RL's Dream

Twenty-Six

Soupspoon didn’t want to start playing until after ten, but a fight was close to breaking out and he started early to keep the peace.

Soupspoon and Chevette had made it to Rudy’s place by eight-fifteen. Chevette wore a simple black dress with a string of plastic pearls. Gerry was right behind them. He had on what was probably his high school graduation suit. Sono poured them all drinks.

“Billy ain’t around yet,” she said with a sour twist to her mouth.

“You like it?” Gerry asked.

“It’s all right. I mean, it’s fine,” Soupspoon said.

Soupspoon looked around. Black men populated the stale room. They smoked and drank and listened to the radio. Everybody was waiting. Waiting, Soupspoon knew, for the big man to come and the gambling to begin. But they were waiting for him too. They didn’t know it but they were waiting for him to play his blues.

Sono had a beautiful face and what they used to call a generous figure. She put Gerry’s arm around her waist and kissed his big neck.

Kiki came in with Bully Slick an hour later. She had her right arm around his waist and her left hand deep down in his front pocket. Her lipstick was askew, as was the hem of her short red dress.

Her eyes glittered with the spectacle of the room. Her mouth was moving but the words were silent. Her lipstick-smeared teeth formed a vengeful smile.

Soupspoon was tuning his guitar when Billy Slick, Kiki glued to his side, strutted up to the bar. He bumped into a short man who had broad shoulders. The short man dropped his drink.

“What’s wit’ you?” the powerful little man said.

“Forget it,” was Billy’s answer, his voice filled with swagger.

“What?” The shorter man shoved his hand into his pocket. With the other hand he grabbed Billy’s arm. Billy tried to tug his way free but couldn’t.

Men from both sides of the bar ran over to pull them apart. The smaller man was jumping and stamping to get free. Billy didn’t do much but he had his hand in his pocket now too.

That’s when Soupspoon began strumming and blowing on his harp. It was the musician’s job to keep things happening and keep violence down to a minimum. The men slowly turned their attention to the music.

By the time Rudolph came in, the bar was in full party swing. The big Hawaiian and Rudy hardly even got the attention of the crowd.

The liquor ran and the dice flew. Everybody who ever came to Rudy’s nameless bar was there that night. Even Rudy couldn’t help but grin. Money was passing from hand to hand and Soupspoon played his fingers ragged.

Whenever the music stopped the men drifted back over to the craps. But soon Soupspoon was playing again. His hip and breast ached with cancer. He felt light-headed with the pain of every human being who had ever died. There was more in his heart than he could sing. He could imagine words and notes that he couldn’t reach. He wanted to play with Robert Johnson again.

Chevette stared at her boyfriend with fierce childish pride. Whenever he looked at her he smiled.

It was the music that filled her heart. Music that scurried like a scared dog cowering and dashing underfoot. It was a towering world of heavy blows that brought a song of yelps and cries; of a hard pounding heart.

“What am I doin’ here?” the music whines.

“Nowhere, baby. I’m comin’ home,” the same song replies.

If you heard the words they made no sense. But if you felt the music it could make you cry.

There was no shame in that bastard cur, running between those legs with fear and desire. There were no words about how he got there; like a baby who tastes the cold air — he dances to the pain and howls.

By late evening Soupspoon felt as if he could fly. His fingers remembered the notes and chords on their own and nothing could bring him down. He filled four glass mugs with tips. His head was fevered and his feet were cold. Hardheaded gambling men had gone home to bring out their women so they could dance to celebrate their winnings or drink to forget their loss.

There was dancing and gambling and Soupspoon singing the blues. Billy sat with Kiki and Randy sat nearby.

When it got late, Kiki got rowdy and sick. Billy said that he’d take her home while Randy looked after Soupspoon.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Kiki said over and over. She said it to the taxi driver and to half the people in the bar. In the hall of her floor she pulled out the .32 Hattie had given her.

“Put that thing away!” Billy wrenched the gun from her hand.

“Ow!” she cried. “You hurt!”

“I’m going to kill him,” Kiki said. Billy had her shoes off. She was a wreck at the edge of the bed.

“You better wait till tomorrow.”

“Where’s my gun?”

“It’s over on the table, but I got the bullets though.”

“That’s okay. I got more. I got more than enough.”