When I Left Home

by Guy, Buddy

  “What are you going to do with this, Buddy?” asked Diggy.

  “Probably nothing,” I said, “but I’ve been half-thinking of going to Chicago. Just trying to get my nerve up.”

  “Well, if you do go, look up Leonard Chess.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Man who runs Chess Records.”

  “Where Muddy and them make their records?”

  “The same.”

  “How you know him?”

  “He comes through here once a year or so. He makes it a point to tell me what new Chess Records are coming out. I do him the favor of playing ’em.”

  “So y’all are friends?”

  “Wouldn’t say friends,” said Diggy, “but business associates. I know him well enough to write a letter for you to give him. If you decide to go to Chicago, I’ll give you his address. You can play him this demo.”

  “Think he’d like it?”

  “Hard to tell what other people are going to like, Buddy, but I like it. I like it a lot.”

  Encouragement was coming at me, and I needed it real bad. Even as I turned twenty-one, I still wasn’t what you’d call a real man of the world. Been sheltered on the farm and then sheltered in Baton Rouge. I lived in a small world. Felt like I had a small personality. I thought about Guitar Slim and the way he could excite a crowd, but I didn’t know whether I could do that. At the same time I knew I wanted more than what Baton Rouge had to offer. At the very least, a better job at a college in Chicago would mean more money to send home to Mama. As I tried to decide what to do, Mama stayed on my mind.

  After Mama’s stroke I could talk to her, but I still didn’t get much reaction. I felt her spirit and I knew her love was strong as ever. Nothing could change that. But I had to do all the talking.

  “Been thinking real hard,” I said to her one night. She was sitting in a chair, just staring ahead. “Been thinking about going to Chicago. I know none of us ever have left you, and I’m scared to do it, Mama, but I’m also scared not to. I say that ’cause I see myself only going so far in Baton Rouge. And you know much I love that music. There’s people in Chicago playing that music that I want to hear. I’m not saying I can play good as them. I can’t. But just to see Muddy Waters is a dream of mine. Can’t deny it. Don’t wanna die, Mama, without seeing Muddy Waters. Don’t wanna die without seeing Little Walter. They up there. Shorty says they play all over the city of Chicago. I’m starting to think I need to go there. But if I do, I promise you I’ll make enough money to buy you a polka-dot Cadillac. How does that sound, Mama?”

  Mama didn’t answer, but Daddy, who’d been listening, had slipped into the room. He’d just gotten off his construction job, where he had to push wheelbarrows of concrete up and down a building site. Daddy was about the only person I know strong enough to handle that work.

  “Son,” he said, “if you wanna go, go. You don’t need to worry about us. I told you long time ago that me and your mama ain’t dying till we see all our children settled down and doing good. Now when you get to Chicago, you gonna find pretty women who gonna wanna marry you. Marry whoever you want. Makes no difference to me. Marry an elephant if you want, ’cause you the one who gotta sleep with her. Far as your work goes, remember this—I don’t want you to be the best in town. I want you to be the best till the best comes around. You hear me, son?”

  “I do.”

  I went to sleep that night and fell into crazy dreams. I was picking cotton in the dream, and then I was driving a tractor, then I was hunting in the woods with my dog, I was shooting at rabbits, when all of sudden I saw Lightnin’ Slim sitting in a rocking chair playing his guitar. He was sitting under a big tree with moss coming off the branches. Maybe it’s because his name is Lightnin’, but right then and there the sky broke open, and a bolt of lightnin’ struck his guitar and splintered it to bits. My dog started to barking, the forest caught on fire, and we had to run out of there. When I got back to the shack where I’d been raised, the shack was burning too. I was scared Mama and Daddy and my sisters and brothers were inside getting burned up, but when I turned around, they were clapping for me like I had done something great. That’s when I realized I was holding a guitar and playing for my family. The fire had gone out. The storm had passed.

  “Keep playing, Buddy,” my mama told me in that dream. “Keep on playing.”

  The Day I Left Home

  September 25, 1957

  I think of this date like my birthday. Fact of the matter is it’s my second birthday. It’s when I was born again. Born this time not to stay in Louisiana, but to leave Louisiana. My life before September 25, 1957, was one thing, and my life after was something else.

  I had said my goodbyes and asked Bob, Annie Mae’s husband, to drive me down to Hammond, the first train stop north of New Orleans. All I had was a suitcase with a few clothes, my reel-to-reel tape with the song I cut at WXOK, and my Les Paul Gibson guitar.

  “You don’t got no heavy coat?” asked Bob, looking at the thin trench coat I was carrying.

  “This is it,” I said.

  “You gonna freeze to death.”

  “I’ll be alright,” I said.

  “You got not idea, boy, what’s waiting for you up there.”

  “Ain’t nobody waiting,” I said. “That’s what worries me.”

  “Don’t you got Shorty’s address?”

  “That’s all I got.”

  “Well, Shorty’s okay. He’ll see right by you. And then you saved some money, didn’t you?”

  “Hope I saved enough.” In my pocket, hugging my thigh, was $600. Took me two years to get that money together.

  When we got to Hammond, I hopped out of Bob’s car and grabbed my suitcase, my tape, and my guitar. I thanked him kindly. He pulled off and then left me.

  I was alone.

  It was early on a Sunday morning, and that meant the train wasn’t real crowded. I took a seat next to a window. I was happy and I was sad—happy to be going to a place of my dreams but sad to be leaving a family I loved. I told myself that Shorty had to be right—that I’d find the kind of job I had at LSU for better money. I told myself that with better money, life would be easier. With better money, I’d get to go to those fancy nightclubs where the curtains were red velvet and the artists—Muddy and Little Walter, Sonny Boy and Howlin’ Wolf—stood on big stages and entertained everyone with their beautiful pickin’ and singing. I kept the dream close to my heart: I’d see Jimmy Reed driving down the street in his limousine and he’d wave and I’d get to tell everyone back home that I done saw the great Jimmy Reed.

  As the train pulled out of Hammond station, I had me some butterflies, but I was on my way.

  Someone had a left a newspaper that was talking about Alaska just becoming the forty-ninth state and how Hawaii wanted to be the fiftieth. In the car in front of me a white guy had a transistor radio on a station playing “Yakety Yak” by the Coasters. I liked that song. Made me smile. Then they was playing “Catch a Falling Star,” sung by Perry Como in his milky-smooth voice. Hard not to like Perry Como. Train was chugging along, and the music went with it. When the deejay put on “Get a Job,” I knew I was on the right train and my smile got even bigger.

  I was too excited to fall asleep. I kept looking outside, thinking that I was moving faster than I’d ever moved in my life. The speed of the train was a thrilling speed. The trees and houses and farmlands and bushes flying by were talking to me, telling me goodbye and wishing me good luck. Something good was happening.

  When we pulled into Memphis in the afternoon, I was thinking about Elvis Presley because they had been playing his songs on that transistor radio. I remembered Memphis was his home. Didn’t know it then, but Memphis was also the home of B. B. King and other bluesmen. If someone had told me that, I loved B. B. well enough to get off the train at Memphis and go a-searching for him. But no one told me. I just thought of Elvis Presley. By the way he sang and moved, I knew Elvis had learned a lot from bluesmen. Wasn’t nothing wrong w
ith Elvis except that he didn’t concern me. Newspapers were saying he was off in the army, that he’d gone to Germany, but I didn’t care. I was thinking of Chicago. After a long stopover, the train was off heading north.

  Memphis was less than halfway from home to Chicago. I had a long afternoon and evening ahead of me. We had picked up more people in Memphis, where a man took the seat next to me. Dark-skinned man wearing a gray suit and blue tie. He put his suitcase in the shelf above the seat. For fear of losing them, I kept my suitcase and guitar on my lap.

  Man fell asleep and I just kept staring out the window. Till then, the day had been nice, but a thunderstorm broke out as we passed through Kentucky to Indiana. Storm was fierce—jagged bolts of lightnin’ and booming crackling thunder. Didn’t see how a bad storm could throw this heavy train off the track, so I wasn’t nervous. I was more interested in watching how a train rides through the weather. Being inside the train reminded me of being inside our shack on the farm. The sounds of a storm can be likened to the sounds of music.

  Somewhere in Indiana we passed out of the storm and the sky was clear. It was already dark, and I could see the moon shining light on the countryside. Man next to me woke up. He looked over at me and stuck out his hand. I took it, shook it, and said, “I’m Buddy.”

  “James.”

  “Good to meet you, James.”

  “Same here, Buddy. I miss anything while I was sleeping?”

  “No, sir, just a storm.”

  “You mean I slept through a storm?”

  “Yes, sir, you sure did.”

  “Well, guess means I was tired. I sure will be happy to get to Chicago.”

  “That your home?”

  “Has been for the past ten years.”

  “That’s where I’m headed,” I said.

  “You coming from Memphis?”

  “Louisiana.”

  “You fixing on moving to Chicago.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I moved up there from Mississippi. We strange birds, ain’t we?”

  “How you mean?” I asked.

  “When the weather gets cold, birds fly south to where it’s warm. Here we is, going from south to north. We doing it backwards.”

  “Haven’t thought about it that way,” I said, “but you right.”

  “I see you got a guitar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You plan on earning your keep in Chicago playing that guitar?”

  “No, sir. I play it for fun. Played at a few clubs back home, but I intend to get a custodian-type job at some school in Chicago. Was working at LSU in Baton Rouge.”

  “I heard of LSU. Big school. They give you a good job?”

  “Job was fine,” I said. “But pay was low. Looking for better pay in Chicago.”

  “You know anyone up there?”

  “I do. A man from Baton Rouge. He gave me his address.”

  I pulled out the piece with Shorty’s address on it. It said, “4719 Kenwood.”

  “You know where this is?” the man asked.

  “No idea. Would you happen to know?”

  “If it’s where I think it is, I might be able to find it. You best get off at the same station as me. They call it Dorchester Station. From there I could help you.”

  “I’d be much obliged. Is everyone in Chicago nice as you?”

  The man looked me in the eye and said it straight: “No, they ain’t. For the most part, they cold as ice.”

  It was late when the train pulled into Dorchester Station. I grabbed my stuff and followed James out the train. The night was cool, but not cold.

  Chicago! I thought to myself. I’m in the great city of Chicago!

  The air smelled different than it smelled in Lettsworth or Baton Rouge. There were smells I didn’t know.

  “You smelling the steel mills and the slaughter houses,” said James. “They be running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You see shit coming out those smoke stacks night and day. You get used to it. Where you say you need to go, Buddy?”

  I was holding that piece of paper with Shorty’s address so tight that my fingers was hurting. If I lost that, I’d lose everything. “Kenwood,” I said, “4719 Kenwood.”

  “We on 63rd and Dorchester now. That’s down around 47th. We got us a little walking to do. You don’t mind walking, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  As I took my first steps on the concrete streets of Chicago, I could hear music in the distance. Didn’t know whether it was coming from a radio, a record player, or a club. The closer we got to the sound, though, the more I knew it was live music. And suddenly I saw it—right there, across the street from where we was walking—a nightclub with the door open and the music blasting out. It was guitar music, guitar blues, and my heart started racing, my blood started boiling, and it took all I had not to run over there.

  Feeling what I was feeling, James smiled and said, “Hey, I know you wanna get with the music, but you best settle in first and learn the territory. I don’t know the clubs around here, and that could be a rough one.”

  “I been in lots of clubs back home,” I said.

  “They different here, Buddy. They a lot different.”

  As we kept walking, the stinging guitar sounds faded away, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was Muddy Waters in there. Wouldn’t it be something to tell my daddy that my first night in Chicago I heard Muddy Waters?

  After a while we came up on 4719 Kenwood.

  “Okay,” said James. “We here. I’m gonna wish you all the best.”

  “Can’t thank you enough for your goodness.”

  Just as James was leaving, though, I looked at the door to the apartment building and saw all these buttons. Didn’t know what they were.

  “James,” I said. “Could I ask you one more favor?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “What are these buttons?”

  “They’re just door bells. They’re buzzers that buzz to the apartment where you want to be going. Look for your friend’s name and there should be a button next to it.”

  “What do I do with the button?”

  “You never seen a doorbell before?”

  “We don’t got ’em back home.”

  “You press it. Press the doorbell and it buzzes the man’s apartment.”

  I felt stupid not knowing these things.

  “Sorry for bothering you again, James.”

  “No problem, Buddy. You’ll see lots of things here you ain’t never seen before.”

  As James went off into the night, I pressed the button, not knowing what to expect. Nothing happened. Waited three or four minutes, and then I pressed it again. Still nothing. When I pressed it the third time, I kept my finger on it for a while.

  “Who the fuck is down there?”

  The voice came from an open window on the sixth floor.

  “That you, Shorty?” I asked.

  “Who you?”

  “Buddy. Buddy Guy from back home.”

  “Buddy Guy? That really you?”

  “In the flesh,” I said.

  “Come on in. Sixth floor. Apartment 634.”

  I walked in the building. Smelled like cats had pissed all over the floor. I climbed up the stairs, looking at these doors and wondering who was living behind them. Out of breath, I made it to the sixth floor. Walked down the long hallway and found 634. Opened the door, and there was Shorty in his drawers.

  “Put your bags down,” he said, “and use the bathroom if you wanna. It’s at the end of the hall. If you need tissue paper, I got some up in that cabinet. I’m pleased to see you, Buddy, but I gotta get back to sleep. What time is it now?”

  “Little after midnight.”

  I looked around his place. It was one room with a tiny little refrigerator, a sink, and a bed.

  “Where do I sleep?” I asked Shorty

  “Only got me one bed up in here. When I go off to work, you can use it. You gonna have to wait till I’m up.”

&n
bsp; “What time you get up?”

  “Come back ’round 5 a.m.”

  “Where do I wait?”

  “They got these coffee shops that stay open. Buy yourself a cup of coffee and they’ll let you wait there.”

  “Is it safe to leave my stuff here?” I asked.

  “Real safe,” said Shorty. “Anyone break in here, I got my gun next to my pillow.”

  “Everyone got guns up here?”

  “Anyone with any sense,” Shorty said.

  I went down the hall to use the bathroom. I saw that the light was on and someone was using it. I waited. I heard a toilet flush and then a big woman walked out the door. She looked me up and down and then went on her way. The bathroom was small. The smells were strong. I did what I had to do and left.

  I walked back down the stairs and stood in front of the apartment building. Didn’t know which way to turn. I was going to ask Shorty directions to the nearest coffee shop, but I could see he was tired and groggy. I’d disturbed his sleep and didn’t wanna disturb him no more. So I just decided to walk until I found something. Must have walked seven or eight blocks when I saw a yellow light off in the distance coming out a store window. When I got up on it, I saw it was a little restaurant with a long counter lit by two naked light bulbs on strings hanging from the ceiling. There was a white man frying eggs on a griddle. I was hungry and wanted to eat, but I was afraid of spending too much money too soon. The place was empty except for two black women sitting in a booth. They were talking real loud, like they was excited. I sat at the counter.

  “What will it be?”

  “Cup of coffee, please.”

  “Coffee coming right up.”

  He poured the coffee into a cream-colored mug. I added milk and sugar. It tasted real good, real sweet. When he was through scrambling the eggs, he carried the food over to the women. They wolfed it down like they hadn’t eaten in a week. When they was through eating, they got up to leave, but first they came over to me.