Cruger, Mississippi
Willie Johnson sat alone in the corner of the room on a three-leg stool, his arms draped around his guitar. The sun was still up and the air was hotter inside the juke joint than it was outside. Sweat crawled down his back, soaking his dress shirt. He wore pressed trousers and a tie, but the tie point showed—he couldn’t afford a jacket, nor would he wear one in this heat. His shoes had three miles of mud on them.
The crowd wore their best—something they could worship in, come morning. They would dance all night and head straight to church without a pause. He wondered how they’d stand each other’s smell in the pews.
The juke stank like mildew and shine and cigarettes. Willie took a sip from his glass and set it on the floor. One, that’s all. There’s already enough blind bluesmen. Moonshine distillers made their hooch by re-distilling industrial-grade alcohol. Not to let an opportunity go by to kill their citizens, the government had changed the formula for industrial alcohol, adding methyl alcohol to discourage bootleggers from re-distilling stolen industrial product. Nobody warned anybody, Willie decided, because people ended up blind or dead, which seemed to please the politicians. If it kept up long enough, poison hooch would result in a sober America.
Willie had seen the effects of a bad batch firsthand. Three drinks each, and a half dozen men and women went blind. Two dancers ended up as dead as if they’d danced on a rope. After that, he limited himself to a single drink a night, unless he knew the distiller.
His friend was out on the floor with that girl again, putting the spin in the Spinning Mule. Jackwash was his usual smooth self, whirling and hoofing without a drop of sweat on his face. He’d slicked his hair into place with enough Murray’s Pomade to lubricate a truck. With that and his pencil mustache, even Willie had to admit Jackwash cut a fine figure. The girl sure thought so. She twirled on cue, but her eyes were locked on Jackwash the rest of the time. Her mouth had a puffy sort of pout that was half-smile and half-hunger.
She should be hungry. Bony thing had no cushion.
When the song ended, Jackwash looked to the band—an old guitarist and a drummer—and nodded in Willie’s direction. The guitarist shook his head, holding up one hand. No, not yet. Willie slumped on his stool. How long am I going to have to wait? These people aren’t taking me serious.
Jackwash came over, grinning like everything was going as planned. “You’ll get your chance,” he said. “Quit worrying. Damn, by the look on your face, somebody just died.”
“I’m just anxious to play.”
Jackwash held onto the girl with one hand and pointed with the other. “See that fella over there? You know who that is, don’t ya’?”
Willie nodded. “Sure do. Man’s a damned legend.” He’d been watching the bluesman all night.
Jackwash leaned in closer. “Well, if he likes you, that’ll be worth the wait.” He glanced back at the girl, and then down at his hand, as if he’d just noticed the two of them were attached. He pulled her forward. “This here’s Luella.”
“We met before,” Willie said.
She tilted her head to the side, as if to regard him. “No, I don’t believe so.”
Willie snorted. “Watch me play. You’ll remember me, then.”
She gave him a pretty little smirk. “Your friend is mighty sure of himself, Jackson.”
Jackwash gave her his best wide smile, the kind that melted girls like Luella. She melted all right, though that was easy enough to do inside the juke. “Willie and I go way back. All the way back.” He turned to Willie. “Luella’s gonna sing tonight. She got a fine voice.”
“Maybe I’ll stick around and listen,” Willie said. “Right now, I gotta think about playing.”
“Let’s leave this man alone with his guitar,” Jackwash said, stepping away. Willie could barely hear him. Another song had ended, and the dancers were making a ruckus. Willie waved at his friend and stared at the floor.
Jackwash—Jackson Washington—had been his best friend since childhood. They played ball together, fished, and even stole fruit pies from the church window. When Willie got caught, Jackwash faded into the tall grass. The reverend had Willie scrape old paint from the walls inside the church for a week’s worth of evenings while Jackwash sat on the riverbank eating pie. That was the story of their friendship.
One evening, while filling a Mason jar with fireflies, Willie decided to say something about his friend’s name. Willie’s daddy had been drunk early, and cuffed him a few times, so Willie was in an ornery mood. “You know your name ain’t real, don’t you?” he said.
Nine-year-old Jackwash stopped running around and stared at him, a perplexed look on his face. “Course it’s real. It’s a real name.”
“A real name’s when you get your uncle’s name or your granddaddy’s name. Somethin’ to do with family.” He looked up from his firefly lantern and smiled. “You named for two presidents. Andrew Jackson and George Washington. It’s kind of a joke if you think about it.”
Jackwash stood there squinting, and then his face opened up into a smile. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You got two dick names. Willie and Johnson.”
Willie sat down, dumbfounded. The thought had never occurred to him. Sensing it was no time to give in, he doubled down. “I’m calling you Jackwash from now on. Don’t be surprised if everyone calls you that for the rest of your days.”
Jackwash shrugged. “Willie,” he said. “Johnson.”
Nothing had changed. They were contentious friends, forever bound, forever bickering. Jackwash was better at everything else, but he couldn’t play the guitar. When it came to music, Willie had it all over him. Part of that was on Jackwash—the boy couldn’t sit still long enough to practice. When Willie got good enough to play here and there without embarrassing himself, Jackwash conceded that particular competition. “You the musician, all right. I’m glad. There’s gotta be one thing you’re better’n me at.”
Playing jukes was part of Willie’s long-term plan. He’d go on the road, traveling from town to town, playing for meals and pocket money. Should be easy. I play this thing like I have eight fingers on each hand. But to get his foot in the door, he needed Jackwash. Jackwash knew the folks who ran the juke. He ran shine for them, and cleaned up the place after the sun came up. And Jackwash knew the gnarled legend in the corner of the building—sitting with his eyes closed, bobbing his head to the rhythm of the song. In some ways, knowing people was more important than knowing how to play.
A roar of laughter behind him made him turn. The back room was stuffed full of men gambling—both cards and dice. Between illegal liquor, gambling, and food, the juke owner made a good living. Outside, where women cooked, the smell of fish and hoppin’ john—black-eyed peas and rice—made his mouth water. Inside, men and women did the snake-hips and the funky butt to the music.
The room quieted down for a moment, and Willie glanced up, surprised to see the old guitarist motioning in his direction. He stood, kicking the stool behind him. This is it.
“Got a surprise for you folks,” the guitarist said, trying to shout over the crowd noise. “This gentleman here is going to play a song with us. You all be kind, and give a listen to Mr. Willie Johnson.”
“The man with two dick names,” Jackwash called out. The crowd laughed nervously, and a few folks even clapped. Willie sighed with relief. Thank you, my friend.
“What do you want to play, suh?” the man asked when Willie joined him. No stage—just a clear space against the wall, away from the liquor and food.
“Something in A. Something fast.”
The old guitarist nodded, looked back to the man seated at the drum behind him, and began strummi
ng and humming. Willie stood still for a while, listening to the beat before playing. He held the guitar up on his chest, his eyes on the frets, except for a moment or two, when he scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Jackwash. He stood off to the left, away from the dancers, still holding the girl’s hand.
Willie started simple, picking his way through two-string licks that would sing out over the sound of trundling feet. The guitarist started singing Crow Jane.
The old man had a high-pitched voice that did justice to Skip James. When he came to the break, he nodded at Willie and turned away, his fingers still framing the rhythm. Willie started off slow, but his notes had razors in them. His fingers trembled and shook over the strings, and beestings came out, cutting through the crowd noise. A few dancers had stopped to listen, so he pushed on, turning his simple lead into a runaway train, jamming note after note in and around the melody. The old guitarist stood with his mouth hanging open, but he and the drummer kept going. Willie doubled down, playing hammers and pull-offs in a staccato burst of music as if the guitar had become a Thompson machine gun, punching holes in the smoke and noise, laying waste to everyone in its path. He finished with a two-string bend and a slap across the neck of the guitar, and then—
Silence.
The drummer had stopped playing, and the dancers had stopped dancing. Someone in the back coughed. Jackwash put his hands together, and a few people clapped along with him. One big woman in front, dressed to the nines with a tiny purse on her arm, said, “That man has got the devil in him,” with a touch of fear in her face.
“Yes ma’am, I do,” Willie said, and walked off into the crowd. Remembering himself, he turned to thank the old guitarist. The poor fella stood with his mouth open, fingering his string tie.
“Damn,” Jackwash said, grabbing his arm. “That was somethin’!” For just a moment, his smile disappeared, and he looked younger like he had when he was a boy. He shook Willie by the shoulders and hugged him. Luella stood to the side with her arms crossed. He searched her expression but didn’t find the reaction he’d hoped for. Her eyes were on Jackwash.
After another two songs, the band took a break. The drummer, a young man wearing trousers and a vest—no shirt—drank water from a pitcher, downing half of it with his first long swallow. When he came up for air, he poured the rest over his head and then shook, spraying everyone nearby. The old guitarist stepped to the side, a small glass of moonshine in his hands. When a man came by with fried catfish wrapped in paper, the guitarist bowed, taking a nibble and another sip. The drummer shoved fish into his mouth like a sword swallower. Willie couldn’t be sure if the man even chewed.
The fried cat smelled good—better than anything else in this mildewed sweatbox. But Willie was broke. No money, no fish.
When the guitarist finished eating, he pointed at Jackwash and the girl. Jackwash nodded and grabbed Luella by the arm. “Come on, girl. It’s your time.”
Willie watched, guitar in hand, as Luella sauntered up to where the band played. The guitarist hollered, but the crowd couldn’t hear him—laughing and jostling each other, shouting to friends across the room, shouting for drinks, or just shouting for the hell of it. After the guitarist tried again, the drummer stuck a finger and thumb in the corners of his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.
When the room quieted, the guitarist said, “Y’all need to listen up. This pretty lady is going to sing a song, and I want you to pay attention.” He turned to Luella. “You ready, sweetheart?” She nodded, and a change seemed to come over her with the sound of the first note. She unfolded her arms and dangled them at the side, her palms out. Her eyes widened. She tilted her head a little to the left and began to sing.
The first thing that struck Willie was the pitch of her voice—lower than he expected from such a slender little thing. She launched into Any Woman’s Blues, with the guitarist picking and framing, doing a decent job of making up for the lack of a piano. The drummer brushed his fingers over the drum skin, giving the tune a classy, jazzy kind of touch.
Luella didn’t slide away from the notes like Bessie Smith did. Instead, she hit the notes head-on, relying on the timbre of her voice, rich and resonant, to carry the song. The complex overtones of her vocals left Willie hanging on every note, trying to sort out the layers. And when she finally slid into a blue note, it sounded unique, as if she’d invented singing.
The juke crowd listened. No one danced.
She touched her neck with slender fingers and bowed her head as she sang. Her lips turned down, almost trembling, and by the time the song ended, he was in love.
The room exploded in applause. Mouth opened wide, she stammered her thanks and stepped away from the band. Willie tried to reach her with his congratulations, but the juke crowd engulfed her.
Disappointed, he reminded himself that she belonged to Jackwash. He shook his head and stepped to the side of the room, away from the rest. There, perched on a stool, the legend sat still, nodding his head.
Willie had to ask.
He walked up and blurted, “I’ve heard you play, man. You’re the best.” He’d forgotten to say hello. No matter—he plunged ahead. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d tell me what you thought of my playing.” He set his guitar against the wall and stood back, waiting for the verdict.
The man on the stool had a long, narrow face with pronounced cheekbones that jutted out, like a chipmunk with a mouthful of acorns. He sang like a preacher—he’d either been one or would be one—and the whole delta knew his music. He squinted his eyes and stared for a moment, a wide smile splitting the lower half of his face. “Why, you played just fine, son.”
“No, really,” Willie insisted. “I want to know what you thought.”
The man’s grin spread just a little wider.
“I understand, believe me,” Willie said. “But I’d be grateful if you told me the truth.”
The grin disappeared. The man squinted at him. “Ain’t a race.”
Willie waited. When the legend didn’t say anything else, he said, “I don’t understand.”
“The blues ain’t a race. Slow down, son.”
Willie rocked back on his heels. Deep in his secret heart, he had expected the man to praise him. Or encourage him. He felt his face flush hot, and he balled his fists.
“Now, you have a genuine feel for the guitar—”
“No, that’s okay,” Willie said, turning away. He stomped off and then stopped. He’d left his guitar behind. He strutted back, sticking his face near the legend, making him flinch.
“Hey! What you doin’?” One of the other men came closer as if to break up a fight.
“You’re wrong,” Willie said, practically hissing. “You’re wrong. It is a race. And I won.”
Two sets of hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him back. He let himself be pulled away. “I’m all right, I’m all right. No problem here.”
“You need to get out of here,” a voice whispered in his ear. Jackwash! Willie relaxed.
“I’m going,” Willie announced.
Four men, one of them as large as he was, escorted him through the door. The big boy, a field hand with forearms like briskets, said, “You in the wrong place. Git the hell out of here.” He stuck his lower lip out and scowled.
“I need to get my guitar.”
“You go now and be glad none of your arms and legs is broken.”
Willie narrowed his gaze. “I get my box, or I don’t go.” He stepped closer to the big man and waited for the blows to fall. Won’t be the first time I’ve taken a beating.
“I got your box,” Jackwash called, trotting outside with the guitar. He put the instrument in Willie’s hands, shoving him back in the same motion, putting himse
lf between Willie and the other men. “Go on now.”
Willie laughed, backing away. He held up the guitar. “Thanks, Jackwash. And thanks for tonight!”
“Don’t thank me,” Jackwash said, his expression falling. “This place ain’t for you.” He glanced to the side. The big field hand stared down at him.
Willie made his way around the cars that filled the field. Each car arrived full of people, and some of those people were spilling out of the juke to stare at him now. Sorry, folks! No fight tonight! He reached the road, laughing to himself. He thought of Luella. She wanted Jackwash more than Jackwash wanted her. Willie would keep an eye on that situation, and when his friend dumped the girl, he’d step in to comfort her.
The sun dropped over the horizon, and though the insects still swarmed, and heat still shimmered off the roadbed, Willie felt invigorated. I played good tonight. Like a runaway train. He whistled a tune, and the cicadas chirped the response to his call.
• • • • •
1969
Fort Collins, Colorado
“How much?” Kennedy asked, disbelief in his voice.
The man at the front desk repeated the room rate.
“One night, please,” Kennedy said, his voice cracking. One night is all I can afford. Where am I going to stay for the next month? Not here, that’s for sure. He put his money on the counter.
The man handed him change and a key attached to a diamond-shaped piece of plastic. “Third floor,” the man said. “Stairs back there.”
Kennedy grabbed his duffel and headed for the stairs. He’d already walked halfway to the moon, looking for a cheap room. His legs hurt. This old place was the cheapest of the cheap, and he would have to skip dinner to pay for it.
Any plans of walking to Willie Johnson’s place today had evaporated. All he wanted now was to wash the sweat off and lie down on cool sheets.
The room gave him another surprise. He’d known the place had historical significance. Perhaps people were smaller in the old days, because the room was like a closet. Hot air suffocated him. He put the duffel down, locked the door behind him, and headed for the window. The old wooden frame stuck fast. He struggled with the latch and frame for five minutes, finally giving up in a fury of sweat and exhaustion. A fly buzzed his head, and he swatted at it without success. “God damn it, fly, just stay out of my face!”
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