1967 Summer of Love - Part Six
Book One - In the Beginning was the Word. The unauthorized biography of Jake and Elwood Blues, the early years.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Blues Brothers or any related characters created by Dan Aykroyd, John Belushi, Ron Gwynne, John Landis, Mitch Glazer, Judith Jacklin, Tino Insana, and others. The events in this story occur approximately thirteen years prior to the movie. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only.
Continued from part five
Jake slammed his fist on the table, “I knew the Penguin was chompin’ to crucify me.”
“Hush your mouth, boy,” Curtis backhanded Jake’s chest. “Show the Sister some respect. If’n it wasn’t for her, a few backdoor men at Joliet would have taken a likin’ to ya. Instead, you ended up at Sheridan for easy time. You remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” he gruffed.
Thirty minutes later, we were as gone as the second bottle and all the salami. Finally feelin’ good, Curtis handed over his Kalamazoo1 to Jake, who gave it a few plucks to refamiliarize himself with his old friend. The old black man cradled his Dobro metal guitar, ran his calloused fingers over the strings to hear them sing. My right hand retrieved from my pocket the Special 20 Blues harp, warming it between my palms before bringing it back to life by blowing the scales.
The first three notes of blues we learned at his knee called out from the Dobro, G – G – B♭. The old man picked them a second time ghee-ghee-beeeeeeeee, we fell in line, and he took us to the church of Blind Willie McTell. His tenor voice crackled, preachin’ the first verse, Motherless children sees a hard time, mother's dead, mother's dead Lord.
Jake strummed the rhythm while my pipes harmonized in a whisper under the both of them. They'll not have no place to go, wanderin' around from door to door.
Taking the baton, Jake leapt on the vocals for the second verse. What Curtis took high, Jake brought down lower and fuller, just like himself, Some folks’ll say that sister will do, but when mother is dead Lord. Some folks’ll say that sister will do, soon as she's married, she turn her back on you.
Adding a few amens and a preach, the old man glanced my way wondering if I would put down the harp and show Jake what I learned while he was away. I brought the harmonica down in prayer and took the third, Father will do the best he can, so many things father don't understand. Nobody treats you like mother will when...
The Dobro faded into the background while the lyrics took flight from my lips. There was no stumble, no trip. The hesitance took a back seat to confidence and with each note, my voice climbed into the smoke-filled sky, clearing everything away in its path while I soared higher and higher. Finally, I descended, my voice diving back to the ground as the verse came to its end.
Jake’s hands went silent. He was struck still as if the holy spirit had taken hold. He and the old man sat, moved, looking at me as if I had just walked on the water I saw rolling down each man’s cheeks.
The Dobro broke through the silence, ghee-ghee-beeeeeeeee, and we brought the song home.
Sister, she turn her back on you when, mother's dead now Lord Father, he just can't understand when, mother's dead Brothers, they're next to you, never gonna walk out on you Mother's gone, sister, father too. But brother's there now Lord.
Into the midnight hour, we played every blues song we could remember. Our 12-bar harmonies lulled the old man into his crib. What was a trio then became a duo, and soon everyone was at a measure of full rest.
We were wakened by the alarm clock cashing in its chips after steadily counting its winnings through the waning hours of the night. We had fallen asleep on the couch, leaned together like two jacks holdin’ up a house of cards. Jake smoked the clock with a crumpled cigarette wrapper. Curtis was already up at the deep sink. His waxy hands lathered up his chin with the foam brush, a layer of steam keeping him from his twin.
“Give you an inch, Elwood. Git your white butt upstairs and get cleaned up for breakfast. Sister Mary is expecting you at the table and at the washbasin after. Jake, you chill down here with me until your meetin’ with the Sister. There’s a couple of extra sets of clothes behind the curtain over there. Get changed and make yourself presentable.”
I was already halfway out the door when I heard Jake grunt groggily.
“Fried chicken. G-g-gotcha. If there’s any in the fridge, I’ll b-bring it down.”
Because Curtis had to be up before the residents, for the first time in months I had a hot shower. I also got first dibs on the donated hand-me-downs in the closet. No one really had their own, except for their underclothes. No one wore someone else’s jockeys. For everything else, it was broken down by size and whoever got there first, got their pick. The blue dungarees I’d seen Sean Kearney wearin’ the past couple months were up for grabs. After pulling them on, I threw on a navy short sleeve. Not too big, not too small: it was just right. A good omen.
Breakfast was the usual oatmeal and powdered milk, with a side of white toast. McGee got my oatmeal; I got his toast. Dry. Sister Mary kept the nuns on their rounds, makin’ sure no one went without and no one got more than necessary. The forty-eight... forty-nine, this morning... the forty-nine of us got our fill, leaving a little wanting. Mostly wanting somethin’ more than oatmeal and powdered milk. At least the oatmeal was warm and hugged our bellies tight. Not somethin’ we get much around here.
I wasn’t the only one who was late getting back from meeting a boy yesterday. Mary Margaret Hennessey joined me to scour the pots and chisel out the last bits of whole oat cement that caked the morning bowls. Not much older than me, a popular girl with doe brown eyes and lil’ orphan Annie hair, she had a forehead quite a bit higher than her morals. Between the two of us, we plowed through the remnants of the breakfast destruction in record time. I grabbed a half-dozen drumsticks tucked under the tinfoil in the fridge and ran down to meet up with Jake.
Curtis had already left to keep the orphanage in one piece with a bit of baling wire and spit. I dealt the chicken out just as Jake plugged the volcano ash with his latest kill. One after the other, he stuck each drummy in his mouth and stripped the meat clean off. By the end, his wide cheeks were twice their usual size, like a squirrel packing away his winter dinner. After getting his fill, we made our way toward the stairs of Calvary which led to Sister Mary’s office.
Follow to part seven
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Kalamazoo, Dobro, and Special 20 – Kalamazoo Gibson acoustic guitar, Dobro metal resonator guitar and Hohner Special 20 Blues harmonica