Laurels Literary Magazine Fall 2015 | Page 50

Blues William Walter White smoke and blue music dance above the people crowded within the juke. It’s late on a Sunday night, perhaps approaching midnight, though nobody could say for sure. The only clock inside, nailed above the front door, says nothing as its dials whirl in opposite directions. Local legend suggests that “Skip” James hurled a glass at the clock when the owner asked when he matters little, because the juke offers respite from feet bleeding in and its tremoring fans that spread more hot than cold, the juke feels like home. As the opening performer, a local with a liquor grin, closes his seat. He kisses the woman at his table, who winces at his touch. He gathers his belongings, a leather road case and frayed tweed amp. On his way to the stage, he passes the opener, now surrounded with glowing women, and asks him for a cigarette. The opener laughs, but the old man blinks, once, twice. One of the glowing women frowns and hands the old man a wrinkled Lucky Strike from her purse. He thanks her and moves on, and she chastises the opener, directing his eyes to a rough scar around the old man’s throat. The crowd barely notices the old man take the stage. He plugs in his amp at the back, and, for a moment, traces a heart on its face drawn by a little girl. He leans down and opens his road case, taking care with each rusted latch, and retrieves a wine colored guitar. He smiles gently as he runs leathery hands across its body. Finally noticing the absence of music, the crowd starts to grumble, while the old man connects his guitar and lights his cigarette, whispering to himself. or not?” The old man shrinks. The woman he kissed bites her lip. The opener calls from the bar. “Why don’t you shut the hell 38