DELTA BLUES KING
By
Nickolas Whitesides
CHAPTER ONE
Some men wish they was taller, or smarter, or even better lookin', but none a them would’a given up their souls for it. Not like RJ. You ain’t never heard a sound like what ‘ol Robert Johnson could conjure with them two hands and a six string.
Folks ‘round here call me Shrimpie. On account of my affinity for cookin’ the most succulent crawdads you ever did slurp. At least, that’s why they call me that now. Back then, weren’t nothing but a jab at my somewhat delicate constitution. My real name, though, is Herbert J. Yermsbrou.
But Shrimpie is easier.
In the year 1930, I was just seventeen years old when I first laid eyes on the crooner. Young fella. Handsome I suppose to some. Had a reputation for bein’ the worst blues player in all the state.
Ain’t no wonder folks ‘round here gossiped ‘bout how RJ sold his soul to Satan himself, so he could sing and play like nobody ever heard.
Like I says before, I was seventeen at the time and lucky for me, Ulysses Denac, owner of a hidden speakeasy called, “Smoken’ Ashes,” was needin’ an extra pair of hands.
“Jump to it Shrimpie!” Yelled Mr. Denac somethin’ fierce, making me bolt right outta my chair. “I ain’t payin’ you a single Lincoln ‘til I can see my face in these tables.”
“Yessir,” I answered and immediately started wipin’ em down. Sarsha laughed from up on stage and made this then young colored man’s cheeks redder than a bouquet of roses.
She was a siren in blue satin that hugged her curves with a lover's touch. When she caressed the microphone and pressed it close to her lips, men couldn’t help but imagine she was doin’ the same thing to their cheeks.
The piano jingled idly with chromatic arpeggios. A telltale sign that Dex was feelin’ antsy. Sarsha glared at him while smoke tendrils drifted off his cigarette like a waterfall flowin’ in reverse.
“Quit that foolin’ ‘round now, Dex. Ya hear?” she scorned. Sarsha could switch on a dime. On a quarter and a dollar too for that matter. Her voice flowed smooth as honey and twice as sticky. Or it could bristle; hard enough to brush the mane of a wild stallion.
Dex took in a long draw and spewed out a cloud of ash, then he flicked his cigarette butt ‘til it disappeared against the black backdrop of the stage. He looked at her, pulled down his glasses a few inches and lit up another Lucky Strike.
“How you gonna ask a fish to stop swimmin’ or a bird not to fly?”
“Uh-uh,” Sarsha sang, standing with her hips out to one side. “Don’t play games with me now, Dex, or you gonna see the horns.”
The man let out a wheezy chuckle. “Only bulls got horns, sweet thing. You ain’t no bull. You’s a flock of geese the way you been honkin’ at me all night.”
Laughter erupted from the far side of the stage where the other musicians sat, enjoying their tobacco and drinks.
I caught myself smilin’ but wiped it off like paint soon as Sarsha whipped her head back ‘round. They traded slights back and forth for another minute while the rest of us laughed ‘til we were chokin’ on smoke. Like it were any other Friday.
Can’t quite place how it felt. Back then. Only that it was somethin’ like… being home. Them good folks and I. My people. Not just cause of the color of our skin. But cause they was born to worship music and I was born to listen.
An older black man with deep wrinkly skin shuffled past the stage and opened his yap.
“When they gonna ask ya ta’ take this show on the road toots?”
Sarsha leaned forward and breathed heavily into the mic. “I don’t need no road to put on a show, mista.” The musicians looked like they was on fire the way the smoke poured off them.
Dex’s fingers flew and not only did he tickle those ivories, he made ‘em dance too.
“Cut the noise, Dex!” Denac shouted, a cigarette danglin’ out the side of his mouth. “Save it for the customers. We open in ten. And you…” He said, glaring my way.
“Me?” I asked, lookin’ over my shoulder and pointing to myself.
“Who else am I talkin’ to, boy? Come here!”
I started runnin’ over but stole one last glimpse at Sarsha as she left the stage and sat on a man’s lap in the corner. Her Venus voodoo had me so entranced that, for a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
A crisp pop sounded right next to my ear and I stopped dead in my tracks! With a snap of his fingers, Mr. Denac snapped me back to reality before I crashed headfirst into him.
“Boy, you betta shape up or else I’ll find myself another ‘go-getter’. Understand?”
“Yessir. I’m sorry sir.”
Out of nowhere, a hand clapped Denac’s shoulder as a gritty voice urged, “Simmer down, Ulysses.” He spun around, about to put his fists up, then smiled and hugged his friend.
“Well, if it ain’t Duke King himself!”
“In the flesh, blood, and bone,” Duke replied as they pulled away. “Why you bein’ so hard on ya boy, Ulysses? You was a young buck yourself not too long ago.”
“When’d you get back?” Denac asked, ignoring the chide.
“Just this mornin’, Washboard.”
“Washboard?” I said, makin’ sure not to laugh at the boss. He shot me a look but let it go soon as it left. Duke pointed to me.
“So why you pickin’ on this young blood? You know his mind ain’t right at this age.”
“It’s right enough, Duke.”
“Well, leave 'em be for now. I got someone to introduce ya to.”
They stepped away, but were still close enough to hear. Duke waved at a tall black man dressed in a white button up shirt and suspenders that held up his dark slacks.
“Last week, I was in Louisiana where I met this fella here. Name’s Tommy Robson.”
The man held out a hand and they shook.
“Charmed, Mr. Robson.”
Duke pointed to the stage. “You ain't even close to charmed yet, Washboard. Not ‘til you hear this boy play.”
“Oh, I see. That’s high praise comin’ from Duke here. You any good?”
Tommy took the cigarette out his mouth and cooly blew out a stream with no hint of a cough.
“Good enough for New York and Jersey." He wasn’t ‘bout to kowtow to a hole-in-the-ground speakeasy owner like Ulysses Denac. Duke cut in and played mediator.
“He talks big, but he plays even bigger. And when he sings—just give ‘em a chance, washboard. One chance.”
“Chances, like money, don’t grow on trees, Duke.”
“I promise. When you hear the way this fella plays that guitar it’s gonna—”
WHAM!
The front door flew open and smacked against the wall, nearly bursting off the hinges. Every head turned. Every eye saw a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.
Dressed in a fine suit. Shoes polished with a shine that’d make the sun envious. A new hat tipped down by a dark hand. And around his body, a guitar, held fast to his chest by a sling.
Nobody spoke. Nobody dared. It felt like the devil himself had come to Smoken Ashes, hellbent on collectin’ a debt.
The figure took a step forward and everyone ‘cept Tommy, Mr. Denac and Duke took a step back. He crept slowly into the dim light, revealin’ a smilin’ face.
“Been a long time, Unc.”
“RJ?” Denac uttered, catching his breath.
“In the flesh. And suit for that matter.”
Duke rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Anyhow, as I was sayin—”
“Ain’t you that singer who made all that racket?” Sarsha called from across the room.
“Racket?” I said. Duke’s forehead was getting misty, desperate to get back on track. RJ smiled and looked down.
“You ain’t fibbin’, ma’am.” Then he turned to his uncle. “But I’ve been puttin’ in serious work all this time. And I’d like a chance to redeem myself.” He swung the instrument forward, pressed his fingers against the strings and was about to play somethin’ when Tommy stepped up and placed his hand over the fretboard.
“Got a bad habit of interruptin’ somebody else’s ‘how do you do,’ friend?” The whole place went so quiet it made a graveyard seem noisy by comparison.
“Oh, I beg pardon,” RJ chuckled and slung the guitar over his back. “Got so excited comin’ back to ‘ol Smoken’ Ashes, never crossed my mind that I might be disruptin’ anythin’.”
“Duke,” Mr. Denac said. “This is my nephew. Or, well, more like nephew-in-law.” Duke nodded and as an attempt to save face, pointed at the pair of them and said,
“Why don’t you two fellas introduce yourselves.”
With another long drag, Tommy took his hand off the guitar and blew a freight train’s worth of smoke at the stranger's face before he spoke.
“Tommy Robson.”
The stranger never stopped smilin’. Not for a second. He simply stuck out a hand and said,
“Some folks ‘round here call me RJ. But I don’t take much to it these days. Call me—Robert Johnson.”
CHAPTER TWO
As a child, my mama took me to church twice a week. Put the fear of God in me somethin’ terrible ‘til, at thirteen years old, I outgrew it like an old pair of trousers.
Never turned enemy to church though. Truth be told, more often than not, if my mind ran idle long enough back then, sooner or later I'd be picturing myself sittin’ in the chapel, listenin’ to a sermon.
Ain’t it funny then how the moment Robert Johnson strolled in that night, a half-remembered exhortation from my childhood pastor came to mind.
“The devil ain’t gonna come to ya with a mean look. Evil don’t look ugly on the outside like it do within. So don’t act surprised if you find out the smilin’ face was the one you shoulda been lookin’ out for all along.”
It was half past three in the mornin’ by the time the last customer stumbled out of Smoken’ Ashes. Robert didn’t play that night. But Tommy did. Had the whole place jumpin’ like a bucket of freshly caught lobsters.
I wasn’t acquainted with Robert. Not yet anyways. He wasn’t much for talkin’ unless it was about music or women and I didn’t know much about either.
Still, he was friendly enough. Friendlier still if you had enough of a bottle to share. That night, whenever I wasn’t havin’ my ears boxed by Mr. Denac, I’d slip away and just stare at the man.
Hard to say why. It was somethin’ like a pull, kinda when you put a magnet too close to another. Wherever he was, I wanted to be there too.
But not just me. While Tommy had toes tappin’ and was gettin’ the place all lively like, Robert Johnson was surrounded by beautiful women. Some of ‘em married too. Probably why he got into so much trouble.
I’ll never forget the first time we talked.
Mr. Denac told me to take five on account I was starting to nod off and spilled a pair of drinks. He said,
“Boy, you’re lucky you didn’t soak nobody with them drinks or you’d be outta here so fast you’d catch on fire!”
It was a nasty tongue lashing. The kind you still hear when you’re in that place between awake and asleep. To this day I don’t know why, I suppose Robert might’a saw what happened and felt bad.
Regardless, once his entourage had thinned down enough, he waved me over and asked me to sit a minute. I woulda fallen into the seat anyways once I realized who was next to him. Sarsha.
“Why you messin’ with this boy, RJ?” She scoffed, her nostrils puffing smoke like a mean dragon.
“Don’t be impolite,” he answered, voice smooth and calm. “Ain’t nothin’ make a woman more ugly than talkin’ rude.”
Sarsha’s jaw dropped. Mine too. Must’ve been something funny ‘bout it cause he started laughing like a man possessed. She smacked his chest with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.
“You gonna apologize?”
Robert smiled, his laugh trailin’ off as he picked up his glass, took a sip and set it back down.
“No, ma’am.”
Sarsha shot up from her seat and headed for the green room behind the stage. Robert waited ‘til she was out of sight, then looked at me. I don’t know why, but, when he laughed, I felt like I had to laugh too. And I did.
What’s even stranger is… it felt right.
“My Unc sure got a mean way ‘bout him sometimes,” he said once we both settled down.
“Mr. Denac?”
Robert gave a subtle eye roll and took another sip. “He makin’ everybody call him that? When I was a kid, everyone used to call him, ‘washboard.’”
“I don’t get it.”
He looked around a bit, then waved for me to lean closer. He was already tryin’ not to laugh.
“It’s cause, they said he was so ugly, someone must’ve ground his face on a washboard!”
He broke out into another fit of laughter and held up his glass for a refill. I didn’t laugh with him that time. Just as any proficient musician switches up when a song ain’t workin, Robert cut his laughter short and directed my attention to the stage.
“You like it so far?”
“Mr. Robson? One of the best I ever heard.”
“One of the best,” Robert repeated, then turned back to me. “But not THE best?”
“My mama says ain’t no such thing. Says all there is are people tryin’ hard and that some folks try harder than others.”
“Your mama sounds like a wise woman,” he said with a nod and patted my knee. “You know what I think?” Another server came by and switched his empty glass with a full one, then shot me a look that said to come help. I tried to stand but Robert rested his arm on my shoulder.
“I think,” he started, taking another sip, “that fella over there got talent. Yessir. Talent, a good voice, and a handful of decent songs. But you know what he ain’t got?” I shook my head, noticing Mr. Denac glaring at me from my peripherals. “He ain’t got soul.”
A peculiar feeling I can’t quite place emanated from him when he said that.
“Oh?” I said standing up. “And you do?” Robert grinned. Like he had a secret. As I started walkin’ away, he lifted his glass, raising a toast just for me, then downed it.
Sarsha left at 4A.M. with Dex in tow. Tommy was finishing off his second bottle and had a girl under each arm. And me? My eyelids were heavier than anvils.
Mr. Denac was shakin’ hands with Duke King, both of ‘em grinnin’ ear to ear. I overheard ‘em sayin’ somethin’ like,
“Made a killin’ tonight!”
“Didn’t I tell you? One chance.”
“Ah, Duke, you were more than right.” Mr. Denac pulled out a wad of cash and started counting. He handed a sizable stack to Duke who quickly shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Make sure your boy gets his cut now.”
With a pat, Duke snorted. “A cut and then some.” Tommy and his girls walked past me, but wouldn’t ya know it, for a man who oughta be over the moon and then some, he didn’t look much too pleased with himself.
“You alright, Tommy?” I asked. He scowled at me and said with a sneer,
“Why don’t ya ask your good friend Robert Johnson.”
The next day, Saturday, Tommy arrived an hour early and was in a foul mood all night; even though there was a bigger crowd.
After his set, he rushed back to the green room without a word to nobody. I happened to be nearby when I heard somebody shouting.
You see, Tommy was expectin’ Sarsha to be waitin’ for him, but, instead, you guessed it, Robert was there; supposedly sittin’ on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, quietly strummin’ away.
Curious, I pressed my ear to the door and this is what I heard.
“You ain’t allowed back here. Musicians only.”
“I’m a musician,” Robert said.
“You got some nerve Johnson! I heard your big mouth flappin’ all the way from the stage the other night. You got no business lookin’ down on me when you ain’t even played nothin’ yet.”
“You know how it is, Tommy. We’re both preachers to the word of song.”
“Out,” Tommy demanded in a hushed voice.
“A dog’s gotta bark when they see another dog.”
“Tough talk. I already showed my hand. If you’re man enough, put your cards on the table and let's see what you holdin’.”
There was a pause. I think I heard Robert strummin’ something, like he was about to start playin’ when—
-Smack! A rolled up newspaper hit the back of my head. “Shrimpie!” Denac hollered. I pulled away from the door but glanced at it over my shoulder.
Five minutes later, Robert walked out of the green room and left the speakeasy. The rest of the night went on. Drinks were poured. Smokes inhaled. And music played on ‘til last call at 3:00 A.M.
Tommy never left that green room. Or rather, I didn’t see him leave personally. He had played a helluva set that night. Shoulda been the man of the century by the time he left Smoken Ashes that mornin’.
One of the other servers told me on the following day that they saw Tommy leaving just as the sun had risen. He shambled past with a blank sorta stare and headed for the exit; lookin’ as shaken as a sinner in church.
CHAPTER THREE
Sunday nights were some of the busiest, and that particular Sunday would be no exception. You see, Smoken’ Ashes stood on an abandoned plantation ‘bout half a mile from a town just outside the Bayou.
Weren’t much of a walk since I lived close. But that night, as I ambled up to the place, just before dusk, I spotted Robert standing in a small grove of trees ‘bout a stone’s throw from the building.
He was never without his suit, even when it was hot. Might as well been part of his body by that time. I don’t think he heard me comin’. Even so, I imagine he was the type to keep to himself unless sayin’ otherwise.
As I crept closer, I heard him. It sounded like… like he was talkin’ to somebody. But the sun was nearly gone and I couldn’t see well enough to know for sure.
“This how it’s gonna go. Take a gander,” he said. I waited a bit but there was no sound. And he must’ve been playin’ cause his hand kept strummin’, but I couldn’t hear nothin’.
I wanted to get closer but my body wouldn’t let me. Robert swayed as he played, his mouth movin’ silently, and for a split second, when he moved far enough to one side, I thought I saw a figure standing behind one of the trees.
The figure was tall, whoever it was. And they must’ve been pleased by whatever Robert was playin’ cause to this day, when it’s dark out, and I’m layin’ in bed, starin’ up at the ceiling, I can still see the faint glow of them pearly white teeth in the shape of a wicked smile.
Clap! A hand the size of a catcher's mit slammed down on my shoulder, making me shriek.
“Where you been, shrimpie? We open in fifteen minutes?!” Mr. Denac screamed.
“Sorry, boss,” I answered, breathin’ heavy. He gave me a once over, noticin’ the sweat on my forehead.
“Boy, whatchu got goin’ on? You’re paler than a ghost covered in snow.”
“He’s just caught in a state of marvel,” Robert said, walkin’ over to us, holdin’ his guitar like a newborn.
“Marvel or not, we gotta be ready to open.”
Robert tipped his hat and Denac marched back inside. I was about to do the same when Robert put his arm around my neck and nudged me to the side.
“Share a drink before we go in.”
“Okay.” I nodded. What else was I s’pose to say? Not to mention it would buy me a few minutes of peace from the boss who was particularly on edge. We walked over to that grove of trees. In the middle was an old stump where a glass bottle of whiskey was already waitin’ for us.
Robert swiped it up, uncorked it with a pop, then gave it a whiff.
“Phew! Strong as Mississippi mud,” he proclaimed and took a big gulp, making a face like there was something foul in the air afterwards. He then held the bottle out to me. I hesitated only a moment then took it and gave a little sniff.
“Sweet jambalaya!” I cried as my eyes watered. “What is that?”
“That,” he said, leaning back against a tree and pluckin’ a chord, “That’s the good stuff.”
“The good stuff? Then why’s it makin’ my insides all sick like?”
He smiled and hummed a tune. “People pay big money for that.”
“Must not be right in the head then.”
He shook his head. “Nah. The good stuff ain’t about how it tastes, Shrimpie. It’s about how it makes you feel.”
I eyed the bottle and looked back at Robert. “Right now, it’s not makin’ me feel much of anything.”
“Cause you ain’t even tried it yet, cousin.” His charm felt like bein’ hog-tied. Somethin’ about it roped you in, pulled tight, and before you knew it, you were his.
I pressed the bottle to my lips, squeezed my eyes shut and took a swig. Which was a mistake. They don’t call it liquid fire just cause the name sounds impressive ya know? The burn didn’t come til after I’d swallowed.
Hellfire blazed in my throat, making me double over with a fit that felt like I might cough up my very lungs. Robert grinned and patted my back.
“A man’s first whiskey is always the hottest.”
With a voice like gravel, I wheezed out somethin’ like, “Ain’t no fire on Earth that can match that.” He took the bottle back and had another sip.
“What is it you want, Shrimpie?” he asked simply. My throat was still burnin’ but the coughing had subsided.
“What? Out of life? I mean… nothin’ much.”
“No, no. I mean, what is it you really want?”
I thought about it for half a minute then shrugged. “Long as I got enough for me and mine, don’t need nothin’ else.”
Robert’s head fell back and he laughed. Laughed so hard it nearly brought him to tears. The whiskey wanted me to join in and had I not seen that shadowy figure minutes before, I probably would have.
“Come on, Shrimpie. You ain’t talkin’ to my uncle, a preacher, or your mama. We just two men havin’ a real chat.”
I put my hands up. “I weren’t bein’ dishonest.”
Robert tilted his head and gave me a knowing look. “Shrimpie, everybody wants somethin’. Put a man on an island and make him king, he’ll be happy for a day. But it’ll never be enough.”
“Says you.”
“I mean it. Take Tommy for example. Does he want a lot of money in his pockets and a new girl every night? Or does he wanna be great? Want everyone to see and know he’s great. Right now, he’s at a crossroads, tryin’ to figure out what it is he really wants and what he’s willin’ to do to get it.”
I was at a loss. He was fishin’ for somethin’ in me that just wasn’t’ there. In fact, he seemed downright desperate about it, like he needed me to conjure some hidden aspiration right there just to prove his point.
With a sigh I gave another shrug. “Like I said, don’t take much to keep me satisfied.”
My answer soured his disposition and his smile faltered a bit. After another swig, he stared down at the bottle, like it was a crystal ball or somethin’, and swished the liquid in small circles.
“Tonight’s the night ya know?” he said in a low voice.
“Whatchu mean?”
“I’m playin’ tonight.”
The whisky made me bold and against my better judgement I scoffed. “Mr. Denac says Tommy’s on for another two weeks before—”
“—Tommy’s gonna sit this one out.” Robert insisted. “Just you wait.”
The back of my neck was gettin’ damp and I could feel the mosquitos buzzin’ round my ears. My eyes fell back on that parlor guitar of his and I felt the question come out before I had a chance to stop it.
“What was that song you was playin’?”
Robert pressed his lips together. Not like he was cross with me, but rather, like he was excited. “Saw that did you?” I nodded. “Been workin’ on that one since I got back. It’s finally ready.”
I didn’t reply. Just nodded politely. Robert took notice and straightened up. “How’d it sound?”
My breath hitched; panic fogged my thoughts. “Come again?”
“The song. I wanna know whatchu thought of it.”
“Uh, well.” Each beat in my chest hurt, like a hand was squeezing my heart. “It was good.”
“Good?”
“Great, really. Never heard anythin’ like it.”
“I see.” I dunno why I was so worried. Maybe cause I wasn’t supposed to see what I saw. Hear what I heard. Or hadn’t heard. Without hounding me further, Robert smiled and looked down. “I appreciate that Shrimpie.”
A laugh came out of me and I shook my head. Why was I actin’ a fool being all superstitious and whatnot? The notion brought my thoughts back to church and in the blink of an eye, my trepidations became ridiculous. Robert’s face softened.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, it’s just,” what remained of my reservations evaporated like heat waves on a summer road. “Before Mr. Denac showed up, I…uh, I coulda swore I saw somebody watching you play.” He didn’t laugh. In fact, his smile disappeared. “Must be all these late nights. My mind’s playin’ tricks on me.”
Robert didn’t say nothin’ for a good while. Just stared at me while my laughter slowly suffocated into silence.
“You sure about that?” he finally said. Serious as I’d ever seen him.
“Why you teasin’, Robert? We both know you wasn’t playin’ for nobody.”
He leaned in a little closer, his eyes sparklin’ with mischief. “I ain’t never said that.”
The whiskey sloshed in my stomach and its warmth was snuffed out. I can still recall how, in that moment, I got the distinct feeling like I was a helpless little frog, standing in front of a deadly viper about to strike.
“Shrimpie!” Denac shouted from the front door.
I thanked God under my breath and quickly stood up, wipin’ my mouth as I headed to him. “I’d better hop to it.”
Robert lifted the bottle and gave me a wink.
“Hop away little froggie,” he whispered loud enough to hear, then proceeded to drink every last drop, letting out a very satisfied ‘ah,’ once he was done.
CHAPTER FOUR
That night, the place was packed tighter than a can of sardines. Couldn’t hardly move without stepping on somebody’s foot. Sarsha was on stage, radiant as always.
Dex held on to a cigarette with his lips ‘til it weren’t nothin’ but ash on the tip of his tongue. When the number ended the crowd roared with approval. The night had barely begun and already I was drippin’ with sweat and Mr. Denac’s spit from all the yellin’ he was doing.
Drinks were flyin’ out the bar and I was speedin’ them to the patrons as fast as I could. Didn’t help that twenty minutes in the coat check got fired for swipin’ ten cents out of a regular's pockets.
So now I was part door greeter, coat checker, and drink server with no sign of reprieve. The first hour passed and just as I was findin’ my feet—
“Shrim-pie!” Mr. Denac belted from across the room, his face red like a tomato, eyes buggin’ out. As I made my way over, I noticed Duke King at his side. Both of ‘em looked madder than a group of hornets with their hive knocked down.
When I got to them, Denac pointed at the stage, almost frothin’ at the mouth. “Sarsha and Dex are on their last song!”
“And no one’s seen Tommy all night,” Duke added.
I was young. I was tired. I’d been screamed at and smacked upside the head more times than I could count. With all that said, in spite of myself, I shrugged and shouted with an exasperated,
“Whatchu want me to do about it?!”
The boss’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring. Duke raised an eyebrow and gave me a look that said, ‘you wanna try that one again?’
I came to my senses when I saw the veins on Denac’s neck bulgin’ and I gulped, knowing I’d made a big mistake. To my great surprise, he held up a hand, like he were about to smack me, but stopped himself.
“Shrimpie,” he said in a voice of forced calm. “I seen the way you and my nephew been talkin’. I know he wants to get back on the stage and show us all up now that he’s supposedly risen from the ashes like a phoenix.” He leaned in a little closer and narrowed his eyes. “Now, on the night of all nights, one of the biggest I’ve had all year, my main act is nowhere to be found.”
The implication was startin’ to set in. Duke blew a jet of smoke my way and said, “The two of you were lookin’ mighty chummy earlier. Maybe even in cahoots.”
The amount of sweat on my body doubled but my mouth was drier than cinnamon. I told my mouth to open but it kept closin’ and all I could do was stutter when trying to explain myself.
The song was halfway over. Denac rubbed his temples and groaned. Then, like an answered prayer, we heard someone calling his name from the entrance.
It was Sun House, a local performer who’d been hittin’ it big lately in the cities and whose name was making the rounds.
“Thank heavens,” Denac said under his breath and waved him over. “We might have a solution, Duke.” It would take Sun a minute to reach us through the crowd but a second later we heard a familiar voice.
“Uncle washboard!” Robert chuckled and materialized out of the sea of bodies, drink in hand. “Ain’t seen it this packed in a while.” Then he looked right at me and said in a wry voice, “Place is hoppin’.”
“Yeah, well, almost had to close up early.”
Robert finished another sip and gave a curious look. I decided to take the opportunity to make it clear what side of the line I was standing on and stepped closer to Denac.
“Tommy’s missin’.”
I didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but I’d be lying if I said I was sure he didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.
“You know anythin’ about that, nephew?” Mr. Denac seemed to accept my proof of loyalty and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Robert nodded slightly, took a look around the place, then downed the rest of his drink. “I might.”
Duke took a threatening step forward. “What did you do?”
“Calm yourself, Mr. King.” He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Your up and comin’ star, Mr. Robson, left town this mornin’ of his own volition.”
“Bull,” Duke sneered.
“It’s all right here in this letter. He didn’t want to break the news face to face and leave you all sullen like.”
Duke snatched the letter out of Robert's hand. “Why are you only tellin’ us now?!”
“Ulysses!”
Robert was about to answer when Sun House moved into our circle with a cool grin. The way our heads jerked over must’ve been unsettling cause he stared at us like Julius Caesar walkin’ in on a conversation between his conspiring senators. “Everything okay, gents?”
“My uncle’s hissy is in a fit due to his headliner walkin’ out.”
Sun House acknowledged Robert with an incredulous huff. “As I live and breathe. The noisy buck we done drove off the stage.”
“Drove off?” I said.
“Oh yeah. RJ here used to be somethin’ special. When folks was needing to sober up after a long night, we’d ask RJ to take the stage. Only took one song and they’d be wide awake and headin’ for the door.”
Robert wasn’t slighted in the least. Matter of fact, he chuckled. It mercifully broke the tension as he nudged Sun House with his elbow.
“He ain’t foolin’ neither,” he said with a snicker. “Member’ that time Willy Johns threw a bottle at his own guitar I was strummin’? Put a new hole in it an everythin.’”
“Gotta admit though, after that it sounded better than ever.” The two of them burst into a shared laugh that drew us in like a whirlpool. Only thing that broke us out of it was the applause from the crowd. Sarsha and Dex had just finished. Denac pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Sun, I hate to ask but… did you by chance bring your guitar?”
The man didn’t need any further explanation. He sighed, obviously planning on enjoyin’ the night for a change, but he nodded his head like the good man he was.
“Not here, but close. It’s at a friend’s house I’m stayin’ with.” Right before they could make something happen, Robert cut in.
“I can play.”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Cause I ain’t yet sure you weren’t behind Tommy’s leavin’.”
“Read the letter. It’s his handwriting and everythin’.”
“That don’t prove nothin’.”
“Don’t accuse me neither." Mr. Denac knew he didn’t have much time to argue. Duke took the initiative and volunteered to go grab Sun’s guitar even though it would take him a good twenty five minutes.
“Wait,” I said just as Duke walked out the door. “What about Robert? He’s got a guitar.”
“Yes, I do. But nobody plays this six string ‘cept me.”
“RJ, please,” Denac groaned.
“It ain’t RJ no more, Unc. If you want somethin’ from me you better ask right.”
Mr. Denac paused and gave his nephew a hard look, then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he pleaded, saying, “Robert, we’re in dire straits here. Please—will you lend Mr. House here your guitar?”
Robert stared at his uncle with predatory eyes, the way a panther plays with its prey. Then, once the moment had stretched to the point of breaking, he inhaled slowly and gave an answer.
“No.” Denac exhaled and shut his eyes. “But,” he continued, “If you don’t want these fine people causing a riot… put me on stage.”
Denac was resistant but not as firm as he otherwise might’ve been.
“What about Bobby Hall?” I asked, trying to offer him an alternative. “Or the Juke Boys?”
“Nah. They won’t be here for another two hours. Unless they arrive right before the set they drink themselves into yesterday and play like a pack of mules in heat."
Sarsha caught wind of something happening and hopped off the stage, headin’ our way.
“Look, Ulysses,” Sun offered, “Give the young man one song. If you don’t like what you hear, I’ll jump in and finish out the set for the rest of the night ‘til your other riffraff get here.”
Denac adjusted his shirt collar and could feel the crowd growing restless. That’s when Sarsha sauntered up, hips swayin’ like a pendulum.
“Where’s the next act? People are gettin’ agitated.”
“Tommy’s gone,” I blurted out. Mr. Denac smacked the back of my head.
“But Robert’s gonna hold down the fort ‘til Duke comes back with my guitar.”
“That right, Denac?” She asked.
“I don’t know. It’s been two years since I last heard him play and if you ask me two years weren’t long enough.”
She looked around the room then back at him. “Way I see it, you don’t got much of a choice, boss.”
Mr. Denac looked like a cornered animal. Probably felt like one too. Robert smiled and handed his drink to me.
“Unc,” he uttered in a low voice that we could hear perfectly over the noise of the room. “I promise you, after one note, you’ll want me for the whole night.”
Denac wiped the beads off his forehead. He looked over at the empty stage, at the smoke risin’ up to the ceilin’ and let out a long sigh of surrender. With both hands on his hips, he shot his nephew a stern look and nodded.
“Aight, Robert.” Then he held up a finger. “One song. And if it don’t make this room jump, you ain’t never gonna show your face round here again. Clear?”
Robert straightened his tie. “As a crystal ball, Unc.” Then he offered his cheek to Sarsha. She looked at him like he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. “For luck,” he whispered.
Maybe it was his boldness or his arrogance, but whatever the reason, Sarsha rolled her eyes and pressed her lips hard against his cheek. Afterwards, he tipped his hat to us and headed for the stage, whistling a tune none of us recognized.
CHAPTER FIVE
The air hummed with anticipation, like static before a lightning strike. A haze of smoke filled the room and the smells of booze and tobacco were so heavy they made your eyes red.
Bodies shifted on the dance floor the way a large flock of birds move in the air without crashin’ into one another. I was at the bar, grabbing more drinks while Denac and Sun House stood in the back lookin’ jittery and nervous.
“Thanks,” I said to the bartender as we swapped trays. I turned and saw Robert on stage, sittin’ on a stool, tuning his guitar. Couple of folks heckled from the crowd.
“Get on with it!”
“Play somethin’.”
“That guitar just for decoration or what?”
Robert ignored it all. Just took his time pluckin’ one string at a time and turning each peg with a slow and careful deliberateness. As if he were the only person in the whole room. Or… maybe cause he was only playin’ for one person in that room. One nobody could see. Five minutes passed, which to me and everyone else, felt like an eternity.
People were gettin’ angry. Lots of grumblin’ and groanin’. Some cussed like sailors and weren’t being shy about it either. One faceless vandal threw an empty bottle which thankfully whizzed past Robert’s head, missing him entirely.
All the while, he was unbothered. The same couldn’t be said for Mr. Denac. I heard him from all the way in the back.
“He’s doin’ this on purpose,” he spat, jaw clenched and everything. Sun House was trying to calm him down and failing. “I can’t take this anymore!” He took three heavy steps, ready to march his way up to the stage and manhandle his nephew out the front door.
Then…it happened.
You can’t understand it. Not even if I could tell ya in precise detail. With perfect accuracy. You still wouldn’t get it. All I can say is this: there are only two worlds. The one before Robert Johnson opened his mouth and played his first song on the stage of Smoken’ Ashes, and the one after. Because after that night, nothin’ was the same.
“Well,” Robert sang out, startin’ low, his voice sliding up and up ‘til he hit a high note that made his vibrato trill pleasantly. He held it for about twenty seconds then stopped.
Every head turned. Every eye looked. And every mouth either closed and stayed silent, or dropped open. He smiled, adjusted his neck tie, then placed his hands on the guitar.
He started playin’. The tune was simple. At first. A descending scale, exactly what you’d expect from any seasoned blues player. The rhythm was steady but had moments of loose flourishes.
You could tell he was takin’ his time, lettin’ the crowd get an idea of him before he’d shown 'em what he was really about. After a minute, his fingers started working the neck like poetry you could see.
That’s when I heard Sun House exclaim with a shocked voice as he walked closer, needing a better look I suppose. He stopped at my side and was shaking his head.
“How?”
“How what Mr. House?”
He didn’t turn to face me when he spoke, just kept staring at Robert.
“Two years ago, that boy couldn’t carry a tune to save his mother’s life.”
“Guess he’s been workin’ hard since then.”
He shook his head again. “No, son. You don’t understand.” He pointed to the guitar. “Don’t you hear it?”
“I hear him playin’ same as you.”
“No. Listen.” I strained my ears and focused on the sound of the guitar. “He ain’t just playin’ rhythm boy.” The moment he pointed it out, I realized exactly what he was talking about. “Sounds like there’s two guitars playin’, but he’s doin’ both parts all himself.”
He was right. Somehow, while Robert plucked and strummed the rhythm, the heartbeat of a song if you will, you also heard a distinct melody on the higher strings that groaned out a slippery lead you’d be hard pressed to play by itself.
“What’s that mean?” I asked. Sun House finally turned his head to look at me.
“Boy, I been a performer for almost a decade and even I can’t play like that.”
We stared at Robert who was grinning from ear to ear and that’s when he started singin’.
“I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.”
His voice was smooth like grease on wheels with a falsetto so pure it’d make an angel jealous. We listened. You had to. Weren’t nobody in that place who could resist. The song felt like it would never end. And no one wanted it to.
Robert sang like he owned that stage, because, in a way, he did, bought and paid for without any objection. It was during that song I finally understood what he meant when he told me Tommy had talent but not soul. You could feel it in every lyric. It burrowed into our hearts, into our very beings and nobody could deny it.
He played for another three minutes or so, looping the last bars of the outro and letting it slowly fade out until it was gone.
There were no applause or cheers. Just silence. A kind of silence that could only be described as reverence. Robert laughed softly, lit up a cigarette, and started into the next song without much delay. He sang out of one side of his mouth and puffed smoke out the other.
This tune was more lively and folks responded as such. Robert took to stompin’ his feet in time with the music, so now not only was he playin’ rhythm and lead but percussion as well.
“Me and the Devil, walkin’ side by side,” he crooned. The room was a flurry of movement. The sudden burst of energy broke whatever trance held me in place and I started handin’ out drinks again.
Thirty minutes later, as I rushed back to the bar, I was surprised to see Duke King. He was standin’ dumbfounded, holding a guitar case.
“Ain’t never heard nothin’ like this fella here,” he said shrewdly. Though it was busy, I felt that I had to ask him somethin’.
“Mr. King, did you read that letter yet?”
“Huh?” he said, like I'd broken his concentration. “Letter? Oh, right.” He pulled it out of his pocket and from the way he handed it to me, you’d think it was a piece of toilet paper for all he cared.
There wasn’t time to read the whole thing, but I snuck a quick peek.
“Mr. King, sorry to leave you in the lurch, but it just wouldn’t sit right with me playin’ shows I ain’t got no business bein’ a part of.
Turns out, anyone can write a song and think it’s somethin’—until the real thing comes along that is. After that you see that you was just foolin’ yourself, pretendin’ to be somethin’ you never were.”
I pocketed the letter and looked up at Duke King who was beaming at Robert with dollar signs in his eyes.
Tommy was supposed to play for two hours that night. Robert played those two hours instead. Then he played for another two hours. Then another two after that. He played late into the night, all the while lookin’ pleased as punch and hardly winded.
Last call was at 4:00AM after the crowd had begun to thin out. Normally I’d be half-asleep on my feet on a night like that, but oddly enough, I was fresh as a daisy.
Mr. Denac and Sun House were sitting in one of the corner booths in the back, talkin’ like they wasn’t trying to keep it private. That’s when I overheard Mr. House say this.
“Ain’t no way that boy could outplay and outsing me in less than two years, Ulysses. He done sold his soul to the devil. Only way it makes sense to me.”
Denac was shaking his head and gawkin’ at a stack of bills three times as tall as he’d seen on Tommy’s best night. Though, he weren’t even half as excited neither. More like he was comin’ to grips with somethin’ he’d never be able to fully understand and wasn’t sure how to cope with it.
When Robert finally hopped off the stage and sat down at one of the tables, Sarsha was practically worshipping at his feet with all the sweet somethin’s she purred in his ear. But he looked like a man who already had all the praise in the world, so what more could a drop in the ocean do?
After a few drinks, he stumbled towards us, Sarsha under his arm and a bottle in hand.
“Shrimpie,” he greeted warmly. “How’d I do?”
“It was…” It took a moment to find the right words. “It was like listenin’ to a prayer. Only, not the kind you hear in church. I mean, the kind that flies up to heaven. On a cloud.”
Robert’s head fell back and a laugh honked in his throat.
“That good, huh?”
“Mr. Johnson, I tell you what,” Duke King said and stuck out a hand which Robert shook for half a second. “I know a man in Chicago; owns his own recording studio. If you’re keen about it, let’s get you in and put your songs on a record. I know some people in the business who’d wanna hear more.”
“Is that right?” Robert wondered, his speech slurred.
“Yessir.”
“And what about ya boy, Tommy Robson?”
Duke cleared his throat. “Oh, well, maybe he wasn’t ready for the big time. Ain’t nothing wrong with bein’ a big fish in a small lake.”
“Makes ‘em easier to catch,” he replied.
“Come on baby,” Sarsha cooed, “Let’s get you some shut eye.” As they passed me, Robert winked and said,
“Nightie night little froggie,” then walked out into the cool autumn air.
By 5AM, the only ones left were Mr. Denac and myself. I had just finished stackin’ the chairs upside-down on the tables while he was still glued to that mountain of cash.
“Night turned out alright. Wouldn’t ya say, boss?”
He answered in a quiet voice. “Better than alright, Shrimpie.”
“Well,” I said, lookin’ around just as the sky was gettin’ lighter outside. “He certainly got the place jumpin’, didn’t he?”
“Yes he did.”
Grabbin’ my coat, I headed for the door but stopped when I palmed the knob. “Hey boss?”
“Yeah?”
“That Mr. House sure likes himself a joke don’t he?”
“How you mean?”
“Ya know, when he said that Robert sold his soul to the Devil and all that?”
Mr. Denac turned around and had a weary sort of look on his face. Took a few seconds for his eyes to meet mine, but when they did, I could tell he was as lost as a blind man in a maze.
“I…I dunno, Shrimpie. I think…I hope that’s all it was.”
“What else could it be?”
He swallowed painfully, grimly even. “Ain’t no amount of money or fame that’s worth losing your soul over.”
A bit taken aback, I turned all the way around and stepped closer.
“Didn’t take you for the superstitious type, boss.”
“I wasn’t,” he answered. “Until tonight, that is.”
“Was he really that bad before? His playin’ I mean?”
He nodded. “And then some. But that ain’t what’s botherin’ me.”
“Then, what is it?”
Mr. Denac took a deep breath and rubbed his cheek. “During the last number, while the crowd was worn out and senses rightly impaired, out of the corner of my eye, well…” He swallowed again, his Adam's apple rising up like the blade of a guillotine before coming back down. “For a moment I, I coulda swore I saw a second pair a hands playin’ the neck of RJ’s guitar.”
His confession made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. I shoulda told him about the figure I saw standin’ by Robert earlier that day, but I didn’t. Maybe the night was finally gettin’ to me, or maybe I just didn’t want to admit what I knew deep down was truer than true.
Another one of my preachers' sermons came to mind.
Condemnation don’t come to those who don’t know God. Only to those who truly know him, know the truth, and still reject it! Those are the damned spoken of in scripture.
I suppose, in my own way, I too was condemned. Unable to accept the reality that was starin’ me right in the face; but all I could do was close my eyes to it.
There was one thing, however, that I knew was true that mornin’ when I left Smoken’ Ashes. Same as Sarsha and Duke and Tommy, and even Ulysses Denac all knew was undeniably true.
Over the years, many musicians would take that same stage. Many would play and sing and put everything they got into a song or two. But nobody, and I mean nobody, was ever gonna outdo what Robert Johnson did that night. Not for as long as I live.
Put a man on an island and he’ll make himself king. But his legacy will never live up to that of the first king; the one who started that line. Truer words couldn’t be said about the man who late one night knelt down at a crossroads. Who supposedly sold his soul to the devil. Who became one of the most prolific musicians of the modern day.
The man in the suit.
The crossroads singer.
The one and only—Robert Johnson.
King of the delta blues.
THE END
