Watertown, Chapter Ten

by jota

Posted to Stories on 2004-06-12 09:28:00

Jack stepped out of the Bucket Shop into the cool spring night. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets. Monte stayed behind, still deep in a conversation with Mike the barman. Jack had told him he wanted to take a walk around town and would be back around midnight.

The revelers were everywhere. Noisy carloads of teen-agers drove up and down King Hill Avenue, their arms akimbo out the windows as they waved and heckled each other. As Jack walked up the street, he noticed two cars stopped side by side at an intersection, passing a bottle back and forth. Cars behind them cheerfully honked. Jack kept walking up the hill. Soon he found himself on the Sixth St. Viaduct. He had a commanding view of the railyard below and the low slung shacks of the meat packing sheds that stretched all the way to the river. The night was clear and a sliver moon shimmied in the reflecting waters. Looking north, Jack could see the town spread out before him, its many lights twinkling and beckoning him forward.

Just as he was about to step off the curb and cross the street, a black sedan roared past. A passenger tossed something out the window. It landed on the grass strip next to the sidewalk. The tinny drone of a low siren penetrated the night. He could hear its warning note sounding louder as it drew closer. Jack stepped back and watched as the cop car rushed into view and then disappeared into the darkness as it chased the black sedan. He bent down to inspect the object that had been thrown out of the window. It was a boot. There was something in it. Jack backed up and turned away. He skirted around it and went ahead and crossed the street.

Several blocks later, he crested the hill and went down the slope into downtown. A string of taverns lined one side of the street. He walked past them. The streets were quiet here. Several bars had their doors opened. Jack peered in as he walked by. Mostly they huddled tight over a dimly lit bar. A couple of faces glared back at him as he went by. The paved streets soon turned into cobblestone as Jack reached the oldest part of the city. He was in the middle of a group of industrial shops and warehouses. The IceHouse commanded an entire block. Suddenly, a high, clear note lifted out of nowhere and pierced the air. Jack walked towards where it came from. He could hear more notes. It was bop music, and it was coming from the river. Jack walked faster.

Soon the warehouses gave way to open fields and down by the banks of the river stood a crooked shack dangerously leaning as if about to collapse at any moment. As people tumbled out, music spilled out with them. Several times the door would shut but Jack could still hear the muffled sound of a saxophone and the pounding of drums.

As he approached, he noticed a big black man standing by the doorway. The man stared down at Jack and for a moment there was tense silence. The door suddenly burst open and a couple wrapped in each other’s stupor bumbled their way out the door. The man stopped and swung around. He drew near and tried to pat the big man’s face.

“Alfonso Mudd!” he shrieked. “Alfonso Mudd. Where can I get me’s a name like that? Your daddy musta’ done somin’ dumb awful big and bad to give you a name like that. Woooeeee!”

Alfonso stood straight and tall, glowering at the little man, who was now standing on his tiptoes and attempting to kiss Alfonso on the cheek. The woman stepped in and grabbed her partner. “Whoa ho ho, there Jerry, now let’s not start any shit.”

“Ah, suh-weety, who’s startin’ any sheet?” The man asked, standing off balance and about to fall over. “I’se jus’ trying to show this man my love. I ain’t starting nuttin’!”

“Jerry, you drunk ass,” the woman said. “You gonna get us killed, now come on and let’s go. I want a hamburger from Henry’s.”

“Henry’s? Henna-rey’s? Hen-e-ry’s? Who in the hell’s Henry?” the man yelled, raising his voice. “You tell that goddam hamburger Henry I want me a malted milk! My stomach hurts.”

The woman quickly grabbed the man by his wrist and the two of them tripped slightly down the wooden stairs and staggered off. Jack turned and watched them go. Then he looked up at Alfonso.

Alfonso glared off in the distance, watching the couple take off. Then he noticed Jack. He took a long look at him. Slowly, like sunlight pouring over the hills at dawn, the big man smiled. Then he started laughing.

“Goddammed drunks,” he said, shaking his head. “Now what about you, white boy. You got the sickness, dontcha.”

Puzzlement washed over Jack’s face. He looked up at Alfonso.

“Sure as shit, you do. Oh boy, do you got it bad, too. Come on inside. You hear that? Yep, that’s him banging on the registers in there. That’s him all right. Yes sir, the one and only Eddie Eugene.”

Jack nodded. He could feel the beat rumbling across the floor and onto the stairway where he stood.

“You here at the crossroads, ain’t ya?” Alfonso continued, drawing his face closer to Jack’s. “You here to see a man ‘bout a harp. Well now. Eddie’s sittin’ in for Howlin’ Wolf tonight who couldn’t make it because, well, ‘cause he’s long gone dead.”

Alfonso opened the door, the raucous sound of a delirious crowd and loud music blasted into Jack’s face. With a grand sweep of his mighty arm, Alfonso ushered Jack inside. Jack smiled and entered the shack.

Inside, it was so crowded that Jack noticed several men had to lift both arms up to take a drink of their beers. It was amazingly hot. Everywhere he saw sweaty faces. A pall of blue grey smoke hung over the crowd. Nearly every spot was taken. The crowd had formed a horseshoe around the stage, which was little more than a wooden platform raised two inches off the floor.

The crowd was mostly black, but they didn’t seem to care about him. Jack squeezed his way to the side of the room towards the bar. After a lengthy struggle, he finally made it. The barman saw him coming and handed him a beer over the bar. Jack forked out some change from his pocket and smiled at the barman, who simply nodded and turned away.

A combo group stopped playing and slowly got up and left, one by one, silently leaving their instruments on the stage. The crowd grew silent. Only the drummer remained. He was a small man, but dressed in a fine three-piece suit and shiny black shoes. He stiffly stood up from the drumset and walked over to the center of the stage. He withdrew a harmonica from his pocket, wiped it with a hankerchief, and closing his eyes, began to play the saddest, sweetest blues Jack had ever heard.