When I Left Home

by Guy, Buddy

  “You want a date?”

  For a second I didn’t understand, but then the light bulb went on. They was working women.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Won’t cost you too much, given that you young and sweet.”

  “Well, ma’am,” I said, “I better stay put.”

  Up close, I could see their eyes were hard but their faces were pretty. They were ten, maybe fifteen years older than me. They were shapely. One was short with a big bosom that attracted me mightily. The other was taller. Her chest was flat, but her backside was beautiful. I couldn’t help but notice her backside.

  “You sure?” asked the busty one. “You could have a date with the two of us. You ever done something like that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, you must be new around here.”

  “I am. Just arrived.”

  She smiled a big smile and said, “We could welcome you to a Chicago with a party that you sure enough will never forget.”

  “Better not,” I said. “Better just sit here with my coffee.”

  “What’d you say your name was?” she asked.

  “Buddy. Buddy Guy.”

  “Alright, Mr. Buddy Guy. You go on and sit there with your coffee. But if you get lonely, we work around here all the time. We be looking for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you kindly.”

  After I Left Home

  Shorty

  Shorty turned out to be a great guy except when he got to drinking—and he got to drinking a lot. When he was all out of money, he’d sell a pint of blood at Michael Reese Hospital for $5. A pint of gin was ninety cents, so could have a good time with that blood money. Shorty liked to dance when he drank, which meant he’d ask me to play the guitar. That part was okay, but then he’d up and disappear and leave me back at his place, alone with my guitar. If I hadn’t slept, I’d have a chance to rest in his bed. Rest was good, and I needed some ’cause hanging out at the all-night cafes was wearing me down. On the other hand, no one had taken me to see Muddy Waters or Little Walter or Howlin’ Wolf.

  I was keeping all those frustrations to myself. My shyness was still ruling my mind. I also had a fear that Shorty might turn me out, so I stayed on my best behavior. If he had company over, for example, he might say, “Buddy, you go out and buy us some whiskey.” I’d do that, of course, ’cause Shorty was letting me stay at his place. I did that a lot. Didn’t want nobody to get upset with me, especially Shorty.

  After some weeks of me walking the streets at night until I could use Shorty’s bed, I met a nice woman named Joyce. She took a liking to me and offered to show me how the busses and subways work. She took her time to explain how the city was laid out.

  “You in the South Side now,” she said. “South and west is black and north is white.”

  “How ’bout the music?” I asked. “Where do the blues guys play?”

  “South Side and West Side. White folk ain’t interested in no blues.”

  I already knew that was true in the South, so I wasn’t surprised to hear it was true in Chicago too.

  After riding the trains with this lady, I got bolder about going out. I could see how the city worked. The Loop was downtown, where they had all the tall buildings and department stores. Never seen nothing like that before. Never seen so many people hustling and bustling. Looked like everyone had somewhere to go and money to spend. I also saw where you could walk along the river until it emptied into the lake with the wind and the smell of fresh water in your face. I liked walking along the lake and trying to let go of my fears. It wasn’t easy—my fears were deep.

  In October the wind turned chilly. At the same time I felt chilly attitudes when I went asking for the kind of job I had at LSU. Took me a while to find the colleges where they might need a utility man, and when I did find the people in charge, they didn’t show no interest. That got me thinking it might be better to find work at a service station. A couple of them needed tow truck drivers, but when they asked me if I knew the city I had to say no.

  “Until you learn the streets around here,” said one station owner, “you ain’t doing me no good.”

  “Got a fine sense of direction,” I said. “I can learn the streets in just a couple of weeks.”

  “Can’t wait no two weeks. Need someone now.”

  So it was back to Shorty’s, where I had to bide my time. He called his little apartment a kitchenette. Shorty’s building was like hundreds of other buildings on the South Side that used to house large apartments. Seeing all these people coming up from the South, the landlords cut up those big apartments into tiny kitchenettes. That way they’d collect more rent. Before, you might have four apartments on a floor. Afterwards, on that same floor you might have twenty kitchenettes. In some kitchenettes a family of ten was packed in like sardines. This amazed me. I was used to the country, where there was enough space for everyone.

  Bad as kitchenettes were, though, I wanted one of my own. Wandering around all night until Shorty went to work got old fast. Getting turned down for job after job was even more frustrating.

  Because I wasn’t getting anywhere looking for a regular job, I started thinking about that reel-to-reel tape I’d brought from Baton Rouge. My plan was to get work—and then go to Chess Records. I figured I’d do what I’d done in Baton Rouge: get me a regular service station–type job and then see about my music. After weeks of not finding no service station–type job, though, my plan changed. I decided to find my way to Chess Records to see if Mr. Leonard Chess would listen to the song I’d made at WXOK.

  I put on my little green jacket that I wore on stage in Louisiana, and carrying my Les Paul Gibson in one hand and reel-to-tape in the other, I went to 2120 Michigan Avenue. That’s where Chess had their office and studio. Naturally I was nervous—and also excited. Maybe I’d run into Muddy Waters. Given the fact that my contact at WXOK personally knew Leonard Chess and had given me a letter of introduction, hope was stirring in my heart.

  Remembering all the great Muddy, Little Walter, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy, and Jimmy Rogers records that came out of Chess Records, I figured their headquarters would look like a palace. I figured wrong. It was a skinny, plain-looking building that sat between a supply company and rundown rooming house. When I opened the front door, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk. The office was nothing to write home about.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Here to see Mr. Leonard Chess.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “No, ma’am, but I do have a tape.”

  “You need an appointment to see Mr. Chess.”

  “I understand . . . but . . . let me introduce myself. I’m Mr. Buddy Guy, and I’m from Baton Rouge. Actually, from Lettsworth, but before I came up here to Chicago I was living in Baton Rouge, where I made this tape at a radio station called WXOK. Diggy Doo, the deejay at WXOK, well, he knows Mr. Leonard Chess very well. They been doing business for years, and he thought this song I did—it’s called “Baby Don’t You Wanna Come Home”—is pretty good. Gotta good snap to it, and so he gave me this letter to give to Mr. Chess.”

  “That a Les Paul Gibson you got there?” asked a man who just walked through the door. He was carrying a guitar himself.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” I said.

  “Ain’t that something! Been looking for a guitar just like that. Lookee here, you wouldn’t mind me using it for a session I’m running into right now?”

  “You ain’t gonna steal it, are you?”

  Man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Wayne Bennett, and no, motherfucker, I ain’t gonna steal your guitar. Just need to borrow it. But you can come in and listen to the session and when it’s over, take your guitar with you. Won’t ever leave your sight.”

  “I guess that’s okay, but I’m trying to get this meeting with Mr. Leonard Chess.”

  “Leonard’s gonna be at the session. He gonna run
the session. He runs everything around here. He’s top dog. You can talk to him after the session’s over.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “In that case, use my guitar all you like.”

  I followed him into the studio, where he took my guitar, plugged it into an amp, and played like it was his. The Spaniels were a doo-wop group I knew from their big hit, “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight.” I was fascinated to watch them weave together their harmonies. I saw that Wayne Bennett was reading music set in front of him on a stand. He read it beautifully. I had to admire that because I couldn’t—and still can’t—read a note. The session happened real fast. They recorded three or four songs. Occasionally they’d get some directions from a white man in the control booth who I figured had to be Leonard Chess. Tried to get a good look at him, but I didn’t have a good angle. I heard him say, “Do it again faster,” and then he said, “Too fast. Slow it down.” He had an idea for a guitar introduction. At one point he told Wayne to play a solo in the middle of the song.

  Meanwhile, I didn’t say nothing to no one. I was just a bug in the rug. When the session was over, Bennett handed me back my guitar and said, “Thanks, man. It’s a good-feeling guitar.”

  “You think you could introduce me to Mr. Chess?” I asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  When we got to the control room, though, Leonard Chess had walked away. He’d gone to his office. When we got to his office, the door was closed. Bennett knocked. No answer. So he knocked again. “Not now!” a voice shouted through the door.

  “No can do,” said Bennett. “Maybe next time. See ya around.”

  On the way out I stopped by the receptionist’s desk and said, “Would you mind giving this tape and letter to Mr. Leonard Chess?”

  “I’ll try.”

  I never heard another word about that tape.

  I don’t believe Chess ever bothered listening to it. I was disappointed, but I was happy to have had the chance to hear a great guitarist like Wayne Bennett and watch the Spaniels sing in the studio.

  On the way home I asked myself whether I could ever get learn to read music and find work in the studio. The answer was no. I didn’t have a chance. Here in Chicago, I was out of my league. I’d do better learning the streets and finding work driving a tow truck.

  708

  In Chicago, winter is a bitch. Wind comes howling off the lake and freezes every blood cell in your body. You ain’t experienced bone-chilling cold till you experience Chicago cold. And if you walking around for months on end, looking for a job you can’t find, having one person after another tell you how you ain’t qualified, it’s easy to get down, easy to think back to warm Louisiana nights and Mama’s home cooking. After a while your mind starts to wondering, Do I really belong here? And how long is my little money gonna last?

  Money had been leaking outta me since I arrived. Can’t say nothing bad about Shorty because without him, I would have never made the trip. The man took me in, and I’m forever grateful. But Shorty had his own life and couldn’t be bothered taking me here and there to find work. In the beginning he said he would, but I understood why he didn’t.

  I’ve always been proud, even as a young man. The idea of begging or borrowing ain’t never been attractive. Always wanted to do for myself. But pride don’t put no food in your body, and come late winter 1958, some five or six months after I’d arrived, pride had me straight-up starving. It’d been more than two days since I’d had a square meal. I was flat broke, walking the streets of the South Side with my guitar, thinking of borrowing a dime to call my daddy in Baton Rouge for a ticket home. I was ready to swallow my pride.

  Must have been about seven o’clock at night when a man stopped me on the street to say, “That your guitar?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you play the thing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Buy you a drink if you play me some blues.”

  “How ’bout a hamburger?” I asked. “Ain’t eaten in a while.”

  “No hamburger,” said the guy. “Hamburger won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know anything about dogs?”

  “A little.”

  “You give a dog a big piece of meat, and he won’t hunt. But a hungry dog, well, that’s another story—he’ll hunt all night.”

  Couldn’t argue with his logic, but I was still hungry as hell.

  “You willing to play for a glass of wine?” he asked.

  “Guess so,” I said.

  We went to a bar, where he bought me a glass of cheap wine. Right then and there, I picked up the guitar and sang some Jimmy Reed. Everyone around us started clapping.

  “Not bad,” said the man. “Come on home so my wife can hear you.”

  Went home with him and met the wife.

  “Honey, this young man plays the hell outta Jimmy Reed. Wait till you hear him.”

  As I started into playing, the wife starting into smiling. She broke out a bottle of gin and gave me a taste.

  “I do believe we should take him to the 708 Club,” said the man. “Ain’t that an idea, honey?”

  “Good idea,” said the wife. “Let me grab my coat.”

  We walked out into the night and headed over to what was known as the 708, one of the hottest blues clubs on the South Side. The place was packed. Blues clubs in those days were almost always packed. Because the steel mills and stockyards never stopped, workers were always coming off the job, wanting a stiff drink and a hard hit of the electric blues. They wanted to relax, and booze and blues helped them do just that.

  That evening the booze and blues sure as hell helped me relax,’cause after I had a drink at the 708, I was half out of my mind with hunger and high as a kite on the liquor. I looked up to see that the band, playing some mean, straight-in-your-face blues, was on a long ledge behind the bar. The main musician was playing guitar. His guitar was on fire. Man, he was something else. When I got closer, I saw that he was playing left-handed even though his guitar was made for a right-handed man. But this guy had turned the instrument upside down and was playing it backward—and playing it great! I recognized the song, “I Can’t Quit You, Baby,” from the radio.

  “That’s Otis Rush,” said the wife of the man who’d brought me here.

  “Hey, Otis Rush!” screamed her husband between songs. “Got me a nigger here who can kick your ass sideways.”

  “Do he have a guitar?” Rush shouted from the stage.

  “He do indeed!”

  “Well, let him come here and we’ll see about him kicking my ass.”

  Without those drinks in me, I would never have gone up. With those drinks, though, I flew to the stage.

  In those days even the greatest guitarists like Otis Rush sat down when they played. He had bandstands for his musicians with “OR” written on the stands. So when I got up there, I was scared I’d have to read some music. But when I looked at the music stands, they was empty. They was just for show. I let out a big sigh of relief.

  “What you wanna play, boy?” asked Rush.

  “Guitar Slim,” I said.

  “‘Things I Used to Do’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You start,” said Otis. “I’ll come in behind you.”

  I started, but because some magic happened, Rush never did play with me on that song. He just let me go. I believe he had to let me go. I believe no force on earth could have kept me from letting go. See, the spirit of Guitar Slim entered my soul—not just the spirit, but the showmanship. I wouldn’t sit down, I couldn’t sit down, and after I played the opening notes I watched myself move to the edge of the stage and jump into the crowd, just as I’d seen Slim do.

  People went crazy.

  “Who’s that wild nigger?” I heard one guy say. “Where he from?”

  “Don’t know,” said someone else, “but he got Otis worried.”

  Truth of the matter was that Otis was egging me on, encouraging me to play over my head and behind my back, just
the way I’d seen Slim play. I did it, and the more I did it, the louder the crowd.

  Looking back at this moment in my life, I know I was possessed. Maybe I was open to being possessed because I was scared and desperate. Maybe I knew my life depended on tearing up this club until folks wouldn’t forget me.

  Just as I know that the Guitar Slim spirit entered me, I was also taking in other spirits. They used to call booze and wine “spirits,” and those spirits sure as hell took hold of me. It was also my first time playing in front of a Chicago blues crowd—women who’d been laboring during the day and men who’d been working the mills. These people had their own spirit. They wanted to forget the pain of trucking steel and killing cows. They wanted to get happy in a hurry. They wanted music that would blast ’em into outer space, sounds that would carry them out of this mean ol’ world into another world of good feeling. I felt them saying to me, Take it up! Take it out! Go wild! Get me higher! I heard their calls and I wanted to answer them—I wanted to give them what they wanted.

  The spirits were going crazy—but crazy in a good way.

  The owner of the club, a white man named Ben Gold, also felt those spirits. He saw how everyone was reacting, got on the phone, and called a man to hurry down to hear me.

  That man got there in time to hear the last couple songs I played. By the time he arrived I was still floating on a cloud. I was playing over my head. I was covered with sweat and was drained and hungry, but I felt happier than I’d been since I got off the train at the Dorchester Station. I felt like I finally had my say.

  Ben Gold came up to me and said, “Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Mud wants you.”

  At first I didn’t understand Gold. In my frazzled mind I thought he said something like “Someone wants to mug you.” Back home I’d heard about muggings in Chicago, where a thief hits you over the head and murders you for your money. I didn’t have no money, but I didn’t wanna get murdered.