Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-36393004-20180831220106

Note: Just a rough draft of what I have so far of Part 3, just looking for some insight. Thanks in advance!

Brian flew down I-65 in his canary yellow Gremlin. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was all he could afford at the time. He had haphazardly crammed what necessities he could into the cramped back seat the night before, preparing for his trip. There were questions that begged to be answered and there was only one way to find them, follow his father’s directions. The leather-bound folder sat riding shotgun, pages folded open along with the map. He tapped at the steering wheel in tune with the radio, keeping his eyes open for his next exit. He planned to stop at each designated spot, that is, as long as his money held out. His finger quickly flipped to a section that he had marked with a tab prior to his trip, guiding the car onto the off ramp of exit 1A. The sign to his right welcomed him to Memphis, Tennessee.

He pulled to a stop at the rest area, picking up the folder and placing it in his lap. He scanned over his father’s words again as he prepared to make his first real stop on his journey. It had taken him around seven hours to get to this point, but he knew he had to find out the truth.

''Beale Street Blues Club - Memphis, TN – September 30, 1950

I have decided to make a stop in Tennessee, there seems to be a large Blues community here and maybe I can get pointed in the right direction. I have already asked a couple of people where to head to find the right scene and I am being told about a backdoor club downtown. ''

''I get the eye walking in, doubt they see many white men in places like this but I’m here for a job, not entertainment. Many of the artists here have heard the story of Robert Johnson and a few of them believe it. I have been told to look for an artist named Frank Stokes down in Mississippi. He used to be a regular here but he seems to have moved down to Clarksdale. He has been seen speaking to a man that resembles Scratch’s description.''

Brian searches for Beale Street on his map, finding it wasn’t that hard but the alley was more difficult. The buildings had changed after eighteen years and the place described in his father’s notes just didn’t exist anymore. This would make his mission more challenging, but not impossible. He began asking people who passed by, mainly the older crowd, if they had heard of this Blues Club. Some people ignored his questions entirely, some had no idea what he was talking about, and others seemed to be angry he even asked. The whole task was frustrating and after about an hour of bad luck he found a bench to rest his feet.

He had been sitting there staring across the road for a few moments when a leathery hand landed on his shoulder. The sensation caused him to jump and as he looked up at the figure behind him he came face-to-face with the wrinkled features of an aging black man. He asked shakily, “Can I help you?” The man didn’t respond, only stared down at Brian. He assumed he was staring, that is, considering he could not see his eyes behind the large rimmed sunglasses that sat upon the man’s face. “Sir,” Brian spoke again as he tried to lean away.

“I heard you’re looking for some Blues,” the words spat out in a raspy tone through the man’s jagged and rotting teeth. He patted Brian hard on the back and cackled a bit, “Come on now, I can show you.” He began hobbling away from the bench, a cane in the other hand. Brian simply watched for a moment, still trying to understand what was happening. The old man stopped, pivoted on the leg he seemed to be favoring and spoke again, “Well, come on now boy, I ain’t got all day.” Brian hopped up and shuffled over to the man. The two of them walked in silence down the block until reaching another alley, the old man didn’t skip a beat before turning down the passage. Brian paused at the entrance, knowing this had to be the dumbest idea he had ever had. A canvas roof draped between the two buildings that sat on each side. The cloth blotted out the sun and if the alley had been any darker, you would need a flashlight.

“Come this way, the door is just here. I ain’t gonna bite ya boy, ain’t got enough teeth,” the old man said with a laugh before making a chomping motion with his mouth. Brian’s nose squinted at the sight of those ragged bits of yellow and black that remained. He had come this far though and decided he might as well see what was ahead. He slowly approached the door that the man had pointed at, seeing no handle but only a port hole with a closed cover. “Just knock on the window, tell ‘em Pete sent you. If they ask Pete who, tell him it’s the only damn blind man that can still find his way to this shit hole,” the crass words fell out before another wicked laugh.

Brian took a step toward the door, raising his shaking hand to form it into a fist. His knuckles rapped on the metal covering over the window, causing an echo in the alley. Stepping back to wait, he shoved his hands down in his pockets. He turned to thank the man for his help and noticed that he was gone. His face wrinkled a bit in confusion at the sight. The man had been moving so slowly earlier there was no way he could have made it back to the street so quickly. His curiosity was broken by the clank of the window opening and faceless voice calling out, “Who’s there?”

“Br-Brian, Pete s-sent me,” Brian’s voice cracking as he attempted to respond. Laughter could be heard on the other side of the door before the window shut. Brian’s shoulders slumped down and he shook his head in disappointment. “I knew this was a dumb idea,” he thought right before a loud clamber came from the door. Soon it swung open and out stepped a dark skinned man that towered over him. He had to be at least 6’7” and 400 lbs. He loomed over Brian for a moment, arms folded and confusion resting on his forehead.

Finally, his voice rumbled, “What’s a scrawny white boy like you hangin’ round that crazy old coot for? Matter of fact, what are you doing coming around here anyway. My people aren’t taking too kindly to yours right now, if you haven’t seen the news.”

Suddenly, Brian felt the overwhelming urge to run. He was never surer that he had made a mistake following the blind man until right this moment. He had no idea what he was talking about, he had been so busy tending to funeral matters and helping his mother move that he had paid little attention to national matters. He mentally struggled for the words that might keep him from landing a beating in this dark alley, knowing that no one would hear him or see him here. “Listen, I just- um, I wanted to see this Blues club my dad use to talk about. He passed away earlier this year and I was following an old road trip plan he left behind,” he gave a weak smile in an attempt to convince the man.

The hulking figure looked Brian over for a moment then looked around a bit before agreeing to let him in. Brian stepped up into a dimly lit hallway and the sound of the metal door crashing shut made him jolt. “Head on down there through that door,” the guard said as he returned to the stool that sat by the door. Brian continued along a crimson walled corridor, the hardwood floor creaking slightly under his steps. He could already smell the aromas from the room ahead. It was thick, almost to the point of choking him. You could tell that dozens of cigars and cigarettes created a wave of mist that billowed from the doorway. He reached the entrance and stepped just inside to bear witness to a ruckus. People hooped and yelled, danced, and sang along with the artist on stage. The band blared melodious mixtures of trumpets, saxophones, drums, and guitar. Waitresses dressed scantily buzzed from table-to-table, taking and receiving orders and dozens of men lined the bar, some speaking to one another and other’s simply placing an order with the bartender. Brian slowly approached the counter, leaning his elbows against it.

The bar went silent, all eyes falling on the palest person in the room. The bartender took a few steps in Brian’s direction, still cleaning a glass with a towel, “Can I help you son?” Brian almost missed the question, his eyes scanned the room and noticed that slowly everyone was watching him. He began to feel a knot growing in his throat and sweat began to bead upon his forehead. He swallowed hard and tried to clear his throat.

“My father came to a club like this a long time ago,” he said, still looking around the room. “He passed away earlier this year and I was visiting places he use to go, hoping someone knew him,” the words finally falling from his mouth.

The bartender gave a half-smirk, almost as if he didn’t believe him, “How long ago was this, cuz you’re the first white boy I’ve seen in here.”

“Probably eighteen years ago….,” his voice dwindling off as if he barely believed himself.

The men around him erupted in laughter along with the bartender. After a few moments the man behind the counter waved his hands around a bit to settled the uproar. “Ok, ok fella’s, give the kid a break,” he said in a calming tone before looking back to Brian, “Listen kid, there isn’t many people from back then here tonight but if you wanna ask some of those old folks at that table over there, be my guest.” The thin finger pointed past Brian to a booth in the corner, four men sat peeking over toward the commotion, their eyes widening a bit at being singled out.

The room slowly returned to life as Brian made his way through it. He overheard many of the patrons whispering about him and it did little to settle his nerves. As he came to a stop at the table, each of the old men gave him a stern look. He rung his hands for a moment, “I was just hoping one of you might have known a Rick Sawyer, he was my father.” They all looked at one another for a moment, then back at Brian before shrugging and slightly shaking their heads. “He may have been in here asking about Robert Johnson,” he continued. The man in the back corner sat forward a bit and his eyes perked at the statement.

“You mean the cop,” he blurted out in more of a statement than a question. Brian nodded in response. “Yeah, you boys remember that fella. He came in here talking about Robert and asking about that deal,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. It clicked in their heads and they started agreeing and nodding, the man next to him pointing a finger outward toward Brian, “So that was your pops?” Again, Brian simply nodded in response but the unease of the situation seemed to be tapering off. They didn’t seem as shook by his presence anymore. Each one started conversing about their memories of Rick Sawyer and the night he came asking questions. “Well, what brings you here then boy?”

“I was hoping to find out what all you told him and ask you if you know anything about this,” he said sharply as he pulled the coin from his pocket. He turned it in between his index and thumb, the light glinting from it as it moved. The man at the back of the table stood up slowly, removing the cigar that had hung between his lips and letting it rest in his fingers. He leaned in toward Brian and the rest of them simply fell silent, looking at the item in his hands.

“Listen boy, if you had any idea what you were really messing with you wouldn’t have brought that here. So, I’m going to tell you something and then you’re going to walk right back out that door,” his words cold and callous. Brian fell back into his nerves, almost shaking at the man’s voice. “That right there is a ticket to hell and you’re on the highway. If that’s what you’re after you don’t have to travel far, but both Robert, your pops, and many many others had to learn the hard way just what that means.” Brian tried to explain, but he was cut off. “No, you don’t say another word. If you wanna throw your life away you take that coin of yours to a payphone and dropped it in. He will come to you boy, but don’t be thinking about doing it here,” he said before pointing toward the exit.

Brian stuffed the coin in his pocket, turned toward the exit and slowly passed through the crowd that had fell silent at the tone of the old man’s voice. Some of the one’s closer to the table had overheard the conversation and they scowled at him as he left. He lowered his head slightly when passing the bar, everyone sat waiting for his exit. When he approached the door man Brian noticed him shaking his head with a smile. “Told you, you didn’t need to be up in here,” he said with a laugh in his voice. The door was unlocked and pushed free, held open by the guard.

Brian began to step down and just as he was clear of the door he turned to the man one more time with a question, “One more thing, what about Frank Stokes? Is he still down in Clarksdale?”

The guard shook his head, “That cat died in like 1955, just like you’re gonna if you keep pokin’ around in things you don’t know nothin’ about.” With that the door slammed shut in Brian’s face and he was left alone in the dark alley. He sighed in disappointment, pulling the coin from his pocket again. It turned between his fingers as he thought about the warning he received and what was said about the payphone. He remembered his father dropping the coin in one within his dream. Was it really that easy to summon the Devil? This thought echoed in his mind as he began walking toward the street. When he reached the end he noticed the street lights hum and slowly come to life. It was late, he was tired, and it would be far too dangerous to drive in this state. A shop owner nearby was kind enough to give him directions to the nearest lodging, The Lorraine Motel. 