Scotch and curry - short story - Black South Fiction, Art, Culture

African American Review, Summer, 1993 by Lolis Eric Elie

Wandalyn wears glances like a shawl. And if in the beer and smoke of this place a pair of eyes should slip from her neck and off her shoulders and away from her, she gathers it back, if she wishes, and puts it in place. Hers is a beauty which, even now that it has been made important, I cannot explain.

Curry saw it and in a flash asked who she was. He wasn't the first to ask, for Alvin's response was pat. "Seventeen," Alvin said to him," she'd as soon cut you as look at you." And it began.

Curry, at 17, felt he had mastered childhood.

Children - 16,17,18 - sometimes steal into these places. In this city who would stop them? Their eyes, wide for a foretaste of life, see adventure in the darkness of bars. But Curry worked here. Looked down on them from the elevation of the bandstand.

He had mastered the guitar and so played with us. Men 15 or 20 years older than he, but men who could tell him very little about playing music. Off the bandstand he couldn't help but wonder, who was he to play with?

Wandalyn - if a place like The Lion's Den can be said to have a queen - is that woman. Hers is the stool at the corner of the bar closest to the entrance. Upon entering, you see her first. And no matter where else your eyes may wander, they never really leave her.

Curry, looking at her, thought little of Alvin's advice. He walked over to Wandalyn after the second set, I saw them from a table near the bandstand. She laughing (I thought politely), he cocking his head and making gestures with his hands like an older man in this place would make. I expected the conversation to be over quickly Wandalyn did little more than flirt even with men her age. How much time would she have for Curry who, even in the light of the bandstand, even with his athlete's frame, looked so obviously 17? But they talked and laughed until the break was over.

As I plugged my bass into the amplifier, I saw Curry approaching. He was trying hard not to blush, his face begging for comment from one of us. I refused. Skeet didn't.

"Ah, the sweet bird of youth," Skeet said.

"The sweetest bird there is,' Curry said.

"So you're going to give it a try."

"No try in it," Curry smiled. "No try about it."

The sound of this place - the sound of drinks being poured and jokes being told and lustful courtships being danced to life - is the sound of Alvin "The Boss of the Blues" Jackson. And his sound, electric blues songs of men and women in desperate search of one another, is part of what makes so much so imaginable and even so possible in the darkness of this place and in the lateness of these hours. These songs awaken fantasies. And in no one is that more true than in Alvin himself.

Alvin changes suits after each set. It's an old habit. Years ago, in small country towns where people didn't have many clothes, the idea of having three suits to change into was itself a fantasy. The fantastic life of the traveling blues bard. But in New Orleans, so close to the 21st century, cheap suits, even in great numbers, are not impressive. But these old suits help to explain Alvin. For he sincerely hopes that the train of history will return to a previous stop where he still waits, and pick him up and take his life somewhere else.

Twenty years ago, Alvin had a few minor hits. On the posters that advertise our engagement at the Lion's Den there are photographs of him from that period. Then he opened at larger clubs for big names, and at smaller, less prestigious places he headlined.

There is hope in that. This is what he tries to express to the young white reporters from the newspapers. That with a few words from them he could be discovered. This great diamond could be unearthed.

And he will tell you this: One lucky break and so much could have been different.

He will tell you this at 4 a.m., when the gig is over and he has had a couple of drinks. His small eyes, sunken deeply; his meaty right hand melting the ice in a highball glass.

He seems vulnerable then. For you know that a 60-year-old blues singer who has not had his break is not going to get it. And you know that these are no longer the days when the sight and sound of a sweating man pounding out blues at smoky, crowded dances is going to entice some sultry young brownskin to bring herself to him, naked under her dress, and ready to reward him with herself. And you know that sometimes Alvin sings off key and that his jokes are old.

Which is not to say that he is without out talent.

Which is not to say that these things are determined by talent.

But you know, as he does not, that his voice is not sufficient to defrost and bring to life his particular fantasies.

But you also know that this voice is oh so fitting a soundtrack to the fantastic ruminations of this place.

The Lion's Den does not have a dressing room. Alvin dresses in the men's room and sits at a reserved table in the front row before he is called to the stage. The band plays the first tune alone. A funky blues. Then into "Alvin's Theme." From behind his drum set, Skeet begins the introduction: "Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together and welcome to the stage The Boss of the Blues, former Del-Ray recording artist, the singer of such hits as [drum roll] 'One Trick Pony,' [cymbal crask, drum roll] |It's Even Raining Inside,' [cymbal crash, drum roll] |Wondering Who's Knocking on My Baby's Door,' [cymbal crash, drum roll] ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome to the stage The Boss of the Blues, and the king of this here thing, Alvin Jackson" [cymbal crash!].