Sins in Blue

by Brian Kaufman

  But it wouldn’t happen for a while. He still had some vinegar in his veins.

  After he left, the beer sat sour in the pit of his stomach. He considered calling for that taxi, but it seemed like a waste to save just half a walk home with a full taxi fare.

  Crossing campus, the students were absent for the evening, back in their dorms or out to parties. A few lonely stragglers studied in the grass or near the flower beds, but the loudest sound Willie could hear was his own labored breathing.

  By the time he arrived home, he was ready to collapse. The front door opened as he reached for the knob, and Kennedy stepped out. They stared at each other for a few moments before Willie said, “I thought you went home.”

  Kennedy backed inside. “You look like you need to sit down.”

  “I do,” Willie said. “I took a fall at work, and the knee and hip aren’t cooperating.”

  “You’re right about my leaving. I wanted to say goodbye first.”

  Willie moved past him, a hand on his shoulder for support, and dropped onto the couch, groaning. “Don’t get old,” he advised. “It’s a constant source of disappointment.” Kennedy’s duffel bag sat near the door, ready for his exit. “You have enough money to get home?”

  Kennedy nodded. “I had some left. And when I called my dad, he wired me more so I could take a bus.”

  “When’s the bus leave?”

  “I’m gonna hitch instead. I have a lot of thinking to do, and you can’t think on a bus. Too much noise.”

  Willie nodded. “I’ve always preferred an open boxcar to a bus, myself. So, what’s next?”

  “I’ll go out Highway 14 and—”

  “I mean, what are you going to do when you get home?”

  Kennedy blinked. “I’m hoping to get a job. Spend some time with my little brother, Jackson. Patch things up with my folks.”

  “College then?”

  “No,” Kennedy said. His voice was firm and certain. “Music.”

  “You don’t play.”

  “And I never will. Not like you. But there are DJs and promoters and recording studios . . . and I know what I like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Authentic music. Not like that man said yesterday. I mean real music. Honest. From the heart. Maybe I’ll promote it. Maybe I’ll spin wax. It doesn’t matter. Music is going to be my life.”

  Willie snorted. “Won’t that piss off your folks?”

  Kennedy flashed the hint of a smile. “I’m already in the doghouse.”

  “Might go easier for you if you go ahead and buy that bus ticket.”

  “I had other use for the money.” Kennedy pointed to the corner of the room.

  Willie turned and saw a cream-colored electric guitar propped where his old acoustic used to sit, plugged into a small amplifier the size of a bread box. “What the hell did you do?” Willie asked.

  “You’ll get used to an electric really fast,” Kennedy said. “The things you do will sound even better, once you get used to the feel.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I had to. I’m the reason you smashed your guitar.”

  Willie turned back, frowning. “Nonsense. I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself.”

  “I failed us. I wanted to go to Newport—”

  “You gave it your shot. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Then, I pushed you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Willie waited.

  “I wanted to know what you’d done . . . who you’d killed. I made you tell the story, and then you smashed your guitar.”

  Willie licked his lips. “Kennedy. It wasn’t you pouring that liquor down my throat. It wasn’t you that had sins to confess. I broke that guitar all on my own.”

  “You believe that?”

  “With all my heart,” Willie said.

  “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”

  “I don’t lie,” Willie said.

  Kennedy stepped forward. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Because it wasn’t you who put junk in Luella’s veins. And it wasn’t you put a noose around her neck.”

  Willie started to speak, anger in his eyes, but stopped. He sat without speaking for a long while. “I think,” he said at last, “that you just set me up, you little shit.”

  “Maybe. I’ll admit I gave that speech some thought.”

  “You know I did her wrong, don’t you? Luella?”

  “You were cruel,” Kennedy agreed. “But she killed herself. You can call yourself an accomplice, but you’ve already served time.”

  Willie stared straight ahead, a hard, vacant look in his eyes. “You’re a good kid, Kennedy. I’m glad you set things right with your folks.” He turned to gaze at the guitar again. “That is an ugly color.”

  “That’s the only reason I got a good price. Probably sat in the pawnshop window so long, it drove away business. He was glad to cut me a deal. You going to play it for me?”

  “No. I’ll pick it up when you’re gone. I’ll send you a tape after I’ve had some time to figure it out.” He turned back. “You’re hitting the road, then?”

  “I am.”

  “You have food? There’s still some burrito in the fridge.”

  Kennedy laughed. “No, thanks.”

  Willie stood up, which took longer than it should have, and ambled across the room. He put his arms around Kennedy, saying, “I’m going to miss your big ol’ misshapen head.”

  “And I’m gonna miss your grouchy, old man self.”

  Willie stepped back. “Thank you. For the guitar. For everything. You are a fine young man.”

  Kennedy smiled. He was clearly fighting tears again. “Only way to replace a guitar given to you by a friend is for a friend to give you another guitar. Or something like that.”

  “You keep in touch,” Willie said. “You have the address. Write me a letter every once in a while.”

  “I will,” Kennedy said. He picked up his duffel bag and opened the door, pausing as if to say more, blinking through his round glasses, but words wouldn’t come, so he finally headed toward the sidewalk.

  • • • • •

  Dear Willie,

  Hope you are doing well. I am fine. I’m back home and working in a pizza shop. I toss dough in front of a window, so customers waiting can enjoy the show. I hate the smell of yeast like I think you must hate dirty towels.

  I’m also a DJ for a pirate radio station here in the neighborhood. All the kids at the high school listen. I play mostly rock, though I slip in some blues whenever I can. I sold an ad to the local grocery store—our first paid ad—so Henry (who put the equipment together) lets me pretty much play anything I want.

  And, I’ve been at the library, reading up on recording studios. There’s a lot to learn.

  It was good to see my little brother again. He’s growing up fast. He likes football, which scares my mom. I’ve been practicing with him in the backyard. He’s only seven, so I go easy on him.

  I get along with my folks most of the time. My dad tries to be a good man, though we’ve had a lot of arguments about college. I’ve learned that it’s easier to stay calm because he can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do. Going to Colorado changed all that. When things get hot, I just shut up, and that goes a long way toward calming things down.

  Of course, I don’t always help matters. A week or two ago, the police brought me home from a bar. I had a fake I.D., but I guess it didn’t look all that real. And Mom is still mad at me over the neighbor girl, Jenn
y. I’ll have to tell you about that sometime, but I’m not putting it in writing.

  Anyway, I hope you’re well and enjoying the electric guitar. Don’t give it up. If you ever quit the blues, it will be the death of you.

  Your friend, Kennedy

  • • • • •

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Willie took no time at all to get comfortable with the new guitar. The neck was maple wood—fast—with a slight curve to the fretboard, which was kind to his old fingers. He found that he could do everything he’d ever done on the acoustic and more. He taught himself some trills that made his lead work sound great. After a month, he got the idea to play to an audience again.

  He talked the owner of the Town Pump into letting him play a short set at the bar. The bearded bluegrass player had an affection for old music and old musicians, and Willie fit both ends of that bill. On a Tuesday night, Willie set up his amp and guitar in the corner of the bar and began playing without any introduction. No more than three or four tables had a clear line of sight to him, hunched down as he was. His voice was scratchier than usual, and he thought he might scare them off, but the kids didn’t seem to mind.

  Willie played a few blues standards to open before playing some of his own music. He gave a thought to playing Sins in Blue, but he didn’t think he could get through the song without weeping, so he played a Beatles tune instead.

  At first, he was distracted by a dozen details, from the smell of smoke and alcohol to the way the pink neon reflected in one young blond girl’s hair. But after a while, the bar seemed to slip away, and there was only the music—his music.

  When he was done, he bent to unhook his little amp and slip his guitar into its canvas case. The blond college girl came up, hands folded in front of her black skirt and Jimi Hendrix tee shirt. “Mr. Johnson? I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your music.” He thanked her, and gave her his best sweet-old-man smile. The girl had nice legs.

  Willie considered playing again some time, though the cab ride to and from home with his equipment was a little too pricey for his budget. But playing for a crowd again had been fun.

  • • • • •

  As the weeks passed, he fumbled through his workweek in physical pain. His hip and knee were at war with his body. His congested lungs made it hard to breathe. Worse still was a mental state of constant regret. Telling his story to Kennedy was supposed to have been cathartic, but it hadn’t eased the remorse or given him the measure of peace he’d longed for.

  In the fall, Willie bought a ticket to see the Rolling Stones. He realized he’d never really attended a concert before. He played in them, but never sat through one as a fan. He recalled listening to the Stones and their cowbell at the N&R. They sounded okay. But when the radio announced the warmup acts, Willie pulled money from his savings for the ticket.

  The concert was held at Moby Gym, just a short walk from Willie’s home. Named for its odd whale shape, the gymnasium was the home of Colorado State University basketball. The facility could hold thousands of people in the stands and on the floor, and on that November night, the place was packed to capacity. Willie had a seat on the right-side bleachers, close enough to see everything on the stage below. When the music started, the wall of amplifiers hammered his ears. Oh, the things he could have done with equipment like that!

  The first opening act was Lee Michaels, who had a pop hit with the song Do You Know What I Mean? Willie watched the set and applauded, but the kid wasn’t who he’d braved the crowd to see.

  When the second act came onstage, Willie was all ears. He’d never seen the immortal B.B. King perform live, and the man was here, in the Colorado mountains of all places, playing in a venue packed with white children.

  King was decked out in a sparkling tux, his guitar Lucille riding his belly like a surfboard on a wave. He played his biggest hits, popping his notes, adding his signature finger tremolo, head rocked back and sweating under the spotlights. The crowd loved him.

  Willie watched, half in wonder and half in envy. How had this come to be? A bluesman in Fort Collins? It was a brave new world, for sure.

  Sandwiched by the crowd, Willie tried to focus on the stage, but distractions were everywhere. To his right, a young lady spent the night motionless, with her head between her knees. Beyond her, a young couple divided their time between watching the stage and watching the motionless girl. The boy looked worried, and the girl shook her head in disgust. The object of their attention looked dead.

  When King played his biggest hit, The Thrill is Gone, the crowd went crazy. Some sang along. They actually know the words. Willie shook his head in amazement. Where did these kids learn about the blues?

  After a short break, the Stones came on stage—skinny, shaggy boys sounding like they’d been raised up on Chuck Berry records. The crowd was noisy at first, making it hard for Willie to pay attention. When the band settled into music from their new album, the crowd simmered down a little, and Willie leaned forward, intrigued. B.B. King had been a fine showman, but these boys were taking the music back to the deep south, back to the juke.

  The lead singer had a little bit of Howlin’ Wolf’s growl to him. The opening to one of the new songs was familiar—gritty, dirty blues chords played to a shuffle beat that changed speeds as the song developed. The itch in Willie’s fingers told him that he wanted to play along. When the band suddenly downshifted into a slow blues, Willie caught some of the lyrics—something about a stalker going after young girls. When the song kicked back into high gear again, the song returned to the shuffle that opened the song, ramping up in speed. Willie found himself gripping his knees. The singer wailed something about sticking his knife down someone’s throat, and then, the song was over.

  “The blues had a baby,” Willie said, clapping furiously. The song danced on the razor’s edge of good taste without apology, much as Willie had lived his life. He was struck with a sudden thought—B. B. King, a blues legend, playing on the same stage as white boys from England, like they all belonged together. All of them drinking from the same well—a well that ran so deep, the bottom rested in Africa.

  Near the end of the concert, the Stones played one of their hits—Satisfaction—and the motionless girl sprang up in her seat like a jack-in-the-box, waving her arms and dancing spastically. The boy sitting next to her flinched as if she’d been resurrected, which in a way, she had. The usher who’d been standing in the aisle tried to dance, too. Thin and gawky, he tripped himself and plummeted down the steps. Several rows down, he stood and began dancing again.

  When the concert finished, Willie let others head for the aisles first rather than risk his joints to the jostling crowd. He sat quietly, smelling the odd, sweet smoke around him, relishing the secondhand high. Watching popular bands play was not something he’d do again any time soon—too hard on his old body—but he’d enjoyed himself. Everything new and wonderful, and somehow rooted in his own past.

  When the aisles were clear, he left his seat and started the walk home. He took his time. The walk was short, and the night was crisp with cold. If he kept moving at a slow, steady pace, his hip would let him be. He noticed an odd, satisfied sort of feeling that warmed him in the cold night air, and tried to identify it. Seeing a bluesman celebrated as a legend was gratifying. Listening to the Stones and their dirty sound was nice, too. A new generation, taking the music somewhere new.

  Leaving campus, he stepped off the curb wrong and felt something pop. His hip screamed in protest. To take his mind off the pain, he began talking to himself. “Kennedy would have liked that show. Wish he’d been here tonight.” In his life, Willie had cared for just a handful of people. Jackwash—his oldest, dearest friend. Luella—the only woman he’d ever loved. And Kennedy. Thinking of the boy’s l
etter, Willie laughed. Underage drinking and girl troubles? History repeats itself.

  That was what the night had been about. The concert had given him a sense of history. His history. The people in the seats couldn’t tell him apart from the Maytag repairman, but better than any of them, he understood the context of the music. He’d loved the blues as much as any person there, and though the music hadn’t always loved him back, he’d played his part. Now, half the world was listening.

  Almost home, he turned onto his street. A single lamppost cast shadows from leafless trees, like long fingers swallowed by the darkness. November clouds blanketed a starless sky. Ahead, his house sat like a dark spot at the end of a tunnel.

  His hip throbbed and he ignored it, wondering instead what his friend Jackwash would have thought of all those cowtown kids, singing along to B.B. King. “Wouldn’t have surprised you at all,” Willie said. “You watched this white boy play the blues your whole life.” On the other hand, Jackwash would surely have made fun of the way the vocalist for the Stones danced. No self-respecting bluesman would fling himself around like that.

  What would Luella have thought? Shit, I sing better than any of those fools.

  “Yes, you surely did,” Willie whispered.

  Reaching his front door, he paused for a tired moment to think of his guitar and his songs, long nights in boxcars and barns, playing in jukes, whiskey and gin, grits and bacon fat, and his friends, Jackwash and Luella. Then, with the flicker of a smile, like a candle in an upstairs window, he stepped inside.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  First, some words of thanks. Laura Mahal did a phenomenal job of editing the final draft of this book. The fact that she didn’t have to tear her hair out in the process owes much to my two critique groups, Raintree Writers and the Penpointers.