SMOKEY JOE

Cory Zimmerman

Prelude—

If this story was told in color, you would see a haint-blue sky.

Counting off—

1925: Chicago is brimming with color, trudging, color, seeking shade in the searing summer heat under tattered awnings as the sun beats relentless. The broad-leafed trees have been reserved for the shady avenues of Lincoln Park and the Gold Coast to the north, where a cool breeze freshens the three- and four-story brownstones of the fairer skin—a far cry from the smoldering Black Belt, otherwise known as “Bronzeville”. A strip of city, where bronze-skinned children sit listless on stoops while tenants lean dangerously out windows for a breath of fresh air. The whole lot stifled by heat and poverty and scorching discrimination. Yet, relentless in spirit, a sense of hope prevails—relief provided only by the frayed edges of tattered awnings.

Ground beat—

I saunter, amble, mooch, and stagger as I approach the symbolic skyline and enter The Loop.

Quote—

“There’s no use trying to pass a Ford, because there’s always another one just ahead,” so they line up, honking their comically tragic horns.

AHOOGA—

...seizes my brain, like an engine out of oil, sore and suddenly dry with the detoxification of gin thoroughly processed by my swollen liver and pissed down a drain, where it leaks out of corroded pipes back into the city, into the lake to be swirled about with fresh waters, chilly even on this steamy July day.

Mainstream—

The city has a way of entrapping the heat, turning the Loop into a boiler room. On the sidewalk, the river of people widens and quickens to the likes of a spring-swollen stream of sudden whiteness, all scurried about in well-shined shoes, shoes with purpose, making their way ‘round and ‘round the Loop. Shoes: With determination, to fool—if not you or me—oneself in the glimmer of their shine. Pale faces: file hypnotized toward corner offices scraping the sky. Pale faces, shaded by fedoras and accompanied by steam-pressed suits too thick for the boiler room that is Chicago. As newsboys hawk papers in the street, shouting headlines depicting the light and dark happenings that are the roaring twenties.

Walk—

I suppose, I have no clear idea of where I am heading; a change of venue, I suppose, as my coin purse has run dry, cash flushed down the toilet with each swig of gin in the night. Making an exodus for the North, I stroll—rather, scuff my shoes—below the “L” that squeals and deafens overhead, showering sparks upon my stiff shoulders as I struggle with an overstuffed suitcase of books. Utterly aware of my destitute state, my prospects increasingly dim with each step I take toward the golden shimmer that is the North. I carry forth nonetheless when suddenly, one out of a pack of whiteboys with a handful of stolen candy runs smack dab into my leg. Sweets scatter about my feet, and passersbys crush them underfoot, hustling obliviously in their shiny shoes. And with a chrome whistle, the boy splits before the policemen can catch him and give him a slap on the wrist.

Root—

I let the crowd wash around me as an abundant number of Model Ts honk almost comically. If I were not too sick, I might just laugh. The rumbling of the city rattles my bones—the rumbling of the city, a roar so very far away from the provincial silence and unmoved marrow of my childhood. It has been five years since I left home and ten since I’ve thought of you. Ten long years. The exhaust nauseates me, and the trumpets continually scream in my ears—drums stubborn to head on home even as the sun rises high noon. The city’s depth lingers where the speakeasies pour the forbidden fruit freely into my heart—where the fruit that poisons my blood causes me to poetically heave into the first trash can I see. Up here on the surface, I ignore the onlookers; however, I doubt they excuse me.

Riff—

You see, the problem is vision—I see double. In one eye: A revolutionary, a cultural soldier fighting for freedom of soul, of spirit, for spirit, and by spirit. In the other: A boy caught in a grown man’s body with a gut swollen with stale spirit, a spirit diminishing the soul, a spirit drowning my days, drowning my memory of you in the night. This wild abandonment manifesting the unquenchable thirst that the sun might fizzle to a dull hue and pop of darkness—an obscure vision my bloodshot eyes can finally digest. When I’ll finally sit back and relax and melt in the dim. Melt to a degree in which that tormented eye can no longer gauge my sorry self so clearly. When that eye is drunk blind, blurry, blind drunk, and can no longer see me the way my father must.

Root—

Truth be told, I haven’t set foot for some years now in that godforsaken hamlet. In fact, I never plan to again. I’d rather just forget. I’d rather ignore him and you. Hell, I don’t think of you—not for ten long years. So, I spin and sway away. I sweat and spit and shove my swollen gut down the block for the next trash can, where I leave my memories and walk away. That’s the consequence of swallowing too much rye; you see, when you swill all life serve, it comes right back up. Oh, how my sternum aches, how my throat burns, how the bass thumps my brain—the bass slapped like a baby’s ass.

Riff—

You see, the bassman knows the ways of the devil, I tell ya what. And how the devil seduces me so. How I long for the night, the night that takes me away, away from you, away from such bright, bright light, I can’t take anymore. And when played well, the chords take me on, carry me on, and you, away. Far, far away. Away from that pitiful place called memory. And for now, the bassman carries this boy with echoes of bliss into the blinding, swirling city light as I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. And with each step I take on the hard pavement, my dance-worn shins shatter my soul, and a shiver overcomes my heart. Sweat drips down my brow as the heat simmers on the street, as tall buildings do little to soothe the vertigo in my mind. I must say, not only has the great migration brought color, but I am certain I am not the only country boy to haunt these streets as they run away from their own fathers, their own lost lovers, their own tragedies. But I don’t think of you.

Moving inner voice—

I think only of them—these rural women, country gals out on their own, who’ve found themselves citified and gracing newly paved streets in search of sales jobs in grand department stores despite—and in spite of—the quaint countryside and its small towns, and self-proclaimed heritage of protecting America and its future from urban excess and moral decay. Women, expected to raise children, keep house, provide emotional support for their husbands, and, in myriad ways, properly contribute to American society. Women, who have wandered waywardly, led astray by the siren song roared out by this unique time, indeed. I wait—I wait for them to find themselves naïve and empty, to discover the thirst, wander unruly for a mystery room, in search of mystery and freedom, after drink and dance, and discover the answers to questions only to be answered when they learn to knock twice in that certain way, when and where they can swill, spin, and freely forget and be reborn.

Riff—

You see, I think only of them, not you. Their heavenly legs, their heavy lids, droopy, lazy, begging for forgiveness in the night; yet, with an AHOOGA, I wake to the day and remember it is undoubtedly the Ford era, as old Henry has taken over the world, quite indeed—at least on the surface streets, at least on the headlines, on the surface of things. But what does ol’ Henry know of down below, of the small type, of the back page, where we are left buried, and you are left behind. Ahh, the day takes my breath away, and I hear my sternum crack and spin around as the world spins twice. I see traffic lights and traffic jams. I stop in my tracks, pat my pockets, and shake my head.

AHOOGA, I shake my hands.

Turnaround—

I throw my suitcase, right back the way I came, back through the crowd that is life, back for the Southside that’ll have me, broke or not, where the broke belong, well out of sight, beyond the oaks and maples of the high part of town. I make the long trek, not knowing what I was thinking. And by four, I find a dingy boardinghouse on the corner of 38thand State. I hand the woman the money—what is left of it, I suppose, money not quite pissed away—to a woman who has seen countless Oscars come and go. She shoves the wad of bills deep in her brassiere—surely to be spent more wisely than I—and for this, she deserves it more than I.

Half-time—

The room smells of onions, and there appears to be a blood stain on the carpet. But I care not. I collapse onto the sprung springs, swollen feet throbbing, and dream only of women, Saxy Blues, and Sexful Jazz, it’s all here, down below, but no, not you—not you. I don’t think of you, not for ten long years. I remember nothing. I dream of nothing. I go alone, long into that place where ghosts go, panting silently, no longer walking amongst the living—hovering above the bed of countless lives, atop a damp blanket moist with late July heat and sweat out into a sheet stained with countless unmentionables I’ve learned to ignore. I ignore my dreams. Nightmares. I’ve learned to no longer miss you—nor mourn for you. You no longer spin about my dreams, nor my ‘mares. Not even vertigo can make you turn ‘round my mind. Not for some time. A long time, in fact. A long time, indeed. I pant this hot air—the clothes on my body sticky, clinging like flesh, dirty knees, the filth of ages—face deep in a yellowed pillow damp with someone else’s breath. I sweat of love and dread, arms spread wide, heart curled up inside, trying not to care about the heat, trying not to care about you. You see, you come with the sickness. And all I need is drink. And poof!

Pedal—

The bassman, beats on. And in a slow, thick thump, I curl about a blue haze that glazes me within a glow through the window. It shimmers on, vibrates, and shines within its own kind of blue. A dark luster. A shine: seldom seen by the surface bunch, let alone by old Henry on the surface of things, plastered on the front page. You see, I dwell below. Deep below his wildest dreams, where I know—I know I will not think of you. I huff and moan for a dime—for gin. You see, it drowns me, so I drink my medicine. Thirsty, I roll over, stare at the ceiling, and whitewash my mind with cracked and peeling paint—so dry. I search under the bed for a wayward dime but find only a poster—of a rosy-cheeked man in a black suit with a red bow tie, with dark sunglasses, a thick mustache, and a round bulbous nose under a feathered warbonnet, and a stumpy cigar plugged in the right side of his shit-eating grin—that reads:

The Great Warrior Smokey Joe!

He will fight your battles...if you just be still!

Half-time feel—

Parched tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I crumple it up and toss it in the can. I bounce on squeaky springs and bury my face in my hands. I crack my knees and open my suitcase for a pencil and pad. I pull out a chair, the witching hours upon me. I scribble, curse, and yank my hair, fantasizing of throwing myself out the window to the street below, where I might bleed out onto the brick to be pissed on by drunkards with their own poetry.

The wastebasket fills with written words, but not of you—not for ten long years.

ii.

Jump—

“Right this way, my man,” says Dox—my sideman, a craftsman on the sax, as we enter the candy shop, and I nod to the brute, six-foot-six, cross-armed, towering behind endless jars of candy:

Baby Ruth

Butterfinger

Cherry Charms

Charleston Chew

Chicken Bones

And so on, stale as the air—a password of the eyes is caught between us.

Seeing that Lucy’s Grocery sells whiskey out of the latrine and the church unloads sacramental wine by the confessional gallon, it is no surprise to see Dox walk right into the ladies’ room without a trace of indignity. Sax in hand, Dox knows every speakeasy from the French Quarter to Chi-town. Three to a block, five years deep into “The Great Experiment” — “Dread 16th of January” bringing about a rush of jukes as elegant as a chandelier of colored glass, a boom of joints as roughhewn as raw lumber, fine hotels, a hole in the wall, back doors tucked away in the subterranean. “The Mystery Room”—a joint Dox swears will knock my socks off, “Scratch that itch,” as he puts it—is through the ladies’ room in the back of the nameless candy shop.

The ladies’ room: walls papered dark purple, flower print, a gold lacquered chair right where the toilet once sat, the ceiling bordered with gold-crown molding, a washbasin remains. Beside it, Dox pushes on the wall, and a secret door opens to a flight of stairs dropping below. I follow on his heels down into the underground passageway lit by gas lanterns, the muffled yet growing beat and roar of wonderment reverberating through a steel door at the end. Dox knocks twice with a quick rhythm, and a narrow slat slides open on grease. Squinty eyes peer out through the gap and widen at the sight of Dox.

“Blind Pig,” he says, though no word is needed.

After a clank of a bolt, a series of locks unlatching, and a clunk of a shaft, the door swings wide open, and the tidal wave of pine and juniper berries and raw moaning Blues spills out—a perfect storm of every occasion at my feet. I never tire of these hidden wonders—such joints, jewels of joy, spirits howling and pouring free to drown out our collective misery.

The man on the other side greets Dox, “My buddy, how you been—been ages—I hear ya’ blowin’ tonight,” arms spread wide.

“Louie, this here, is my man, Oscar,” slap on the back.

Louie: Napoli, none too tall, squatty but well dressed, explicit, loud and gesticulate, though kind and jolly—until he isn’t—warm and welcoming.

“Oscar,” says Louie, “welcome to the Mystery Room!”

Mystery Room: Open from midnight to 5am.

“Louie,” I say, “nice to meet you.”

“Come on in, come on in, get out of the cold.”

“Ain’t nobody wanna hear me spit in this old dinged-up thing,” says Dox.

“Who you foolin’ Dox, you’re a monster, kid,” says Louie shutting the door and, re-engaging its complex series of locks, saying, “All the ladies always show up to see you blow!”

Dox: loves the ladies, and the ladies love him.

Melomania—

We settle in the back, deep behind two glasses of gin as well-shined brass glistens on stage—this here is a classy spread, silk-walled, with chandeliers that sparkle.

“This ain’t no clip joint,” says Dox, “brisk tempos.”

“As I was saying, what have you, tempos and tone—I’m an addict, my friend, regardless,” I say.

“Shit, man, everybody’s addicted to somethin’,” says Dox.

“I just can’t get enough—look at ’em. Poetic legs, gorgeous,” I say.

“The ladies? You’re preachin’ to the choir, man, and here I thought we was walkin’ talkin’ music,” he says.

“Opium,” I say, “I just wanna curl up on the floor like a stray dog, I tell ya!”

“Your’re crazy man.”

“Cheers to that,” I say.

“I got a surprise for you tonight, my friend—I heard a little bird sing, ‘Little Bird,’” he says with a wide grin.

“Little Bird...?” I ask.

“Little Bird, man. Don’t tell me you ain’t never heard of Little Bird—Little Bird, the way it moves, man, the new beat, the shake—talk about the juice, and here I thought you was cool, man—”

“And here I thought we were friends,” I say. “Who is she?”

“She’s the boogie-woogie! The Bird is something special, a legend in the makin’, but you don’t wanna act a fool, man. And that’s us friends talkin’! You hear the words I’m laying down?”

“Come on, Dox, you know me.”

“Exactly, that’s the problem, Oscar—see that gorilla standin’ over there by the stage in the silk suit? That’s Marco, Sam’s man—and Little Bird is Sam’s gal.”

“Sam?”

“Silver Dollar Sam, street boss of the Cosa Nostra crime family. He’ll have Marco mop the floor with your ass—if you mess around. Little Bird, is a high-class gal, and besides, her nest is too clean for the likes of you, you down-home cracker.” He waves over the waitress. “Nah, but I tell ya, what man, you’ll see, Little Bird’s the best thing to come out of this town—the new beat man, I tell ya, you’ll see!”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” I say.

“Your are damn right we about to see—and you mess around, Oscar, we’ll see you never be seen again—and that’s no playin’.”

Meanwhile, Louie, on standby—faithful and reliable, eye on duty—watches Skinny Boy, all skin and bones I know from around, makes one too many moves on fourteen-year-old Esther, Rosemary’s baby sister, who washes glasses behind the bar, “When she ain’t tap dancing for tips,” says Dox, nodding with a grin. “Check that fool, man—Skinny’s ass is about to get tossed.”

Rosemary, a small yet fierce-eyed woman who runs the joint, keeps her hawk-eye on Skinny from behind the bar where she holds court like Helen Morgan, eyes of emerald-green wrapped in deep velvet. She glances at Louie. Gives him the look. That’s all it takes, and Louie is on Skinny like a fly on shit.

Above, a sign reads:

No Shit!

And another:

Bait & Hook

Bait and hook: Entering the cozy wonderland hidden below the candy shop, one rarely has the will to leave the ecstasy of the free-flowing booze, long legs, and the intoxicating rhythm of the devil’s melody that plays on. And as long as the bills are stacked—black or white—anything goes. Gambling, prostitution—all fair game. What is not: disrespect of any kind, including eyeballs on her baby sister. What happens in the street is of no matter to Rosemary, but what happens at the foot of her throne is quite another, and everyone knows it, all but Skinny. If you play by the rules, you get a free sandwich on the house, a glass of beer, and a shot of gin, but the rest is on the patron, no tabs, cash only—Bait & Hook.

Rosemary: The queen of the southside answers to one man, and one man only, and that man is Mr. Capone. Capone: Owns over 10,000 speakeasies. But The Mystery Room belongs to Rosemary, and her only obligation to Capone is to buy his bootlegged liquor. In turn, he has agreed to supply her with a steady stream of heavy names to grace the stage—keeping a mutual relationship with the greats. And as long as he’s making profits, he’ll boost their careers, and the people love it, especially the flappers. Flappers: Loose, happy, and free.

Dox tells me Silver Dollar Sam is in town, trying to patch up a deal gone wrong with Capone exporting gin down to New Orleans in exchange for some Jamaican Rum. And tonight, he says, Sam’s gal, Little Bird, “Star of Crescent City,” is kicking off her reunion tour across the underground of her hometown: Chi-town.

Stand—

Five men wax their brass on the small stage awaiting her arrival—as the chorus girls egress—a guitar, a bass-fiddle, a trombone, a horn, and a sweaty sax, glistening. The floor thunders under 160 stomping feet. Sweat and spit and love and booze permeate the air. Laughter and tears, it’s Saturday night, “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show,” says Dox.

Flappers, on the prowl, wanting it more with each gin, wear short skirts and dance the Charleston with bare legs. And hardworking knuckles dig deep into their flesh—and into pockets to keep that gin flowing free, as Rosemary holds court behind a mahogany bar before a pyramid of bottles below a sign that reads:

Black & Tan

Black & Tan: Everyone is equal under the “Law of Jazz.”

Another sign:

A fight a night or your money back

And another:

Celebrities and near-celebrities, welcome!

“You may be all the world to your mother, but you’re just a cover charge to me,” says Rosemary, mixing cocktails to mask the poor quality of Capone’s gin-flavored wood grain alcohol: the Alexander, the Sweetheart, Fluffy Ruffles, the Pom-Pom, and the Cream Fizz, otherwise known as the Crème de Cacao. Rye and ginger and other raw essentials to smooth down the rough edges to not cause significant distress to the drinker—all under the watchful eye of a stuffed jackalope, a raccoon, and a bear wearing a bowler hat—as real cocktails have fled the country for Havana, London, and Paris.

Truth be told, bad-tasting cocktails are the least of it—hell, some of the drinks can kill. Last Christmas, 47 people died after drinking poisoned liquor. Hell, people were drinking gasoline, bringing the year’s body count to 741, or so I heard the newsboy shout.

“Sucker,” says Rosemary to a man in a silk suit who tips her a $100 bill. “You a butter and egg man,” she says with a laugh. “Once saw the Prince of Wales don an apron and cook some eggs,” she bullshits, as the lights dim to near-total darkness, and a soft, steady rhythm of percussion caresses the drum of the ear as the piano keys carry Little Bird across the stage to loud applause. As the horns quickly fade, and a grin spreads across Dox’s face.

“This her right now,” says Dox.

Chops—

A sax serenades her shadowed figure, small and slender. Her silhouetted hips, wide; waist, thin, as the glow of the floor light graces her perfect hourglass form—a shadow well pronounced on the red velvet curtain behind. She personifies sexful—her gown, blue as a bird; her hair, short, straight, and midnight; eyelashes curled in on themselves, hanging lazily with weight—a glistening from her shoulder, pecan eyes to bedazzle every man in the room. The band goes silent. She shuts her eyes—her lashes a dark curtain concealing her soul. We soften until there is no sharp edge in the room, and after a beat, a little voice, small and gentle, a tiny bird on a limb ringing out like the bluest bell, “Good evening.”

A tickle of the ivories, and after a beat, a release of all that suppressed misery as she sings out a lullaby that makes the daddies cry and mammas weep to the bluest melody:

“Blue memories / Are haunting me, it seems / My lover has gone / In my dreams / The blues keep haunting me / My nights are dreary and long / I want you to remember / As life goes on / There’ll never be another / To right your wrong / Deep mystery / Of long-lost love, it seems / Are my blue memories! / I want you to remember / As life goes on / There’ll never be another / To right your wrong / Deep mystery / Of long-lost love, it seems / Are my blue memories!”

Applause—

The crowd roars.

Little Bird blushes.

She clasps her hands together in gratitude.

She is shy yet graceful, taking a slight bow before rushing offstage in tiny steps.

I gulp down my gin and want more as I’d drank every word with which she’d graced this otherworldly tomb of delight. My ears tingle, my heart thumps, and the crowd stomps, and chants for an encore, until she returns and spills from her lips her soul once more, glistening like gold as she sings out:

“Stay away from me ’cause I’m in my sin / Stay away from me ’cause I’m in my sin / If this place gets raided, it’s Just Me and My Gin / Don’t try me nobody, oh, you’ll never win—”

“That’s the Little Bird, man,” says Dox, “sweet heroine, I told you she’s the best!”

Suddenly, a flapper with a short bob, thick lips, caked in dark lipstick, cigarette in one hand, gin in the other, drops in the booth right next to me.

Free—

She looks up at me with heavy, intoxicating-intoxicated eyes.

Line—

And says with no hesitation nor shame, “For tomorrow we may die, so let’s get drunk and make love.”

Upbeat—

We dance.

Downbeat—

We drop into a booth in the back corner as the roar turns to a rumble, and a soft reflection pond shimmers in a quiet haze as the music dims to a slow blue. An air of inebriation permeating the mood, echoing and shimmering through the dark, steamy room. We sit side by side, hand in hand. Her name is Betty, and she turns out to be quite a dame. Betty: wears an old perfume bottle strapped to her thigh. Betty smiles and giggles at nothing and lays her head on my shoulder as I happily take another sip from her flask.

“How’d you find this place?” I ask.

She tells me she came one Friday night with her mother to drag her father out of here. And her father didn’t want to leave, and Betty saw why, saying, “As my eyes grew wider, and my ears became drunk with sound, my blood was quickly rushing—but Mother grabbed me by the arm,” she says, “she doesn’t understand—and I doesn’t understand why she doesn’t see, why she doesn’t see—sees no value in the races mixing. And she drags me and my father back to where no one celebrates anything at all—where we all wither like a leaf.” So, she learned to knock two times, in that certain way—in that way we do. And we sit in silence to a lone saxophone cry. And Betty, after a beat, “How’d you solve such a mystery, mister?”

“I can sniff out hooch like a hound,” I tell her and sniff her hair like sweet syrup. “And how is your father now?” I ask. “Does he still come around?”

“Drowned in his liver,” she says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, “and your mother—”

“We no longer speak—the old wench.”

“So, where do you stay?” I ask.

“Rosemary rents rooms above the candy shop,” she says. “Why, need a place?”

“Turns out I do,” I say.

And she is certain Rosemary will compromise.

“What kind of compromise?” I ask.

“Running barrels, I suppose,” she grins.

And what does she do for Rosemary? I want to know, and she looks up at me slowly. Touches my lip, “I make you smile,” she says.

“I’ll do it,” I say with a smile.

“Well, don’t get your trousers in a bunch,” she says, “We gotta talk to Rosemary first. But I suppose you can stay with me tonight.”

Drop beat feel—

Betty’s eyes grow heavy—heavier. Lashes droopy, droopier, sexful, quite indeed sexier. I place my hand on her thigh and caress it with my thumb. Her flesh is soft. Her muscles, firm. I crave her. She indeed makes me smile. And I lean in. Our lips touch. The sax fades, and I dream of dark tunnels and where they might lead.

iii.

A distant train whistle springs open my eyelids with a suffocated gasp. I lunge for the trashcan by the nightstand and toss up the night. Blurrily, I make out peeling wallpaper wrapped around me like a damp cloth, and in bed, the unmistakable shape of a female hip bone. With a stir and a soft voice, she asks, “You alright, baby?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping over scattered clothing for the window’s ledge. I gasp at the cool morning air. A narrow stream of sunlight pours down the brick of the neighboring building just a breath before me, and the sulfur scent of the city turns my stomach. My eyes burn. Glancing up is a mistake, and I quickly dart my eyes into the shaft of darkness below. I struggle to pull it together—the memory of the night, the reality of the morning. The owner of the hip bone: I forget her name; I forget her face. And my head rages on. I trip back over the clothing for the humid mattress and drop down beside the mystery that is her.

The springs ache and moan, as do my joints. She pulls my pounding head down toward her, and it is now that I see her somewhat clearly. My chin on her breastbone, she runs her nails down the back of my neck. Goosepimples rise on my arms, and my stomach rumbles in a cocktail of nausea and glee. I moan, not sure what it means. And she kisses me on the forehead. Her hair drapes off her face. Her lashes are long, but her makeup has smudged off on the pillow, and I recognize her not. I ask to kiss her. But she stops me, polite enough, saying, “Baby, get yourself a glass of water and come back to me.”

“Can I ask you something?” I say, spitting a mouth full of foul water out the window.

“Sure baby, anything,” she says.

“Is this your room or mine?”

She cackles a crazy laugh, and it all comes flowing back.

“Betty!”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” and I collapse at her side.

iv.

Cadence—

Barrel run: In an abandoned freight train tunnel lost and forgotten beneath the city, rebuilt after the Great Fire—where coal was once railed to furnaces in a string of basements running north to south just below South Wacker—an ice truck awaits. And three men.

One: three-piece suit, fedora, tie, overcoat, shiny shoes, calmly smoking a cigar with one polished shoe on the wheel-well—clearly calculated.

Two: identical dressed, straight back, motionless, plank for a back, rather severe pair of straight lips under a thin mustache—confirming each calculation with a slight nod.

Three: workman’s Levi’s, dirty shirt, suspenders, scuffed-up boots, scruffy face, anxiously pacing about, long having rubbed his bulbous nose raw.

Meter—

One: with his thin mustache, he gleams in a state of unmistakable suspicion at the four of us.

Four of us: Clyde, the muscle, short body swung about by long swollen arms; the veteran; Jameson, former merchant marine, lost his job in early ’20, and when a well-heeled gentleman approached him, he agreed and became one of the earliest runners; Henry, the red-haired boy, scrawny, most likely Irish, covered in grime, no longer the rookie, thanks to me; Me, the rookie, riding on their heels, worried of losing my way in the rat-filled maze. I follow their lead, unloading barrels made of wood slaves bound with steel hoops from the truck, and we roll a dozen just inside the shaft out of sight.

One: steps into the ice truck with class.

Two: his pinstripes are a bit out of place riding in anything other than a Silver Ghost.

Three: grinds the gears and reverses the ice truck down the tunnel until the headlights are swallowed by darkness, the engine’s rumbling, a slight purr, eventually dowsed by the void.

Jameson suggests we get at it, rolling barrels down the shaft until we reach the sewer.

Alternation—

Betty and I dance the nights away to the chaotic mess resonating deeply in the marrow of our time, into the anarchy and freedom we embrace. We welcome one another freely, pelvis to pelvis, sweaty, seething with gin, within the haze of the blue ecstatic lusciousness that is Jazz, Jazz, Jazz.

Double time—

In the sewer, I grab one end of a back-breaking barrel—Henry, the redhead, the other—and we slosh through a city’s worth of excrement amongst a million rats scurrying out from underfoot. Only two of us wear a miner’s lamp on our heads, and I ain’t one of them. Yet, we all hope for Christ’s sake neither will extinguish in such a ghastly place—as undoubtedly, we would be devoured alive by vermin the size of a man’s large shoe in no time. I kick a dozen off my leg before climbing into the next coal tunnel.

Double time feel—

Looking into each other’s eyes, our hearts pump in time with the stand-up bass, and the lead sings a muddy, sexy solo about a river of booze, of lovers, and lemon drops. I swing Betty around, pull her in tight, and my hands melt into her hips—and we have one thing on our mind, and it ain’t lemon drops.

Chord—

The coal cart sits on the tracks. Clyde and I lift the barrel into the cart and roll it a hundred yards, and the other two pull it back by a rope. We keep moving—there is no time to waste. And just past the final furnace, we duck through a chiseled-out hole just wide enough for a barrel to squeeze into a series of basements connected by doors—of which only two men have a key: Clive and Jameson.

Jameson: always in the front.

Clyde: always in the back.

The whole process: well-scripted and ran a thousand times without a spoken word.

Ballad—

The night grows late. Our dancing legs tire. Instead of collapsing into a booth, Betty suggests we split. She pulls me by the hand to the fourth floor. Out of breath, she slips off her tiny dress and stands before me in the nude. I lay eyes on her milky flesh and flawless curves, her ripe pear figure, her belly as flat as a hot cake, glistening, breasts perky and pink. Betty holds out her hand and motions me forward with a finger. She places her palm about my beating chest and unbuttons my chilled, sweat-soaked shirt.

Outro—

The final stretch allows barrels to be gently rolled down a narrow concrete corridor beneath the candy shop’s 120-year-old red brick foundation. The ceiling is low, and I smack my head no less than a dozen times before reaching the half-door where, just inside, Rosemary applies a thick layer of lipstick in the mirror. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I am exhilarated as she turns and says, “What? Expecting a round of applause?”

Rosemary: carries a straight razor in her stockings.

Feel line—

I pull Betty into myself. I smell her hair—that sweet, syrupy scent. I give her a kiss on her damp neck and feel her pulse on my lips. I drop down on the bed, and she sits on my lap. She bounces up and down, slapping my love handles, and I, her ass. The bass-man—beat, beat, beat echoing in the loins. Can I smell you, she wants to know, “Can I smell you,” nudging my armpit with her nose, and I raise my arm, “You smell so fuckin’ delicious!” she says.

“I gotta piss,” I say, tossing her off me, running for my pen, and scribbling in the toilet as many words as I can. I must admit, I just don’t want to forget. I return to see her in my shirt. I push her onto the bed. I lay on top of her with my wingtips on my feet. She wraps her legs around my thighs, heels shed onto the floor, and we go at it. But I can’t; I must piss again—only this time, I really have to. I run back to the toilet. I piss. I pull the chain. I return to the bed, where she lies face-down with a copy of Four Swallows.

“Are you okay?” she asks, closing the hollowed-out book.

Inner Voice—

Is anyone?

Black panties, satin—ass like an hourglass. I take a swig. You make me okay, she believes, looking back at me with a fisheye, reaching up to scratch at my face so sexfully. The piano trickles up through the floorboards—and the French lady sings French Jazz, something of love, but something amiss. An empty glass so tricky to fill, a grasp, nonetheless.

Outer voice—

Says nothing at all.

Line up—

Maddox on the sax: before the show, he sends back the steak loin, even though it’s on the house, even though it looks mighty delicious, mouthwatering. He avoids touching anyone and the flappers cramp his style. Maddox prefers to find calm by envisioning the ocean on the Alabama coast, just a skip and a hop from the old plantation on which he was born. He can go there in his mind, anytime, for hours at a time, behind the curtain, in the john, and he makes sure to arrive at the joint at least two hours before the show, shit, showered, shaved, and ready to blow.

Leroy, on the ‘bone: goes by “Lee.” Applies a series of remedies, one by one, to which he attributes his success: glycerin and honey to clean out his pipes, Maalox for occasional stomach pains, ethyl nitrite for his face—purgatives to rid him of toxins—and, finally, a unique balm, explicitly prepared by a German trombonist, to alleviate his chronic lip ailments and keep them strong. Lee cleans up, side-stage, before a hand mirror, with pomade, tweezing any stubborn hair follicles right out of their pores, before he hugs and kisses all the ladies in the room for good luck. And only now can he slowly start to relax, first taking a swig of cognac, followed by a cool glass of water. Lee quietly says a prayer to himself while the band begins to set up on stage, and he lets out a scream, with a stomp of the foot, only once, and now he is ready to head into the spotlight.

Joe, on the trumpet: a fan of boxing since childhood, takes on the pre-fight practices of his favorite fighters like Sugar Ray and Joe Louis. He prefers to leave himself hungry and unsatisfied before the performance by abstaining from food and women—not a taste of sex. The trumpeter also makes a point of not shaking anyone’s hand before going on stage. Joe fears the oil will throw off his playing but, when absolutely necessary, extends only his left hand.

Rosemary: loves to bust Joe’s balls.

“You in the wrong house, you think I’m gonna tiptoe ’round your sensibilities—you can take those velvet gloves and get on,” she says, walking out from behind the bar, “Now, get on in here,” as she extends her arms wide.

Joe wears shoes one size too small to feel that his feet are firmly planted on the ground. He bends over—ignoring Rosemary—and ties his shoes as tightly as possible without breaking a string, as Rosemary laughs it off. She calls him a sucker and returns to pre-mixing cocktails for the evening.

Brown, on the drums[CMP1] : keeps quiet, keeping to himself, preferring to see performing as a natural part of his day rather than a special occasion. Going about his usual regimen, screwing on the cymbal, checks the snare with a sizzle, and the big drum with a kick, after which he enjoys a meal on the house, steak and eggs, and a cold glass of milk.

Marshall, on the clarinet: the youngest in the quintet[CMP2] , takes out his ironing board on stage, a sort of ceremony of preparing and ironing his suit, feeling that even if it doesn’t end up going well, audiences will say, “at least he was clean.”

Louie, the ever-loyal doorman, nods, shoulder blades dug deep into the steel door.

I nurse a gin in the back corner. It’s early, but I’m exhausted. Running barrels has quickly become many days followed by one long night in this absolute mess of a paradise. I toss back my glass, grab a bottle, and make my way up to my dingy flat that is this Jazz Age. Lips blue by Christmas, I sit at my small table with my bottle and pen and words amidst a mind ravaged by the whirlwind that is my time. Flooded with memories, I’ve forsaken sleep for some weeks—the haint-blue[CMP3] [CMP4] haze that engulfs me so. I try to forget. But it gets more complicated with time—the witching hours upon me. I curse—yank my hair. Haunted in the night, once more, I fantasize of throwing myself out of the window to the street below, where I might bleed out onto that cold stone. I crumple the sheet, toss it in the can, go down the hall to piss, pull the chain, return, and begin again.

***

Tune—

Headlights exposes the frayed soul of the drunkard stumbling through the snowy street at night. The AHOOGA! cracks his mind wide open, and he veers off a foot to the left. He sloshes through the slush, cursing and threadbare. His worn soles meet the wet, cold chill called life with deep familiarity. The stone echoes painfully up his splint-shins. Exposed, alive, and he knows it, seemingly afraid to die in so many ways, yet, more than willing. Though, the rhythm of the city carries him on, nonetheless.

Hooves trot past as the city celebrates all that is wrong and all that is right.

And anyone he passes along the way is simply alone in their own, thoughts of a world other than his own, a man amongst many, a man all alone. Couples whisper, as do circles of fellows on stoops and balconies crumbling under the weight of man. He is known well enough, yet not at all; by and by, they glare. Lips moving out of the corner of the eye. As below, on the stone, the slow gait of a horse, its teary eye, which may or may not be pulling a buggy—

***

I write until my pen runs dry and stop to pour another drink. I watch from my window as the drunkard stumbles by in the snow. There is a far-off holler, but I see no one on the street. I down my gin and pour another along with another AHOOGA!

Knock—knock—knock, I drop my pen, gather the pages, and shove them under the bed as though some secret plan—forbidden confessions. I gather myself in a breath, walk to the door, and turn the handle in wonder, in some unknown fear, expecting a knife to the gut. A bullet to the crown—certain death, at last. And Betty has me against the wall at once. Red lips smeared all over my own. Shaky hands in anxious hunger. We explore one another’s figures as we seek every curve of flesh. We scramble to remove each other’s clothes. I lift her gown over her head, leaving her hair in a terrible mess. I run my fingers through that nest as our pelvic bones meet. Wobbly knees—somehow, making it to the bed. An awful, out-of-breath mess, dripping wet with sweat in a steamy-Christmas-mess. The stars somewhere beyond the low-lying clouds fizzle and pop, veiled above this slush ridden city, stank and rotten, yet, ever so lovely.

Upon the wall, our two shadows morph into one colorless form, one beautiful dance of gra[CMP5] y. I sigh deeply as we lay out in this twisted mess. Tangled knots of cotton sheet and human stain. We gaze at the ceiling and into one another’s eyes—hers, pecan.

My own, as blue as a summer’s day.

I lay my head on her belly, and it bobs with each breath before she slides out from under.

She smirks as though insulted, takes a cigarette from her handbag, and walks to the window, and cracks it. Frigid air pours in. I roll to my back, and the sweat beads off my forehead. She appears tense in the eyes as my brow crinkles in sudden worry. The mood has shifted. I kick the sheets from the bed, sit up, stand, and join her by the window that looks out over darkened bronze. I stand beside her as she leans on the sill, exhaling in the nude, just begging to be seen in the karosine night.

She blows more smoke out into the humid room that swirls with Christmas freeze, and tosses her cigarette to the street below, and leaves they window open a crack. Sparks dash in the slight breeze. Her nude body is covered in goose pimples. Frustrated, she walks about the room in circles, seemingly in search of a lost pair of panties, cursing under her breath. I pour myself a drink and down it in one swallow. I refill the glass and offer it.

“No, thanks,” she says, lifting the sheet from the floor to wrap it around herself, settling on the edge of the bed in surrender, and I sit beside her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Why?”

“I want to know you,” I say

“Know what?” you ask. “I done told you everything!”

“I want to know ‘you’,” I say.

“Here I am, naked in the buck—what more you wanna know?” you ask.

vi.

Two days later, I throw myself across the room and wake the old floorboards once again to climb up the musical stairs to Betty’s room in search of comfort and a warm body to soothe my woes. But I find her chilled mattress, frayed, sprung, cold, and utterly alone for all but an empty hollowed-out copy of Four Swallows and a perfume bottle run dry. I stumble down three flights of stairs, past the burly man behind the candy counter who has grown somewhat tired of my stale face—and I, of his—and I ignore his grunt and wash by the jars of candy which never dwindle, and swing into the ladies’ room and scamper over swollen feet down another flight of stairs to the basement below, where the air is soggy and humid, steamy with the sewer stank of which I, too, tire. I stop only for the steel door, take a rotten breath, slick back my greasy hair, and knock twice with swollen knuckles.

“Louie.”

“Oscar.”

Louie says she split. For all he knows, “Hell, off to the Hamptons.”

“Who was he,” I ask.

“A pig trader with the chateau on the Gold Coast—a real piece of work,” he says with a rub to my shoulder, “comin’ in here flashing his fat wad the way he did.”

“Damn—she was a good gal,” I say.

“I’m sorry to break the news to you, Oscar,” he says, “but hell, you know dames these days.”

“She was somebody to say goodbye to,” I say, and walk to the bar to pour a gin.

“Need a tissue?” asks Rosemary.

vii.

Altered Scale—

I hardly recognize Betty in the baby-blue dress down to the ankle; hair tight in a bun; heavy lashes, now fine-tuned and thin; thin lips, raspberry gloss rather absurd in the light of day; suddenly shy; sober; a stranger, to say the least. The whole shebang a cocktail hour dream? I wonder.

“It’s for the best,” she says with her eyes as her mother stands scowling in the doorway, afraid to enter the flat for lice and mice, her ice-cold glare shivering down my spine, as she grips her crucifix in hand. I listen for the words frozen solid on the tip of Betty’s tongue, icicles that shall fall and shatter as she scurries about me, anxious, pretending to gather her things in my room, an armful of my things, a shoe, a brush; we brush arms, and I watch as she melts and seeps through my fingers only to ooze through the floorboards as her mother clears her throat. Betty gives me a glance, brief, nothing to write home about. Troublesome, if anything, with a tinge of shame creased in the corners of the eye. Penance applied by a mother’s cross clenched in a strangling grip, she hands me back my things—a sock and a tie—and I feel the suffocation on both ends, and sensing this, I turn away. I free her from my stare, and she, in turn, walks away.

Stroll—

It hurts from the window two stories above as she turns back but once with a slight, familiar gaze, from the icy street below, where the wind howls and tosses her blue dress about her ankles for the knee. Ice and snow, “For tomorrow we may die,” only now, “it was nice, while it lasted.” I can see it in her eye, far off, even about the flurry. And her mother grabs her arm with devotion, cloaked in lamb’s wool, and drags her off for the warmth of another man’s arms and the sunshine that streams through French doors at dawn. I swallow hard, drink it straight, and no longer dream of dark tunnels and where they might lead.

viii.

“Scum, like the froth of gutter water,” Commander Remington tells the Tribune. “Scum, floating on top of the exposed vats. And filth covered the floor, and the place was filled with a stench of mold and refuse—beer that sells for 65 cents a bottle in Southside saloons. We found more than 50 tanks in an abandoned warehouse—tanks once filled with dead pigs—and arrested one man, who said he had been hired to ‘take the scum off the beer.’”

In only his first four years—

Reads the Tribune:

Commander Remington has amassed an impressive record. Between July 1921 and April 1925, Remington has conducted more than fifteen thousand raids and arrested over eighteen thousand people.

Like other large cities with significant working-class and immigrant populations who resent Prohibition, Chicago is a city of copper-plated gullets—a wet city. And, if there is one thing that mixes well with bathtub gin, it’s Jazz.

And in Betty’s Mystery Room, the band plays on.

Diminished—

I tend to my gin, feet worn from running barrels all day, though it’s always night in the tunnels, in this underworld I dwell. I haven’t been able to write for some weeks, and I’m in the joint by eleven every night, before the crowd shows, and I can’t leave until six, long after the last patron has stumbled on home.

I keep waiting, hoping to see her.

I can’t eat.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t stop drinking gin.

I need her.

To feel her.

Her heart, beat into mine.

To feel my frailty is to know I am alive. To fear the sharpness of her blade, the way her words sliced right into me, the way my voice opened her heart—so she says—and she loses all will but to spill out before me. All she tries to conceal from the world, this mask she wears, coming right off on my pillow. And as my eyes adjust to the light, I see the delicacy of godliness, a child, so vulnerable, so pure, so sweet, at my mercy, so pure—a trust she laid into me, as she laid at my feet. And she speaks such a blinding truth she runs from every waking moment of her tragic life. Those night we shared—those nights we shivered, the words we spoke, I was at a loss, but I now see how utterly vulnerable I am. I was swept away by the game our souls seem to have played, as though I’ve known her for all time. As though our souls danced even before our bodies meet, even now that our bodies are apart. Or maybe I’m thinking magically—how far off, far off in the arms of luxury, a wealth I will never know, nor be able to provide.

Maybe has have already forgotten me?

Perhaps if I call out her name into the celestial heavens, my voice will not haunt her but echo on into oblivion as she focuses on loftier things, life in the spotlight, as I mold down here in the dank subterranean.

As the crowds, applause, as the rats squeal under my heels.

As she lavishes at grand dinner parties celebrated by all, I roll the barrels about the sewers, the barrels holding the booze that pours and spills out, loosening their lips and wallets alike, producing bill notes that pays her way through life, fuck!

As I wallow in utter poverty, she awakes in sunlight, and as a fresh breeze wallows through the French doors at dawn, I wilt in stagnation, in stank.

Surely, she has forgotten me down here in the shadows. Indeed, there is no reason to remember that night we shared; yes, that night she laid at my feet, allowed me that honor, that trust she possessed in me—Lord, why I will never know. She said it was my voice, but how would something so trivial lure her so, a dame like her, so lavish—

Hell, she unbuttoned the corset her heart hides within so content, a heart that peered out of her chest right at me, out at me with a beat, and blood, and what did I see in blinding light? Not a woman, but a girl, a girl, nothing but a simple little girl who confounds me so, who drives me mad.

So mad I must drink and drink to quench my need, my desire, my madness, and I drink—and by two am, I’m two dozen in, and the quartet is in full swing, and I swill down another four fingers and swear I hear a cowbell.

Interior voice—

What the hell? Am I mad?

My eyes dart around, looking for the culprit as Rosemary’s eyes dart toward Louie.

“You take one bottle, a one-pint bottle of good ol’ rye whiskey,” says Jameson to Louie, “and what you do is you add some grain alcohol, water, caramel, and some spice, some salt and pepper, and that one pint is turned into five,” when Louie’s eyes suddenly widen, and he holds out his hand to shush, Jameson.

The bell: runs on a string up through the floor to the ogre behind the counter in the candy shop above. He’s yanking on it like hell as squad cars line up out front. And with Rosemary’s quick nod, Louie places a beam across the door, and she hastily opens the half-door side stage, giving the room a sobering shout.

Exterior voice—

“PIGS!”

Raid: The half-door clogs in no time with a mob of patrons trying to squeeze through, and I look over at Louie with the weight of his thick back in the door, the frame of his body pulsating with every battering-ram plowing into the other side, where Commander Remington leads his vice squad.

In the tunnels, folks scamper every which way in a panic, trampling over each other, trying to flee, knee-high in sewer swamp and shit.

The musicians nonchalantly pack their axes—tools of their trade, trying not to get too ruffled, well accustomed to their line of work, as the door is busted down and Louie is thrown to the floor. Rosemary stands her ground as a tall shelf of bottles dumps over at the hand of a pig right on top of her, and I hear them crash to the floor as I dive into the darkness.

Seeing I know the tunnels like the back of my hand, one would think I have the advantage, but the cops slosh through a sewer of shit like rats, and they are on my heels in no time. Actual rats underfoot, squealing on me from the darkness, and I expect a baton to the back of the head any moment—my shadow before me sharpens as their lamp quickens. But I know a rickety old ladder just ahead in a small shoot just off to the left that leads to a trap door on the street above. I climb like hell, slipping and sliding, but kick open the trap door and fall out of a wall onto the curb. It’s raining, but I spot a church across the way on the corner through blurred eyes and soggy bangs. I hear the clamoring of cops on iron just below; I stumble to my feet, make my way to the church, throw open the doors, and lunge inside.

Pocket—

Here I stand, soaking wet, smelling of sewer piss, filth and gin, adrenaline and fear—and trying to catch my stale breath, I see the congregation turn toward me in a sudden deadened silence. No one says a word or asks anything of me, as though I’d been expected, as a tall woman in a long flowing gown parts the congregation, making her way right for me. She grabs me by the arm and pulls me forth. I do not resist. She drags me forcefully into the mix and, with inhuman strength, shoves me to the floor, where I spill out without resistance. The congregation huddles around me, encircling me on all sides as she throws up an arm. And they continue their hymn, swallowing me whole as the doors fly wide open again. And again, the congregation goes silent and turns around as one body to face two out-of-breath cops who’ve rushed in out of the rain, heels stomping on the floor and stinking of Chicago’s finest. All eyes laid on the sudden guests, the tall woman in white—eyes wide and aglow—walks right toward the white officers, who look around they black faces with a mixture of fear and disgust. She stops just before them, spreads her arms open wide, and pronounces, “Welcome to the Temple of the Innocent Blood! Would you join us?”

The cops take one long, repulsed look at her and her motley crew, scoff and turn away. After bidding them good evening in silence, the woman shuts the door behind them and walks back up the aisle with brisk intent—her long, white gown of silk flowing by in her wake. It is hot and muggy, and I am helped to my feet by the crowd who now frees me from their human cocoon, and a wave of fresh air rushes upon me with the vibrance of their hymn. And the woman re-commences a candle ceremony I had interrupted. I look around, and the room feels shrunken, suddenly smaller than where I had entered. It no longer resembles a church but a small block building, something more like an abandoned dry goods store than the church I had spotted on the street. The crowd of a hundred or so has dwindled in my vision to merely a dozen. Their presence is intense yet humble, and the walls are littered with cockeyed images of Christ. The hymn now resembles a flickering chant about the altar candles that burn, as the candlesticks look as if they have burnt for all time.

Crush—

An old man pounds on a creaky piano in the corner, hunched over, arthritic hands resembling stones, ivory, yellowed. The notes he plays are nonsensical; the rhythm, an erratic heartbeat, a confused tribal essence—and standing in front of the altar is a tepee made of thin stakes, with sticks of incense burning at its base. The tall woman in white leads a chant—a cappella punctuated with tambourine bursts. She makes a brief statement, yet one that sits me back and crosses my eyes as she holds her hand right toward me. In my vision, everyone suddenly appears somewhat weary, and as they sit, I am offered a seat.

“And so, we welcome tonight our Smokey Joe celebrator,” she announces.

Dig—

A girl wraps a flowing white cloth around my shoulders from behind. Thirteen or so, she walks to the front of the room to stand before the mysterious woman who has summoned me. The young girl with dark hair in braids, eyebrows thick, eyes piercing, jet black, says to the women, “Mother Leafy Green, I welcome our great Smokey Joe celebrator.” And the young girl turns toward the congregation as a whole and repeats the same, as I am suddenly lifted under the arms, and it feels like I float to the front with a hook in my chest.

“We come tonight to speak of a great warrior,” says Leafy, “the great chief, Smokey Joe,” as I am carried forth. “And all of us know how Smokey will come to our aid. He will fight your battles if you just be still.” Thunder rumbles outside, and the tiny chapel is electrified. Rain pounds the roof like cannonballs until the lights flicker and go out. But Leafy’s white gown glows in the flickering light of candles upon the altar. “Remember, Smokey Joe will help you,” she shouts, “he’s here to use his powers! We call to him, we pray to him, we tell him what we need,” and I am set back on my feet before her. And the doors fly open again, only this time there is no one there, only volleys of rain, but out of the blackness appears a man. He stands dazed, lightning flash silhouetting his form. He takes one long step inward and wobbles in place just inside as a gust of wind slams shut the doors behind him. His eyes glow red as coals in the dark room until the lights suddenly flicker back on, and now, his eyes, no longer radiant, turn a rather dull gray. He is disheveled and squirms about, uncomfortable in his own skin, brow furrowed. Leafy holds out her hand once more and says, “We welcome all our people.” She pauses for a moment before the altar and continues, “We pray for those behind bars of steel and shackles of the mind and soul. We offer counsel and friendship to those in the night—”

“It’s raining hard, y’all,” blurts out the newcomer as he takes a seat on an empty bench in the back.

Leafy turns toward me. The rain continues drumming on the roof as I stand beside her, just before the altar. The candles burn as the light bulbs flicker yet remain abuzz. I know not what my purpose is but notice a statue on the altar just behind the tepee of a rosy-cheeked man in a black suit with a red bow tie, dark sunglasses, a thick mustache, and a round bulbous nose under a feathered warbonnet. As incense curls, Leafy produces a cigar and lights it with a candle. With full cheeks, she puffs until the smoke is thick and the end of the cigar is cherry red. The air is tobacco sweet, and she plugs the Gordo into the right side of the rosy-cheeked man’s shit-eating grin, wafting herself in the plume of smoke, saying, “We believe in the spirits, and we know the spirits will come if we call them. And this is a special night to honor and pay our respects to Smokey Joe.”

“Yes, Lawd,” cries a woman.

Leafy paces back and forth across the floor in front of me, where I stand aloft and confused. “The name Beatrice comes to me,” she says. “Beatrice, who is Beatrice?” she asks.

“That’s my mamma’s name,” says the disheveled man in the back, “My mamma’s name Beatrice.”

“Yeah, and yo’ mamma worried about you!” says Leafy, pacing the floor, seemingly angry. “She knows you out in the streets, and all kinds of things can happen! Look at you! You know your mamma worried. Beatrice is grieving!”

The man looks shocked. He stands and says, “I wanna testify!”

“No,” shouts Leafy before the altar. “You can do that later on.”

The man sits down, confounded, mumbling to himself. And Leafy continues, her hand now on my shoulder, “And we know from Smokey Joe that we have to be careful about our money. We have to use our money carefully. Can’t waste money.” Leafy, again, faces me. “I know you been worried about money, and you need money. Yes, Lord,” she says with a nod. “All right now. The money is coming. But you have to wait. But the money is coming. Now, when the money comes, when it comes, no matter how much you need that money, you leave it in your pocket, and you wait three days before you spend it!”

She walks away and passes through the crowded room, addressing individuals who shout, “My son got in trouble, and he had to go to the courthouse,” crying out, “I pray to Smokey Joe to protect him, that they don’t put him in jail!”

Leafy tells the people to be patient, not to worry about the relative who is sick or the one who is so close to you, and yet, oh so far away. And it is clear that her prophecies are not the stuff of miracles. A folk preacher, she knows most of the people here. In a small and poor congregation, her advice on love and coping with financial stress is universally applied. But the way she faces the people, and the personal address in each of her statements, elevates her general line of oratory into something more specific and, at the same time, charismatic. Her sway over the tiny group is total. The woman radiates confidence, and in a room of true believers, who am I to doubt the power of her ministry? As for Leafy—well, if she doesn’t know the strange spell-bound boy off the street, perhaps she has something of a gift, as faith most certainly is.

The ceremony continues, and I sit back amongst the congregation, now a hundred-fold, who chant, “Smokey Joe is a watchman! He will fight your battles!” in solidarity of a common struggle. And Leafy—within the presence of Joe—dances across the floor, chanting, kneeling before the tepee, calling out his name, and when the ceremony reaches a lull, Leafy, back on her feet, continues pacing the floor, shouting, “Now, I ain’t gonna call any names, but there is money in this room. Big money! And the important thing about the money is it’s got to be used right.” Leafy stands at the altar of candles, the incense, tobacco sweet. She hits a tambourine and nods at the man at the old piano, who thumps the keys repeatedly with his giant, knuckled fists—a calamity—as she begins chanting softly. In the middle of this chaos, as she stops and points directly at me once more, commanding, “If you wanna know Smokey, than you must come to the altar once more, and you and you,” she says, pointing from one face to the next.

Coda—

And with each sole, we approach the altar, the congregation immense once more, in the hundreds, thousands packed in a room grown as large as a great cathedral, as Leafy pounds the tambourine, and produces a bottle of liquor, and takes a swig and dances about the altar. We join her, clapping in rhythm with our feet, chanting, “Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak—Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak—Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak,” as Smokey chews on his cigar. As Leafy spits a mist in Smokey’s face, as the rain pours down, as the drops drum the roof, as thunder roars through the night, I cry.