Don't Start Me Talkin'. Tom Williams

      1.

      Good Evening Everybody

       “LET’S CALL THIS A TEST,” BROTHER BEN SAYS.

      “See if there isn’t a lesson worth learning.”

      “A lesson?” I say, closing my magazine. “Lesson in what?”

      “Humility.” Brother Ben smiles as he strides down the sidewalk, showing me the way.

      It’s said that when Robert Johnson arrived in a new town, the first thing he looked for was an ugly woman who owned her own house. That way, Bob could depend upon a place to sleep, food on the table—he’d supply the liquor—and a bed partner likely as starved for affection as he was. Having just checked into the L.A. Convention Center Holiday Inn, Brother Ben and I hover near the intersection of Wilshire and Lucas. More than good loving and a full bottle, Brother Ben, the Last of the True Delta Bluesmen, wants clean sheets and room service.

      It’s two days before the start of my fifth tour. Ben doesn’t keep track any more, as he says the number of shows he’s done would only depress him. Instead of rehearsing or working out the fine points of our itinerary, we’re headed to Silver Screen Motors to buy a new car. That is, we would be headed there had I not showed Ben the issue of Blues Today I still presently clutch. In it, the special Readers and Critics’ Issue, we’re ranked number one by critics and readers have us at number two behind Blind Deacon Roland and the Professor as traditional blues acts. A likely reason for our jump of two places is the deaths of Ott Sikes, the fife and drum player from Senatobia, and the Texas ragtime pianist, Henry Lou Bascombe. Along with those rankings, for the first time my name’s on the list of top ten harp players, an idea so incredible I open Blues Today again. Ben catches me turning pages and says, “Put that away. We’re conducting a test.”

      I obey, stick the magazine in my back pocket as Ben steps off the sidewalk. He raises his hand and waves. Two o’clock in the afternoon, early February, and he’s trying to hail a cab. Here we are, two black men, too far from the hotel for a doorman to reel one in for us. Oh, he’s sharp, that Brother Ben. Knows what I’m thinking before I figure it out for myself. In this instance he knew why I was waving those polls at him. Now his test is simple. Will we get a cab? Neither of us resembles a Laker, Dodger or action film hero with a new blockbuster advertised on every other billboard. And if I believe my ranking beneath Sugar Blue as the tenth best blues harp player in the world will get someone to stop or take a second glance, I’ll be on this street corner a long, long time.

      Three cabs pass, fast as ambulances. “Ok,” I say. “I get it.”

      Ben’s smile straightens as he shakes his head. “I don’t think you do,” he says and waves frantically while cabs four and five don’t slow down. I chew on the notion that L.A.’s a difficult town for anyone to get a taxi in, while six, seven and eight speed by, the last one’s “ON DUTY” lights shutting off as it passes. It’s driven by a dude darker than me. An African, likely, told by his dispatcher he’ll get shot by fellows matching my description. I flip the cab off as it passes, then consider directing my middle finger to Ben. I pocket my hand instead.

      So we stand here, Ben now smiling as every wave fails to get us inside a cab. I tug his jacket sleeve—I want to smack him with the magazine—and say, “You’re right.”

      Still waving, he says, “Right about what, Pete?”

      With no one around on the sidewalk, we’re secure enough to use birth names, though I never call him anything but Ben. “Something you got to say?” he says.

      I curl my lower lip between my teeth. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to see him turn with that look confirming his wisdom and my naiveté. But if I don’t, he might keep us here past dark. And there’s still the matter of a car. As if preparing for one of the occasional harp solos he allows me on stage, I take a breath. Then I say, “No one knows who we are. We’re just two brothers fool enough to think a cabdriver might pick us up.”

      Ben’s arm relaxes. He stops waving but still faces the street. “And?” he says.

      I take out the magazine and tap it against my palm. I’m not mad at him. I’m more amazed at how this time I thought I might have more say in how we spend the next four months together. What was I thinking? I need this lesson. I say, “And I still have a lot to learn.”

      Ben’s hand falls to his side. His other arm lands on my shoulders. “Number one with the critics?” he says. “Not bad, huh?”

      •••

      McKinley Morganfield. Chester Burnett. Lizzie Douglas. Henry Roeland Byrd. Hang those names on a marquee and see who comes running. Change them to Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Memphis Minnie and Professor Longhair, shoot, you’ve got the best of the blues. B.B. King, whom we call the “other B.B.,” is really Riley. And Sonny Boy Williamson II, the man whose music led me where I am today, came into this world as Aleck Ford. He then took up Rice Miller, was known for a while as Little Boy Blue, but his most famous appellation he snatched from another harp player named John Lee, who supposedly went looking for the other Sonny Boy and got his ass whupped or a lesson in harp-playing or both, depending upon your source. Ben and I are in pretty good company, what with the names on our drivers licenses: Wilton Mabry and Peter Andrew Owens.

      But it’s Brother Ben and Sam Stamps, AKA Silent Sam, who ride in the back of a Yellow Cab driven by a tense and quiet white man. We’re not in character for his benefit. Though we’re not playing a gig in L.A., we’ll be performing as soon as we arrive at Silver Screen Motors, the vintage car lot where Ben buys all his touring vehicles. After the cab pulls into the tiny space of driveway that’s not cut off by the huge concertina wire fence, we pay the driver, watch him speedily depart down Figueroa. Then Ben presses the intercom button to gain Louis Habib’s attention. A graying, slender man with impeccable taste in shoes, Mr. Habib is quick to call himself Persian and praise the U.S. of A. I’ve heard his story of escaping from the Ayatollah four times but have always suspected he’s from Detroit, not too far from my own hometown of Troy. What we need from Habib is a machine that inspires dropped jaws when we pull up to the various concert halls where we’ll perform. Part of his myth is that he’s deathly afraid of flight, so Ben’s MO has always been to drive himself to venues. And for the same reason he plays pawn shop acoustics and dresses us both in the most garish rags of man made material, the only cars he believes his loyal fans—the blues faithful, he calls them—want to see him behind the wheel