• • • • •
1928
Chicago, Illinois
The dance hall was a renovated theater, with some of the original seating in the rear, still bolted to the floor. Up front, a wooden dance floor butted against the stage. The walls were draped from the vaulted ceiling to the concrete floor with dark, red velvet curtains that smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.
Colored patrons paid a cover charge to watch the acts, listen to the bands, and dance in the wings. The cabaret section, centered in front of the dance floor with the best view of the acts, was reserved for whites, who sat at tables and even braved the food menu. One peek inside the kitchen area was enough to convince Willie that he’d wait and have his supper at home.
Because the place was a cavern, the theater had an amplifier and microphone set up, center stage. The sound was uneven—the amp cut the top off the treble. Willie made a mental note to stay away from the top strings when he played his guitar.
He watched from the wings, his guitar in hand, as a shake dancer performed. She had a high yellow complexion, and her white costume contrasted nicely with her bare midriff. Her long sleeves had a fringe that ruffled like a bird’s feathers when she moved her arms. “Impressive,” Willie said.
“Pardon?” The stage manager, a squat white man wearing bifocals, stopped and folded his arms. He came up to Willie’s chest and refused to look up when he spoke.
“She’s impressive,” Willie repeated.
“And who are you?”
Willie looked down at the top of the man’s balding head. “I’m Willie Johnson.”
“What are you doing here?”
Willie had his guitar by the neck. He lifted it straight up and said, “I play the blues.”
The stage manager cocked his head and then, ever so slowly, lifted his gaze. “You play . . . the blues?”
“Sure do.”
The man pursed his lips as he gave Willie the once-over. “Anybody ever tell you that you could pass?”
“Pass?”
“Pass. As a white man.”
“I am a white man.”
The stage manager did a double take. “Well, I’ll be damned to hell!” He frowned. “What are you doing, playing colored music?”
“I like the songs,” Willie said.
“Hmmmm. Well, watch yourself.”
Willie shrugged. “I’m on my best behavior. I won’t cause you any trouble.”
“That ain’t what I mean,” the manager said. His gaze had dropped back down to chest-level, and he poked Willie in the sternum with an index finger. “Folks don’t take kindly to people crossing lines. White boy playing the blues? Somebody might decide to teach you a lesson.”
The warning came back to him as he strode on stage fifteen minutes later. He didn’t bother chatting up the crowd. They’d already been told to give themselves a hand by the previous act, a comedienne who got nothing in return. “Tough room,” Willie thought. He positioned himself close to the microphone and gave the guitar a quick strum. The sound was off, and for a moment, he wondered if he was still in tune, though he’d spent the previous five minutes making certain that he was. Electricity was not his friend.
He started with an eight-bar blues he’d written back home. The song was about avoiding work. The county had to hire extra help for a road project, and Willie needed the cash, so he took the job. Grueling labor. On the third day, rain put a temporary halt to the work, which did not bother him at all. He only went back to collect his pay.
Got me a biscuit.
Got me some bacon.
Sure do taste fine.
And if the sun won’t come out today,
I got this jug o’ mine.
Take you some corn.
Make you some liquor.
Just as sweet as wine.
And if the sun gonna hide all day,
I got this jug o’ mine.
Hey mister foreman?
Why the long face?
God done give you a sign.
I’m gonna sit here under these eves
And work this jug o’ mine.
He played the song with a slow, lazy shuffle rhythm, trying hard not to let the scratchy amplifier distract him. When he finished, he stepped back and looked up. No applause. No dancers. To his left, three black men stood scowling at the edge of the dance floor, arms folded. He smiled and nodded. When he waved, the biggest one let out a long, angry sigh.
“I see how this is gonna go,” Willie said. The microphone didn’t catch his words, and someone from the cabaret section called out, “Can’t hear you!”
Willie’s gaze narrowed, and he bent low to speak directly into the mike. “This next tune is called Misery Train. If this one doesn’t fire you folks up, you already dead.” The man at the table sat back, surprised. His wife, or his girlfriend, covered her mouth with a gloved hand.
Willie felt an old, familiar anger well up inside. These people didn’t appreciate him. Fine. He let that insult fuel his playing. He imagined the anger pushing through his veins, into his fingers. He started out chugging slow, chunky barre chords, but by the second pass, he sped up, growling lyrics about being kicked out of his home like a dog, put out on the road without a nickel to call his own. Paps did that, and Mom never said a word to stop him. Willie let the song run away from him.
Back in Mississippi, they won’t even miss me.
I’m gone, gone, gone, damned gone.
Then he stopped strumming altogether and began racing up and down the neck with a blues run, like a train at full throttle. The flurry of notes was too much for the microphone and amplifier, but that was okay, because the electronic spit and crackle seemed to suit the song just right. When his fingers got tired, he slipped back into his chording and sang the last verse again, finishing with a little hop and skip on stage, just for show.
Silence.
He glanced to his left, knowing that he shouldn’t, just to see what the boys thought of his playing. The big one had a blank face, but the littlest one was shouting something at him, his lips twisted in anger. Grimacing, he pointed and drew a finger across his neck. Willie shrugged. If he’d had the chance, he’d have bought those boys a beer and tried to explain how much he loved the music. He had his own style. How could he be anyone but himself? He wasn’t mocking anyone. But some folks took offense because it suited them to do so, and they wouldn’t drink with Willie, no matter who paid.
Then, Willie looked to the wings.
The stage manager was motioning to him to leave the stage. They’re giving me the hook! Sons of bitches are giving me the hook! He turned back to the crowd and bent over so he could speak directly into the microphone. “That’s all I have for you,” he said. “Y’all remember this. That’s the best fucking guitar work you’ll ever hear.” He walked off stage to the sound of boos and catcalls.
Jackwash would be pissed at him. His friend had used his new connections to get this gig, and Willie had blown it. Not my fault. Those morons wouldn’t know good blues if it cleaned out their pantry and fucked their wife. The angry thought made him laugh, and by then, he was standing in front of the stage manager, who clearly took umbrage at Willie’s grin. “Ain’t funny. I told you, some folks might be offended, and I’m one of them.” He flipped Willie a single cartwheel.
Willie caught the silver dollar. “What’s this?”
“That’s your pay.”
“This ain’t what we agreed to. I’ll take the bounce, but you’re gonna pay me.”
“That’s what you’re getting.”
Willie stepped closer. The lit
tle man backed up, but Willie paced him. “You booked me for a week. Five shows a day, two bucks a show.”
The manager pulled out another cartwheel. “Here, then. One show and done. Now, take a powder, wise guy.”
Willie pocketed the money and headed for the side exit. There was no use arguing. If he hit the man, he’d end up in jail or worse. He gripped the neck of the guitar, choking it, and stepped into the alley. The sun was gone, and the air was cold and wet. Fucking Chicago. I hate this place.
Willie paused to calm himself, reluctant to leave. He needed the job. That little stage manager might realize he’d made a mistake and follow him out. There was a show bill to fill out, after all, and those manager types always turned their foul tempers on the next victim the moment something else went wrong, which was, in the entertainment business, every five minutes. He might realize that Willie wasn’t the enemy. Might even rehire him.
When he realized the manager wasn’t coming, Willie turned to walk out of the alley and found his path blocked by three familiar black men. The big one had his arms folded again. The little one had a straight razor in his hand. The third man eased back, glancing back at the mouth of the alley every few seconds.
“You gentlemen don’t like the blues?” Willie’s voice came out in a croak, and he cursed himself for the tremor that ran from his throat to his legs.
“Don’t like some gray-skinned, ofay motherfucker playing our music.”
Willie slipped a shaky hand inside his pocket, his eyes on the little shit with the razor. “I already shaved today.”
“That’s all right,” the little one said with a thin, reedy voice. “You a raggedy-ass son of a bitch. You could use a second go.”
The big one hadn’t moved. He was probably used to winning fights on sheer strength. The little one, though, had taken some lumps before figuring out how to even things up with a weapon. Bad news.
Willie pulled out his knife. “Meet my cut-and-run,” he said, flipping open the blade.
The little one eyed the knife and smiled broadly. “This gonna be some serious fun,” he said, moving closer.
CHAPTER EIGHT: LORENZO’S PIZZA
“Ain’t but one kind of blues and that consists
between a male and female that’s in love…”
~Son House
Kennedy sat on his barstool, silent, considering Willie’s story. When he was younger, his father had explained, “I tend to believe a man until I catch him in a lie. Just one. Then, I question everything he says from then on.” By now, Tammy the bartender had served another round, and his head was swimming. Willie went back to tapping the knife on the bar top, keeping rhythm with whatever song was in his head. The old man was always tapping or humming.
“So,” Kennedy said after a while.
“So?”
“So, you expect me to believe that you fought off three men with a knife?”
Willie stared, as if he’d never considered such a thing. “No . . . what the hell? Are you an idiot?” He began to pull up his shirt, right there in the middle of the restaurant’s bar, as if he were at home, alone. He pointed to a row of parallel scars running from his belly to his left side. “That little one with the razor cut me up. I spent the next four months flat on my back.” He paused to take another sip of his drink. “That’s when I got myself in some real trouble.”
• • • • •
1929
Chicago, Illinois
In the hospital, his world was an iron-frame bed and a wooden nightstand where the nurse put his meals. The good people of Chicago donated food to the hospital kitchen, so there was plenty to eat, but the late meal was always burned because the nurses cooked after the kitchen staff went home. He didn’t hold a grudge over the scorch. The nurses were the only medical professionals he saw. Some of them were even nice. The fact that they couldn’t cook didn’t much matter.
One morning, Alice—an older nurse who was not one of the nice ones—brought a nurse-in-training with her. “This is Brandy. She’ll be assisting me today. The patient in the bed next to Willie moaned as if to underline the introduction.
“He does that all night,” Willie said.
Alice spoke directly to her charge. “You’ll find that some of our poorer patients aren’t appreciative of the charity they receive here.” Brandy folded her hands in front and stared at her shoes.
“Not so,” Willie said. “I was thinking you might have a doctor take a look at him. You do have doctors in this here hospital, don’t you?”
Alice glared at him. To his fevered mind, her wrinkled scowl looked like a mask. “This is a public hospital. You are here because we don’t turn patients away. In return, perhaps you can muster some silence.”
“You bet,” Willie said. “I won’t even groan like I’m dying.”
“Hmmm. We’ll see about that,” Alice said. “Time to change your bandages.”
That night, dinner was a piece of charred meat drowned in ketchup. He had occasion to remember the meal because later on, the moaning man got louder—much louder—and in the absence of a nurse, Willie stumbled over to his bed to see if he could help. The man could barely keep still from the pain. When Willie drew back the sheet, he saw an open wound at the man’s sternum, black and red like dinner had been.
When Brandy, the young nurse-in-training, finally came around, she explained that they had to keep the wound open so it could heal. “That makes no sense,” Willie said, and thereafter, Brandy ignored him when he tried to talk to her.
• • • • •
When Luella came to take him home, Willie was glad to leave. Jackwash had agreed to let him stay at their place while he recovered. But recovery took much longer than he’d imagined.
The rib wounds healed into hard, angry scars. If not for the slash across his hip, he would have been on his feet in two weeks. But the hip festered, and Willie carried a fever into a second month. One evening, half awake, he overheard Luella whispering to Jackwash in the hall. “It’s not good. The cut won’t close, and it smells bad. He might lose that leg.”
“Cut’s on his hip,” Jackwash said. “They can’t remove that much leg without killing him.”
“Can you get him something?”
“I gave him something.”
“Not for the pain,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “For the infection.”
“Why don’t you do some of that voodoo shit you always talking about.” Good old Jackwash—always able to joke, whether or not his best, oldest friend was dying on the couch or not. In the other room, Willie tried to shift in place, but his hip screamed, and the blanket slipped down. The tiny apartment was hot, but not Mississippi hot, and Willie had fever chills. He rolled to his right as much as the wound would allow and tried to tuck the blanket behind him so that when he rolled back, he’d pin it in place.
“What’re you doin’?” Luella demanded.
“Waiting for that sweet chariot to swing down here,” Willie said, grimacing.
“Let me do that,” she told him, fussing the blanket into place. “You hungry?”
“I am.”
“Hmmm. No surprise there.” A strand of hair dropped in front of her face as she bent over him. She looked like a schoolgirl.
Willie licked his lips. “You know what they say? Starve a cold, feed a fever.”
“More like, feed a fever, grow a belly. Ain’t no chariot could carry you into heaven, the way you eat.” She glanced at Willie’s stricken expression and laughed. “I’m just playin’, Willie. You know I like to cook for you. Least you know how to say thank you.” She said this last loud enough to carry down the hall, but Jackwash didn’t answer
.
Luella had been a surprisingly good nurse. On his own since he was a young boy, Willie was not comfortable with people taking care of him. But he didn’t mind Luella’s ministrations, even when she got out the washcloth and basin. Part of the reason had to do with how she went about her business as if everything was no big deal.
As days stretched into weeks, he depended on her without a second thought, even when she brought him the gris-gris bag. The little red flannel sack held a coin, a tiny bundle of sage, another herb and a bit of root he didn’t recognize, a tiny magnet, a ring, and a page from a prayer book. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“Seven items in the bag. Has to be an odd number, and seven is lucky.”
“Okay, but what’s it for?”
“It’s for you,” she answered.
After that, he just shut up.
When his convalescence moved into the third month, Jackwash came home with a beat-up six-string acoustic he’d picked up—a Kalamazoo. “Since those boys ran off with your other one when they laid you low,” he said. “I been lookin’ in pawn shops, in case I come across your old box. No luck there, but I made a deal on this’un. I figure you miss playin’.”
The guitar had scratches all across the face. The neck bowed slightly, and the tuning heads were loose. Willie was so grateful, he could have cried—would have cried if it hadn’t been Jackwash standing there with his big toothy grin. Willie played all afternoon and into the night, his back pressed into the corner of the couch for support. When, in the wee hours of the morning, Jackwash came home, he checked on Luella and came back shaking his head. “You know you kept her awake all night?”
“I didn’t mind,” Luella called from the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Jackwash. I guess I couldn’t get enough of it, after laying here so long. I missed playing.”
Jackwash stood in the shadows, silent for a minute. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. “I’m glad you like the guitar, Willie. Makes me wonder what it would be like to love something that much.”
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