A Blue Little Lady
by
Charlie Youmans
Chaz took a drag from his tenth cigarette of the evening and watched the ash
grow. He picked up the double shot of Bushmill's Irish and swallowed it neat.
Another night at the club, he thought. I've been playin' this gig for two years
now and for what? A few hundred a week, some free whiskey now and then, and the
occasional mating dance with some poor girl who's got a thing for blues
guitarists.
I should have taken that job with Billy and his band, but I've played on the
road before and if you've seen one motel room you've seen them all. After a
while, all the bars look the same; the people all look the same, all the songs
sound the same.
This gig's no different, really. But, I shouldn't complain. At least the boss
let's me crash in that little room in the back and he's never tried to stiff me
come payday.
I wish he would stop this damned amateur night, though. I get so tired of
trying to play behind some young punk who thinks if he gets up in front of a
bar full of people, attempts to sing like Muddy Waters, that he'll be goin'
home with some nasty young thing in the front row. It ain't Karryokie, folks.
Four bad singers already tonight and that last one should just be taken out
back and shot.
It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd just known the words to the song. Stevie
Ray must be spinning in his grave.
God, I hate musicians who are in it for the sex life. Just once I'd like to see
someone come up on this stage that cared about the blues, someone who did more
than just sing it 'cause it's fashionable. Well, that's not gonna happen
tonight, I'm sure, so just spank the plank and forget about it.
Just then, Chaz watched as a demure little blond walked up the microphone,
cleared her throat and asked in a tiny little voice if it would be okay if she
sang Summertime for the people. "It was my Mother's favorite song and she
always sang me to sleep with it when I was a child."
Oh perfect, thought Chaz. Just what I need; some "I-love-Gershwin-tunes" chick.
This ought to be interesting.
Ok, kid. Count it down. Two three four…
"Summertiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmme and the livin' is easy"
Damn! This kid can sing! Go little girl. Kick out the jams. I'm with ya all the
way.
Back and forth it went. Chaz laid down a riff and the girl gave it right back
to him. She scatted a few bars and dared him to follow her. He did, and started
to feel something inside that he hadn't felt for years. Music-the blues. We're
playin' it. I'm playin' it and she is BY GOD singin' it! The crowd in the bar
began to pay attention to the stage and to the two people who were obviously in
their own little world. As far as Chaz was concerned, they were the only people
in world.
Just you and me kid. Keep goin'; don't quit on me now. I can see your pain. Let
it out don't bottle it up. She didn't. She seemed to dig deep in her soul and
brought out whatever grief she was feeling and let the words and Chaz's guitar
heal her. She looked in his eyes and the look she gave Chaz started his healing
too.
Soon the music took the crowd, took them to places they'd never been. Smiles
were on some faces, tears streamed down others; but no one was left without
some emotion tearing at their heart.
Without either of them knowing how or when, the song ended.
Chaz wiped the sweat from his brow. He wasn't aware of the stinging in his eyes
until now. He watched the girl as she bowed her head toward where he stood,
gave him a little smile, said "Thank you" and walked off the stage.
He quickly lost sight of her in the crowd. He wanted to drop his axe, chase her
and beg her to come back again. She had disappeared, nowhere to be seen. Like
smoke.
Chaz went to the bar, lit a cigarette and sipped a fresh Bushmill.
No, little girl.
Thank you.
The Bungalow Grocery
by
Charlie Youmans
One of my earliest memories
is of being ten years old, hopping on the second
hand Schwinn bicycle that my dad bought for me and riding down to the Bungalow
Grocery for a loaf of bread and a tomato for dinner, a pack of smokes for Dad,
and being told I could keep the change for running the errand.
Now you have to be aware
that Mom only gave me a dollar. Yep, ONE DOLLAR! That meant that after paying
15 cents for the bread, 10 cents for the tomato and 20 cents for the smokes, I
had 55 cents that was ALL MINE!
I was, of course, told to
ride carefully and to watch for traffic. You bet, Mom!
I would sedately and with
much feigned maturity walk my bike to the alley behind the house, look both
ways for “traffic”, mount the bike and slowly pedal my way west for
the 5-block trip to the Bungalow Grocery.
At the end of the alley, I
could no longer be seen from our house. Heh! Heh!
Some force of nature unknown
to man to this day magically transformed me from a mere ten-year-old boy
to…Hopalong Cassidy, riding his faithful white stallion Topper!
It's time to kick the spurs
to Topper and head to town to pick up supplies! Ride like the wind Hoppy,
there're villains after you. Go man, Go!
I would pedal that bike as
fast as my legs would allow, feeling the wind whistle past my ears; hearing the
sound of pounding hooves as my steed and I wound our way through the
treacherous mountain passes of old Wyoming, knowing that at any moment we could
be ambushed by some vicious sidewinder from the Dalton Gang.
But, not this time. Nope.
There's the General Store! We made it!
As I enter the parking lot
of the Bungalow Grocery, I realize that I may have gotten ole Topper galloping
just a wee mite too fast. I slam on the coaster brake and leave a nice stripe
of black rubber approximately 6 feet long on the concrete right in front of the
door, swinging my leg off my mount while it's still moving. I am too cool for
words, I am.
I lean my horse up against
the building, and stride purposefully into the store where Phil Krahn, the
proprietor of this wondrous establishment, greets me with, “ How many
times I gotta tell you kids not to leave black marks on my driveway, huh?”
Sorry, Mr. Krahn. (He's not
really mad, you know.)
I go get the loaf of Roman
Meal 100% Wheat bread (the only kind my Dad will allow in the house, Wonder
Bread is for sissies), find a nice plump beefsteak tomato for Mom, tell Mr.
Krahn I need a pack of Camels for Dad, and start eyeing those rows and rows of
Three Musketeers, Snickers, Baby Ruth, Fifth Avenue, Cherry Mash, Life Savers 5
Flavors, Tootsie Roll Pops, Peanut Logs, Butterfingers, Raisinettes, and Jordan
Almonds.
As Mr. Krahn puts the bread,
tomato and smokes in a doubled paper sack ('cause I'm ridin' Topper today), he
just smiles at me because he KNOWS which candy bar I'm going to buy. The one I
always buy, that's right, Big Hunk! Sticky, gooey, hard as rock taffy with
loads of peanuts. Lasts all day. Keeps the dentist in new Buicks every two
years. Good stuff, buddy. I'll have about eight Big Hunks Mr. Krahn, thank you
very much. (5 cents apiece and I'm goin' home with change to show Mom and Dad
that I didn't spend all the money on candy.)
Mr. Krahn just smiles, puts
the Big Hunks in a different bag 'cause he knows that's Hoppy's supplies. I
tell him thanks and he tells me to give Topper an extra bag of oats tonight.
“You bet I will,” I tell him. (A little extra 3-in-1 oil on the chain
wouldn't hurt and that back tire could use a little more air in it.)
I mount up on Topper for the
ride back to the ranch house, arriving just in time for supper. Mom takes the
bread and tomato out of the bag, hands the smokes to Dad, and tells me,
“I'll just put these Big Hunks up in the cupboard for ya, Hoppy. You can
split one with your brothers after supper for your dessert, ok?” Well, it
wasn't what I had in mind at all, but sharing with my brothers would be OK, I
guess.
After all, that's what Hoppy
would do!
"A Boy Skates"
by
Charlie Youmans
When I was about 15 or 16 years old, one of my favorite things to do during the
long, cold Wyoming winters was to go ice skating. My friends and I would go to
the local ice rink every day after school and spend as much time as we could on
the ice. Hockey, believe it or not, was not a big sport when I was growing up;
but figure skating and speed skating were.
The problem with the rink, though, was that they would only let you skate in a
circle slowly; first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. Very boring. To organ
music, no less. Very, very boring.
It wasn't long before going to the rink left something to be desired. Besides,
we only really went there to flirt with the girls and show off. We finally
decided to take our ice-skating to the next level of thrills. The River. The
Forbidden River. The River, we were told, was unsafe, dangerous, and was sure
to kill you if you skated there.
The Little Laramie River was always frozen solid from the end of November till
early April. We would walk or ride our bikes; skates slung over our shoulders,
slapping us in the back as we made our way to skater heaven.
Once you got on the river, you could skate for miles; not in a circle and the
only music was the wind.
Oh, what freedom! To just let yourself glide over the smooth-as-glass surface,
building speed, jumping over the hurdles of tree branches frozen solid in the
ice, spinning in a complete circle and landing on the other side in one smooth,
fluid motion. To find a 2 or 3 hundred yard stretch of river that was straight
as an arrow, and just let it all out! To go as fast as you could, 'til you
thought your heart would burst from the sheer joy of the race, the wind so cold
that it brought tears to your eyes. To find that you were the first one to
reach the old cottonwood tree and slam on the brakes, sending a spray of ice
crystals high into the air and watching them sparkle in the winter sun as they
fell back to the frozen surface of the river. To skate 'til you dropped from
exhaustion and then somehow finding the strength to make it back home again.
The Little Laramie River wasn't that far from my home and I considered it my
own backyard. I also considered it my own personal, long and narrow,
ever-winding ice rink.
I am much older now, and my old feet and ankles won't take that kind of
punishment anymore. The beer gut gets in my way and the creeping arthritis
slows me down. Golf clubs and fishing poles have replaced the ice skates. But,
oh boy, do I ever remember what it felt like to skate that river.
To paraphrase Norman MacLean--A river runs through it and a boy skates.
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