soon he was once again floating happily in a gin-filled fog. The rain seemed to be stopping. He’d figured correctly that since it had started out as hard as it did, it probably wouldn’t last too long. He looked out the window again and noticed that the dreariness was already drying up. Now the night looked like one big lazy picture that seemed far, far away. It was as if he was one place and the rest of the world was another. How many times over the last couple of years had he done this? he wondered — laying around in dingy little rooms that would be home for the minute; disappearing from reality one gulp at a time and endlessly drifting between hunger pains and frustrated sighs.

  On the road they called him the Night Hawk. Like a loose and restless blackbird he haunted the nights with his sad, sad tunes. His music was his life, or maybe he played out his life in his music. Or maybe his music and his life had long ago merged into one long melancholy melody.

  He played for anybody who cared to listen. He didn’t need anything more than a place to sit, the guitar he called Indigo, and an invitation. Sometimes he didn’t wait for the invitation. Once, he tried desperately to silence the madness, vowing never ever to play again, but that didn’t last long. Somehow or another the demon had gotten free again. After that he kept his music closer to him, nestled nearer to his gut, unleashing pieces of it slow and easy. Folks listening to him always said that when he played, it was like somebody dishing out something strong and sweet one spoonful at a time. He would eventually satisfy your hunger, but he never quite emptied his pot. He always held something back. Maybe it was that special portion that was supposed to be only his.

  He wondered what it would be like to die. Would it be like this — a remote, dreary silence that seemed to go on and on — or would he finally be sucked into that abysmal black hole once and for all? He finished his glass of gin, tasting some and spilling most, and then sat the empty glass on the floor next to him. He was about to drift off to sleep when he heard a nightingale outside his window singing his little heart out. Poor little fellow, he thought. I know just how he feels.

  One Uppity Blues Woman

  The drink house was small, dark, smoky, and noisy. Still, people managed to chat happily with one another, and laughter rippled loudly throughout, assuring Mister Jim that people were indeed having a good time. A sea of moonshine was flowing about freely, and Mister Jim could see that his patrons were gloriously wading deep, deep into their cups. It was the same each and every night since he’d opened up his home twelve years ago to the wandering coloreds who roamed the nighttime hours looking for some company and maybe a little relief from the day-to-day hardships. There were now several other drink houses in town, but his was the hands-down favorite because at his place the drinks were strong, the good times were cheap, and the music was steaming hot.

  • • •

  In the back of the drink house sat a colored woman boldly admiring a handsome man at a table on the far side of the room. He was a pretty-colored brown (not too black, she didn’t even look at a man darker than brandy), and he was tall, she could tell that even though he was sitting down. He had on a tan straw hat cocked arrogantly to one side, so dangerously tilted that on a lesser man it would have surely fallen to the floor, but on this man it didn’t dare.

  He had a drink in his hand that he sipped slowly and carefully, kinda lazy and easy-like. A man who sipped that leisurely and tenderly would probably love a woman the same way, she thought. She was tempted to get up, cross on over, and plant herself right next to him, but she quickly realized that her liquor was already doing its job. It had completed the slow burn to her gut and was now pounding in her head but was at least dispensing its usual goodwill — that numbing kind of listlessness that prevents one from thinking too deeply, caring too much, or moving too quickly.

  She continued to stare, and eventually the force of her observation turned his head in her direction. They locked eyes for a minute and then smiled at one another. She issued a grin of invitation, one he obviously decided not to accept. Still, he nodded his head in polite appreciation, and damn it if that hat didn’t stay put. It was probably for the best, though, his saying no and all. She was still wearing the troubles from the last man, the burden of grief weighing heavily upon her like lead. Her lover was dead; a blues-singing man silenced forever more. This evening she would mourn her man in the only way she knew how.

  • • •

  Well, there was no doubt about it, the woman dazzling the crowd was as talented as everybody had said, and uglier than anybody could have imagined.

  People have different blues

  and I think they’re mighty sad,

  But the blues about a man

  the worst I’ve ever had,

  I get all disgusted and all confused

  Every time I look around, yonder comes the blues.

  Even the amber-glowing lanterns filling the place with soft, golden beauty did nothing to gentle her homeliness. She was short, and, mercy, she was fat too — real fat. Now, if Sister Minnie had been there, she would have insisted that a mite more polite description be used, like “smallish in stature and pleasingly plump.” Now, that may have sounded nicer to the ear, but it would in no way match up to the woman sashaying before her eyes. True, she was no more than five feet tall, but everything about her screamed big, too big really for just one woman. Her mama always said that everybody had their own beauty and it would eventually show itself if you waited long enough, but if there was something beautiful about this woman, it still hadn’t made an appearance and the
show was ’bout over.

  Now, if Little Boy Willy had been there, he would have looked at the unappealing face with the too-large features (a nose so wide it should have been made to carry a permit to travel clear ’cross her face the way it did, a big-lipped grin of oversized crooked gold teeth, luminous brown eyes that would make a spook owl envious, and all of it capped off with a wild, wiry mane that managed somehow or another to stand out in every direction at once). Well, Little Boy Willy would have just called a spade a spade and proclaimed with sound authority that the woman was just plain butt-ugly. Lucy Mae would have looked at all that greasepaint covering her face in an attempt to make the complexion underneath appear lighter, and she would have said loud enough for the dead to take notice, that “it don’t much matter how much you whitewash the pot, that black is still there.” Now, Miss Bessie would have probably been more discreet with her observations, preferring instead to cast shy, disdainful glances in the direction of the now wiggling, jiggling mass strutting across the stage, and Miss Bessie would have whispered for select ears only that “the woman was so fat her man probably had to grab hold of her on the installment plan.” ’Course, it would have been Jimmy who would have, as always, had to have the last word. “I declare that woman is so black, she could get a job with the government spitting ink.” But none of them folks were nowhere ’round.

  I’m a big fat mama

  and I got the meat shaking on my bones

  And every time I shake

  Some skinny gal gonna lose her home …

  The crowd roared with laughter, and obviously the men had managed to forge past the hopelessly unattractive exterior and must have found for themselves that elusive beauty her mama was talking about, because they now whistled appreciatively and watched her gracefully moving behind with flirtatious bedroom eyes. Ma Rainey was singing her heart out, and the colored woman watched in fascination. Ma Rainey always said that she sang her blues for the sisters because “the blues wasn’t nothing more than a good woman feeling bad,” and for the sad colored woman who mourned the loss of a soulful lover, Ma Rainey was telling the absolute truth.

  AFTERTHOUGHTS

  In the 1890s, several new musical forms arose in the black communities of the South. One of these new forms was the blues. Blues came directly from the rural communities, and the basic vocal material for early folk blues came from field hollers and work songs. Sharecroppers, hoping to escape the drudgery of life on worn-out tiny plots of farmland, watched with growing frustrations as their hopes were dashed time and time again, and put their dissatisfaction to music.

  During the 1890s, most show songs were humorous, sentimental, or tragic, often depicting strong nostalgia or romantic love, but blues was different. Although blues spoke freely on the complex relationships between men and women, it did not avoid subjects like sickness, death, misery, crime, and social/political/economic injustices. It avoided religion like the plague but felt free to tangle with a preacher, the devil, or one of the church’s supposedly saintly women. Prayers were statements of faith, hopes that one day things would be all right, but the blues was the way of telling the Lord exactly what was wrong.

  For me, the blues strikes a personal chord. It moves me in ways I can’t begin to articulate. It takes my sorrows and makes them tangible so I can wrestle with them for a while before I can turn ’em loose to the heavens. Blues lets me laugh about ordinary troubles and remember the more profound problems that haunt some others. There’s nothing like the blues, and I remember, oh so well, the first time I heard it up close and personal.

  It was sort of like a tent show. The man who was going to sing stood up and commanded everybody’s attention. There was a lantern next to him and it cast a warm glow across his face. He hadn’t done anything yet, but everyone could see that he was drenched in perspiration. His eyes were closed as if he was trying to remain oblivious to everyone there. After a few seconds he took a deep breath and then another. He was clearly working his way up to something, but he seemed to be in no hurry to get there. The audience waited patiently. We knew there was no point in trying to rush him. Our time was his and we silently gave him our permission to do it with it as he saw fit.

  He reached over into the darkness and lifted up his guitar. It wasn’t the fanciest, but it would do. His eyes were opened slightly and his tongue was working its way slowly across his lips to moisten them sufficiently for the work they would need to do. Somebody brought the man a stool and he sat down quietly. The stool was obviously not built to hold a man his size and he looked as if he would topple at any moment, but he squirmed around until he found the perfect balance. He placed the guitar in front of him and it looked ridiculously inadequate, this small guitar in front of such a big man, but it would hold its own.

  His hands moved over the instrument and he began to play. As large as his fingers were, you wouldn’t expect them to be so nimble, so quick, or so sensual, but they were all that and more. They stroked and they teased. They demanded and they gave and the results, well, the results were heart-wrenching sobs that sang to every soul there. Long piercing sounds created to tug on a person’s core, holding on to you so tight ’til you felt like they would never let go. And just when you thought you couldn’t be pulled any tighter, they snapped and let you sail away free. When the blues man started to sing, the words started out as barely a whisper. Some of them you couldn’t quite make out, but it didn’t matter. The lyrics were poignant and questioning, sometimes sad, but other times surprisingly funny. Now several people in the room closed their eyes and swayed to the music. We were all of one accord, moving together, feeling together, and testifying together. The next song was slower and had no words at all, just moans, hums, and music. It knocked you down, dragged you around, and then in the end, it lifted you back up again. We all felt like we’d been through the wringer, all used up but nowhere near through.

  That was my first experience with the blues and I’ve been hooked ever since. Maybe as a storyteller I’m drawn to the moving narratives and wonderful tales I find make up the core of their songs. I just wish that I could sing because I declare, there are moments I would just go ahead and join right on in.

  Young Folks

  The Colored Water Fountain

  Martha rose early this Saturday morning. It was her sixth birthday and it was a very special day, not only because on this sunny day in 1955 she was now six, but also because she would get to go with Papa into town. Town was really a big bustling place — the city of Birmingham, Alabama.

  There were lots of pretty little shops, restaurants, and people, people everywhere. Her brothers and sisters had already filled her in on all the exciting things to do and see, and she could hardly wait.

  She brushed her teeth an extra dozen times just to be sure they were at their sparkling best, picked out her prettiest dress, twirled around in it at least six times, and ate an extra bowl of oatmeal for energy. Papa was ready to go as soon as she wolfed down the last little drop. She raced out the door and sat next to him on the front seat. What a day this was going to be!

  Papa sat tall and straight and whistled some of his favorite church hymns to pass the time on the long drive. He whistled, she hummed, and sometimes they sang together. On the last song, though, they had both somehow forgotten the words, so they looked at each other shamefaced and then giggled until their sides hurt. Papa always looked so handsome when he laughed — ’course with these tough times, sure wasn’t much to smile about, but Papa always managed to somehow be of good cheer.

  When Papa parked carefully in front of the General Store, Martha raced out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop. This was the place! She ran over to the water fountains. One said W - H - I - T - E - S . That was not the one. The other said, C - O - L - O - R - E - D . That was it — the one she was looking for. She pushed the button hard and fast. She couldn’t wait to see the colored water. She wondered if it would sparkle as brilliantly as a rainbow after a good summer rain. She pushed and she
pushed, but nothing came forth but ordinary drinking water. She looked up at her father, who had followed her quietly to the fountain. She could see in his face that he was confused, but what she couldn’t understand was why. Surely Papa knew all about the pretty colored water — why, there were signs that said C - O - L - O - R - E - D all over town.

  “Papa, where is the pretty water?” she asked softly.

  “What pretty water, Martha?”

  “The colored water that sparkles like rainbows — see, right there, it says C - O - L - O - R - E - D .” She was so proud that she could read such a big word that she pointed right to it, so’s to really show off. She was smiling — at least at first, or at least until she saw her daddy look down to the ground, shuffling his feet back and forth and paining to say something that must be gonna hurt pretty bad.

  “Something wrong, Daddy?” she asked.

  He was real quiet, and she thought she saw tears in his eyes, but Lord, that couldn’t be — Daddy never cried, ’specially not over something simple like some colored water.

  “Martha, my sweet, baby girl,” he began slowly. “That sign ain’t got nothin’ to do with somethin’ as beautiful as one of God’s rainbows. That there got to do with somethin’ mean and ugly — some sin-filled evil ones that think that the color of your skin got to do with who you are and what you mean to the Father above. That there,” he said, getting really angry now, “says that you, me, and all of our kind ain’t good as white, not now or ever. It means that no matter what you do in this world, it won’t never be good enough, ’cause all Birmingham is ever gonna see is another nigger in America. That’s all there is to that there.” And he walked stiffly into the store.

  Martha stood there looking at her daddy’s back for a moment and then back to the fountain. Somehow she just wasn’t thirsty anymore. Later, when they arrived home, Martha looked at her birthday presents. Mama had got her the books she’d wanted — all those wonderful fairy tales, “Snow White,” “Sleeping Beauty,” and “Goldilocks.” She had wanted them so badly, but now — well, things were looking very different than they had yesterday. Slowly, carefully, and quite deliberately, she tore each one to shreds. What was the point? There was no Prince Charming riding into her future, nor would there be anyone to rescue her from her troubles, not now or ever. Her kinky hair, too-black face, and thick lips would never be anybody’s idea of beauty, neither. She was just another nigger in America, and the time to stop dreaming was now. The tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall — that would just have to wait till another day, another day that was probably a long way away.