Eddie had booked a weekend gig at the Dirty Dawg Howse. It was his first since Tammy’s funeral. He thought a college crowd would be a good focus group for the new song. He opened his set with ‘Dixie National,’ one of his upbeat honkey-tonkers, then went into his usual repertoire. About fifteen minutes into his set, Eddie saw familiar faces at the door. Jimmy and Megan had driven up from Jackson. They worked their way through the crowd and found a table in the back. Megan tried to make eye contact with Eddie while Jimmy ordered beers.
Eddie was working through his version of ‘Act Naturally.’ The crowd sang along with the only line they knew, “. . .and all I gotta do is, act naturally…” Eddie looked great in the bright light, wearing his black jeans and white t-shirt with an unbuttoned work shirt over it. He moved like nobody’s business up there and, by the end of the song, the audience was his. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” Eddie made eye contact and acknowledged Jimmy and Megan with that subtle upward nod musicians on stage share with their close fans.
Eddie pulled a barstool over to the mic and sat down for the first time that night. He dropped out of his antic, fun guy persona. “If you folks don’t mind, I’m gonna slow things down just a bit and do something new for you.” His tone was somber, almost confessional. The lights dimmed as Eddie prepared for his big moment. He slid the capo down a fret and strummed the guitar slowly once, then again. He tuned one string, then another, stretching things out and built the anticipation. This was, after all, theater.
When Eddie looked up from his guitar, the crowd saw a changed man. The hundred watt smile had been turned off and there was something different about his body language and his gaze. Eddie was serious, wounded, shocked, and ready to confess. Having seen Eddie’s show so many times, Jimmy sensed this more than anyone. He’d never seen Eddie put on this mask. He felt something of consequence in the air, so he clicked his pen, ready to write.
Eddie was still strumming the guitar slowly, a chord change here, a chord change there. “This time last month,” he said, “I got the notion in my hard head that I pretty much knew how things were going to turn out in my life, like I was in control of things. I had a wife. I had some gigs lined up playing my music and figured it was just a matter of time ‘fore I hit it big.” Eddie cracked a wry smile and shook his head. “To quote a famous Mississippi songwriter, ‘Have you ever seen a bigger fool than me?’” He bent a note and tried to look ironic. “Well, it turns out I was wrong. Turns out this is the only gig I’ve got lined up in the foreseeable future. I don’t know if I’m ever going to make it to the big time, and even if I do, I won’t be able to share it with my wife because … because she died not long ago.” He strummed a minor chord, beautiful and sad, and let that sink in. The place was stone silent, even the bartenders had stopped to listen.
Eddie resumed strumming the guitar slowly. “She was beautiful and I loved her, I gotta say that, but she’s gone now and… well, it just goes to show you…” He shook his head. It looked for a moment like he might cry, but he kept it together. “Anyway, after she died, I moved up to Nashville where something happened I can’t really explain. I can’t put words to it, but one night, it was late and I was struggling with all my emotions about what had happened and—” Eddie stopped playing and he leaned forward onto the body of the guitar. “And all the sudden, a song just… I dunno, it just sort of poured out of me. Like I said, I can’t explain it. It just . . . happened.” He resumed playing. “Anyway, I know her soul’s in this song and I’d like to do it for you now. This is the first time I’ve played this for anybody, so bear with me. I hope you like it. It’s called, ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’”
Most of the women in the place were crying before Eddie started to sing. Megan was in tears and Jimmy was on the verge, wiping his eyes so he could see enough to make notes in his notepad. He wanted to get that speech down verbatim. The song opened in a medium slow tempo, a bar or two of lament. It put Megan in mind of a sad hymn with each change softly chosen. Then he started to sing, and it came straight from his soul.
When the song was over, there were no dry eyes in the house. Jimmy was astonished. This was as close to perfect as a song got. Eddie soaked up the applause and humbly thanked the crowd. His melancholy smile conveyed appreciation as well as a sadness appropriate to the moment. The crowd’s response confirmed that Eddie had that rare and valuable thing known as a hit. After a moment, he got off the stool, took a modest bow, then resumed his usual set. He got the house rocking with a Steve Earle cover followed by an original. Then he played himself off the stage with Lefty Frizzell’s, “She’s Gone, Gone, Gone.” He got a standing ovation and came back out for a second bow, but he didn’t do an encore. He left them wanting more. Eddie took off his guitar and held it up. “I’m gonna take a little break, folks. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, so stick around and be sure to tip your waitresses.”
After his set Eddie joined Jimmy and Megan at their table. Megan jumped up and wrapped her arms around him. “Eddie, I am so sorry about Tammy,” she said. “The song is beautiful.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He held on to Megan, enjoying the feel of her sympathy. “And thanks for your note and the flowers. That was real nice.”
As Jimmy waited for Megan to unwrap herself from Eddie, he wondered about the etiquette of grief hugs. Weren’t you supposed to keep your pelvis away from the other person’s? Megan obviously didn’t think so, and Eddie didn’t seem to mind. Jimmy thought hugging Eddie would be the emotionally correct thing for him to do, but the Dirty Dawg Howse seemed like the wrong place to do it. Besides, he wasn’t sure they were quite that close. When the time came, he opted for a firm left hand on the back side of a regular handshake, a sincere minister sort of thing. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
Eddie shrugged. “All right, I guess. All things considered.” They sat down and a waitress brought a round for the table. Megan reached over and put her hand on Eddie’s. “I wish you had a recording of that, I’d love to play it on my show.”
Eddie smiled. “Really?” He gave Jimmy a How about that? look. He turned back to Megan. Her hand was still on his. “That’d be great,” Eddie said. “I mean, I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. But when someone in the business, I mean, you’re a professional radio programmer—”
“Look, I’m just the assistant music director, but my boss listens to me.”
“Still, that means a lot, coming from you.”
Jimmy wrote something in his notebook then looked up. “It really is a great song. You really have something there. I mean, seriously, that’s a hit.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate that. But I tell ya, if that’s what you gotta go through for a great song, I’m gonna have to find a new job.”
Jimmy nodded. “How long did it take to write? You said it just poured out of you, what was that like?” He was poised over his writing pad.
Eddie smiled. “You’re really serious about writing that book, aren’t you?”
“Hell yes, I’m serious. I’ve already written about thirty pages,” Jimmy said. “It’s a little scattered and I’ll have to go back and get some information about your ‘formative years’ but, yeah, I’m serious. And I’ll tell you, after hearing that song, I’m more convinced than ever you’re going to make it.”
“I appreciate that,” Eddie said, “I really do, but—”
“Oh, wait a second,” Jimmy said. “Maybe you can answer this.” He flipped back a few pages in his pad. “Do you know who said, ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture?’”
Eddie thought about it a moment. “I think it was Elvis.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s a little out of the King’s range.”
“No,” Eddie said, “Costello. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Hmm, that’s the first time his name’s come up. Megan thinks it was Frank Zappa.” He wrote Elvis Costello’s name under Zap
pa’s. “But neither one sounds right to me.”
Eddie watched Jimmy writing in his notebook until Megan gave his hand a tender squeeze. When he looked over, Megan’s violet eyes were all his. And then, subtly, she winked at him.
Jimmy was too involved in his writing to notice. He knew others would come along to write about Eddie, but Jimmy’s would be the definitive biography. He was the only guy who’d been there from the start. His would be the only book to have Eddie’s first speech about ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’ His imagination started to run away. Rolling Stone might preview a few chapters in a feature article, and from there, who knew what could happen?
“Here you go Eddie.” Jimmy looked up and saw the club’s manager standing by the table holding out a cassette. “Great set,” he said, slapping Eddie on the back.
“Is that what I think it is?” Megan reached for the tape.
Eddie pulled it out of reach. “I had ‘em record it off the board,” he said. “I’m sending it to some publishers and artist managers.” He smiled as he felt one of Megan’s hands dancing lightly on his thigh. “And I’ll make one for you too.”
21.
“Get it girl!” Doreen hollered as she watched Estella bump and grind to the funky percussion coming from the jukebox. Estella was on the floor dancing to Slim Harpo’s 1966 hit, ‘Baby Scratch My Back.’ Otis was out there with her, clapping his hands as he circled Estella’s big wiggling planet like a skinny little satellite. His choreography was starchy, his steps painful and economic due to arthritis. The ache informed his dance resulting in a style that was pure Otis.
Toward the end of the song, Estella lapsed into some final, frenzied gyrations. “That’s it, that’s it,” Otis said, backing out of the way until she was done. “Mmmmm-lawd! Yes! Nobody move like my sweet baby,” Otis said.
Estella was laughing hard when the song ended. She plopped down at the table next to her old friends, Doreen and her husband, Maurice. “Child, it’s too hot in here to be dancin’ like that,” Doreen said as she dabbed at her forehead with a napkin. “I ain’t even movin’ I’m all wet.”
Maurice pushed a cold beer over to Doreen. “Cool on down with that, mama.” He said it like Don Cornelius or something, a real smoooove operator, sort of Barry White by way of Billy Dee Williams.
Estella picked up a menu and fanned herself. “I’m tellin’ you,” she said. “I know I ain’t dance like that in a long time.” She laughed and pulled Otis into her big lap. “But I still got it!”
“Yes, baby, you do,” Otis said, patting Estella’s substantial thigh. “And you always will.” He turned around and kissed her cheek and they both laughed some more. It was nearly four in the morning. There were only three customers left in the joint and they were just drinking. Otis had closed the kitchen hours ago and, until he got up to dance to Slim Harpo, he’d been sitting with Doreen, Maurice, and Estella just talking about the old days.
Maurice started chuckling. “I know you ‘member that show down in Baton Rouge. . .” He ducked his head and started giggling so hard he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You talkin’ about that night the police came backstage and caught that funny boy playing with hisself. . .ooohhh child! And that promoter throwin’ a buttonhole on that half-and-half.” Doreen slapped a hand down on the table. “Liked to never stop!”
They all hooted and still acted as shocked as they’d been when it happened. They were younger then, by about forty years, and innocent in the ways of a wider world. They had all traveled together while Otis was having his moment in the sun. Estella and Doreen were backup singers. Maurice played tenor sax. He was smoooove back then too.
“Whatever happened to the man what opened that show?” Doreen asked. “Great big, fat mother.”
“Old Chubby Dykes?”
“Yeah, what become of him?”
“He moved back to Georgia long time ago,” Maurice said. “Sure could sing.”
“Sure could,” Estella agreed. “I be surprised if he’s still alive though, big as he was. Probably had a heart attack by now. I know he had the high blood.”
“You one to talk,” Doreen said. “And you ain’t done half a what that doctor told you. You ever quit them cigarettes?”
Estella waved a hand in front of her face. “Lawd, yes, child, I quit. Takes me a mumf to smoke a pack now.”
“Well that’s good,” Doreen said. She nudged Otis. “You know who I was thinking about the other day? That white man you used to run with.”
“Who you talkin’ about?” Otis took off his beret and wiped his glistening head.
“You know, played guitar on Ray Charles’ country records, you know, ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You,’ and them. He had a couple sides of his own got pretty big.”
Otis nodded. His face creased, all serious. “You talkin’ ‘bout Chester Grubbs,” he said.
Doreen pointed at Otis. “That’s him. Where’s he at now?”
Maurice shook his head. “I heard all sorts of things ‘bout that man. Either drunk hisself to death out in Texas or maybe it was heroin, I forget, but I heard he’d passed.”
“That’s a shame,” Doreen said. “He sure had it going on for a while. Yes he did.”
Otis looked off into space, thinking about his unlikely friend, Chester Grubbs. The two of them had hit it big at the same time. Both based in Nashville, they played on some of the same bills when Otis’s records were crossing over to a white audience and Chester was playing with Ray Charles. They shared a taste for livin’ high on the hog and they rode their respective waves to the top before things went bad for both of them. Their friendship was like a struck match, flaring up hot and fast and going out before the whole stick was consumed.
For Otis, it was the confluence of jealousy, liquor, and knowing he’d lost most of his money. He’d had his early hits but they’d stopped coming just as quick as they’d started. But Otis thought the money would never stop coming in, so it had never stopped going out. Before he knew it, he had to trade his Cadillac for a Chevrolet. When Bill Herron dropped him and took most of his royalties, Otis was forced onto the chitlin’ circuit where he started drinking too much. Otis could see the writing on the wall and it left him in a foul mood. One night, out back of a club in Memphis, drunk and angry, Otis pulled a knife when he caught a man trying to force himself on one of Otis’s backup singers. The man said he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer from the woman, so Otis did what he had to. He killed the man. Stabbed him to death. “Don’t nobody mess with my woman,” Otis said as the man bled out at his feet. The woman was Estella. She and Otis had been married less than a month.
The Memphis police might’ve written it up as justifiable, except the dead man was white. Otis was looking at a one-way ticket to Fort Pillow State Penal Farm, so he called the only lawyer he knew, one Franklin Peavy, Esq. Franklin was a young, white attorney who hadn’t partnered up with Big Bill yet. Franklin had negotiated the contracts of several R&B artists Otis knew from the concert circuit. The two had met in Birmingham, backstage at a show headlined by Percy Sledge. Franklin told Otis that his song, ‘Lookin’ for Ruby,’ was one of his all-time favorites. He gave Otis a business card and told him to call if he ever needed a lawyer for anything. Of course, Franklin was thinking more along the lines of contract work but, when Otis called from jail about fifty dollars from being broke, Franklin agreed to handle the case pro bono and he did a good job.
Otis was sentenced to eight years for manslaughter, an unimaginable sentence for a black man convicted of killing a white man in Tennessee in the 1960s. And Otis knew it. Just before they took him from the courtroom after sentencing, Otis turned to Franklin and said, “I owe you, Mr. Peavy. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—” Then they took him away.
Estella was faithful to Otis while he was gone. She visited him and she went to church. And she went to night school to learn bookkeeping. She’d saved all her money and, without Otis knowing, she’d saved some of his too. She bo
ught a little piece of property in Nashville and put a mobile home on it. She lived in the back and ran Estella’s Shrimp Joint right out of the kitchen.
Otis got out in five years for good behavior. He went back to Nashville, joined Estella, and had been fryin’ swimps ever since. But Estella would tell you, Otis was never the same after prison. He’d been plenty crazy when he was younger, but now he was quiet, maybe even a little philosophical. Standing over that deep fryer night after night, Otis reflected on all the things that had happened to him and all the things he’d let get away. One of those things was his friendship with Chester Grubbs. He wondered whatever happened.
22.
Franklin was in his office reviewing royalty statements. God, this is depressing, he thought. The money wasn’t coming in the way it used to and that had Franklin worried. He hadn’t made as many investments as he might have when the firm was on top, and the one’s he’d made turned out to be bad. Like many day-traders Franklin had managed to screw the securities pooch during the biggest bull market in America’s history. On top of that he took expensive vacations and put four kids through private colleges. And now, with retirement looming it was becoming clear Franklin wouldn’t be able to maintain the lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed, unless something changed.
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