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Three stories of the childhood of Elwood BluesAt the orphanage, the janitor was the closest thing to a father figure that the boys ever knew.
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1. A Woman is Like a Motor(from "Hard Headed Woman of Mine" )
St. Helen's of the Blessed Shroud Orphanage,
Calumet City, Illinois.
November 10, 1963
The old coal burning furnace kicked in again. It was loud, and in need of repair, but at least it was still working. It was on Curtis' list of things to do before the harsh Chicago winter set in. As the janitor of St. Helen's of the Blessed Shroud Orphanage, Curtis was awfully busy keeping that old building running.
But no matter how busy he got, he always had time to spend with anyone who loved music.
"Elwood! Come on in, boy!" A lanky white boy stood in the doorway, and the black janitor waved him in. He motioned towards the rickety old table in the basement room which effectively became his home.
"Sit down, Elwood!" Curtis was genuinely pleased to see the boy, but he was concerned. Elwood was alone. It wasn't often that the nine year old boy came to see him when he was alone. When he did, that usually meant his best friend - and now brother - Jake was in some sort of pickle. While Jake's mischief making always worried Curtis, he was more concerned with the affects they would have on the young and impressionable Elwood.
"Where's Jake?" Curtis asked, as if he didn't know. He held out a chair for his young and quiet friend.
Elwood settled, and the question went unanswered. Curtis repeated himself. "Where's Jake?"
Finally, Elwood replied. "With the Penguin."
Curtis let out a deep sigh. He was a handsome man, sporting a thin mustache. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, and a black suit and tie. It seemed too formal for a janitor. Still, it worked well on the thirty-something year old man. He wasn’t a tall man, but with his neat clothing, and his fatherly demeanor, he had a presence that made him seem bigger than anyone Elwood knew. Anyone, except The Penguin.
"You know you shouldn't be calling Sister Mary that, Elwood."
"But that's what everybody calls her," the boy innocently answered, as a simple matter of fact.
"No, son. That's what Jake calls her."
"But, she looks like a penguin."
Curtis sighed again, as he sat down across the table and handed the boy a pile of old magazines. Elwood's long fingers immediately pulled out a copy of Motor Trend magazine.
"So, he's with Sister Mary, again," Curtis continued. "Why?"
The boy shrugged, and flipped through the magazine. He'd read through this magazine at least a dozen times before. He made no more than a quick glance at the 1961 Continental in baby blue. Then he quickly turned the pages until he found the black Thunderbird. His finger traced it's outline, as if he were drawing the photograph right there on the page.
Curtis knew that prying would get him nowhere. He leaned over the table to look at the magazine, too.
"You sure do like those cars. Don't you, son?"
"Yeaaah-up..." His voice was unsure and hesitant, but not because he didn't know what his answer was. Elwood simply wondered if he'd ever get a chance to ride in one of those big cars himself.
"Now, I bet this year's magazine's got a Rambler! I'll see if I can get you a new issue."
His voice trailed off. He knew that bribes wouldn’t get him any more information than a simple question would. With a new approach, he continued.
"How bout a little bit of The Howlin' Wolf?" Curtis asked. Elwood shrugged again, feigning disinterest, as he flipped through a few more pages. Curtis understood, and pushed himself away from the crickety table and pulled a record out of a makeshift bookshelf. He read the label on a black disc and smiled, gently placing it on his record player, and carefully positioning the needle.
"This music, Elwood, is gonna last forever," Curtis predicted. "It'll stand the test of time. Listen here. You just mark my words."
The music started low. Competing with the furnace, Curtis turned the volume up. While standing, he grabbed a bottle off the shelf. The bottle said Royal Crown Cola, but the color was off, and the cap was clearly not secure. Still, the appearance was convincing enough, if anyone happened into his private party. Taking a sip, he sat back down at the table.
Curtis smiled as his young friend's head began to nod, in synch with the music.
"So, now, what's this?" Curtis asked a very serious Elwood, as he pointed at the record player. If Elwood wasn't going to be social, at least this would be a learning experience.
Still nodding to the music, Elwood looked up and fixed his gaze on the wall. He stared in deep concentration, as if it were the most important test of his young life. He had completely forgotten about the cars from the magazine, as his brows came together in thought.
"Come on. You know it, boy."
Without turning to the man, the right side of Elwood's lips curled into a faint smile. He had walked into the room, nervous and a bit scared being on his own. Now, with the music from the record player, he once again found some of his confidence.
"It's in E," Elwood said, without a doubt in his mind.
"Good," Curtis said, as he took another sip from the R.C. Cola bottle. "Very good, Elwood." But the test had just begun.
"Now play it."
For a moment, the boy looked a bit nervous. "But..." he began, in protest.
"Go on, now." Curtis motioned with his hands, as if trying to move him along. "Go on. You know it... Just follow along, as best you can."
The boy clumsily fumbled into his right hand pocket with his skinny fingers, and slowly pulled out three old, second-hand harmonicas. Nervous, and bit hesitant, he made his choice, and put the metal to his lips. Without turning his head, his eyes shifted towards Curtis, who offered a small nod of approval.
Elwood waited for the riff to begin again.
Curtis was amazed that a young boy, not quite ten years old, could bring the music to life the way he did. The breath. The draw. Each in perfect time. And Elwood made each his own. Curits’ smile widened, knowing that this boy - who would be in bed by nine - could live like the wolf, and moan at midnight, through the music.
As the song finished, Curtis clapped his hand on the table five times, then gently used the cola bottle as its echo. His applause, and his enthusiasm, brought a big smile to Elwood's face.
"That was good, Elwood!" Curtis cackled. "Real good! You should play that with The Ravens, in your next show."
Elwood smiled at the review. He looked up at Curtis, the black man's broad, wide smile overpowering the thin mustache he wore. Elwood shook out his harp, drying it off, and placed it back in his pocket.
Again, Curtis turned towards the wall and lowered the sound on the record player. He pulled another bottle off the shelf, popped off the cap, and handed it to the young musician. Elwood took it in his hand and cautiously sniffed it, with a little grimace of disappointment.
"Now, Elwood," Curtis said, returning to the table once again. His voice was serious. "What's wrong, son? What happened to Jake? I can't help you boys out if you don't tell me the truth."
Elwood took a long sip of the cola, carefully calculating his response.
Curtis sighed again, this time in frustration and concern.
"Did the teacher catch him cheating on a test?" Curtis guessed, working with the laws of probabilities. Elwood sat motionless and emotionless.
Raising his voice, just a bit, Curtis pressed on.
"Was he using that mirror, again?"
As hard as Elwood tried, the boy couldn't control himself. He broke a smile. Curtis drew himself in, like a secret confidant, and presented his ear to Elwood. The two looked at each other and laughed together.
"Nah," the boy finally answered, breaking down under the mock interrogation. "Jake don't write backwards no more."
Curtis placed his large hand on the boys slight shoulder, nodding and chuckling with his favorite young friend.
"No, he don't... Matter of fact, he don't write at all!" Curtis joked, then laughed, as the two took sips from their bottles.
Curtis tried not to look too long at the boy, knowing how nervous he could sometimes be, especially when outside of Jake's company. He worried about the younger of the two "brothers."
Depending on how you looked at it, you'd think Jake might just be good for Elwood. Jake started the band called The Ravens, which was no doubt a boost for Elwood's confidence. It was also the perfect way for both boys to channel both their energies and musical talent. It was the best damned pre-teen blues band in all of Chicago.
And through the Ravens, the boys started something. It was something meaningful... something amazing.
But even if Jake was good for Elwood, Jake was really bad for the rest of society. Curtis decided as soon as he set eyes on those boys that it was his duty to help steer them along the right path. What the penguin couldn't do with a ruler, he'd do with music.
"Well, then, son, how can I help you boys? The Raven's got a gig coming up in... what... two days? And as good as you are on that there harp, you gotta have your lead singer." He winked at Elwood, hoping he'd play along.
"Elwood, what can I do to get him off the hook with Sister Mary?"
With a deep sigh, Elwood closed his eyes tightly, as if not seeing Curtis would make him less likely to be caught spilling the proverbial beans.
"The Penguin caught him..." Slowly, Elwood opened his eyes cautiously, to gauge Curtis' reaction.
"The Penguin caught him... with a magazine."
Curtis nodded, knowingly, then asked if it was like the kind of magazine that Elwood was reading. Elwood looked at the table, and quickly shook his head.
"Well..." Curtis asked, scratching his head "what kind of a magazine was it?" As soon as the words slipped past his lips, he realized he asked the wrong thing. He knew what Jake was up to, and why it would bring the Wrath of Sister Mary Stigmata down on him like the true fist of God. There was no need to make Elwood spell it out for him.
Elwood squirmed uncomfortably.
"It had ladies in it, didn't it?" Curtis asked quickly, wanting to end the conversation, almost before it started. Elwood nodded his head, and then turned back to the pages of Motor Trend.
Curtis reached over once again and patted Elwood on the shoulder. "It's ok, son. I understand."
Curtis reached around, and turned the volume of the record player up, just a few notches, as the two sat silently, looking at 1961 model automobiles.
Without warning or prodding, Elwood spoke up.
"Why, Curtis?"
Confused, the janitor repeated the question back to Elwood. "Why what?"
"I don't get it." Elwood's words were innocent. "Why would Jake be looking at those ... ?"
Elwood slowly lifted his hands, and held them - palms up - in front of his chest, as if he were holding two cantaloupes.
Curtis tried to control himself, holding in his laughter. He had to turn his back to hide his efforts. He pretended to cough, as he composed himself. Clearing his throat, he turned to Elwood again.
"Elwood, weren't you ever... curious, son?" Curtis asked, gently. "Don't you want to know what those ladies looked like, too?"
Elwood shrugged. "They're just some ladies...without clothes..."
"Give it a little time, Elwood, and you might wanna find yourself one of those ladies."
Elwood shook his head. "I'd rather have a Cadillac... or a microphone..."
Curtis laughed again. "If you do get a Caddy... or a microphone, you'll have nothing but ladies, followin' you all over town!"
Elwood looked a little confused.
"Listen up, Elwood. There's lots worse things in this world than a pretty lady."
"But I don't get it, Curtis. If the Good Lord made girls so... good lookin..." Elwood hesitated, unsure of the logic. "If... God...made it so that guys want to look at them...then why is the Penguin so mad when we do look at them?"
Curtis scratched his head. How on earth did a little music lesson turn into Elwood's first discussion of women and men? Of the birds and the bees? Of the perils of love, and the tragedy of heartbreak?
Then again, wasn't that what music was always about, anyway?
"You see, Elwood. It's like with Adam and Eve. Adam was tempted by Eve... you see... and the Sister's just trying to... make sure that Jake... that you boys..." His voice trailed off, and he let out a small sigh. Suddenly, the young boy seemed wise beyond his years, and Curtis didn't quite have an answer.
"So, you're sayin that the ladies are just gonna lead us into, uh... temptation?"
“Not exactly, boy.”
“I don’t understand.”
Curtis took a long sip of his medicinal cola. "Elwood, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. The more you understand women, the less you understand them."
Elwood looked confused, as his teacher of life continued.
"None of you boys - not you, not Jake - are ever gonna learn about women in one of those magazines. I mean really learn about women.”
Elwood looked down at his own magazine. For a minute he just tried to let the words sink in. He silently worked through the logic in his mind. Finally, staring down at the black Thunderbird, he understood.
You don't learn about a car looking at a picture in the magazine. You gotta learn to drive. You gotta open the hood, and figure out what makes its motor run. Only then you'll figure out how fast it'll really go.
Elwood closed the magazine. Without saying a word, he got up from his seat, walked across the room, opened the furnace door, and tossed the February 1961 issue of Motor Trend magazine onto the burning coals.
When he returned to his seat, Curtis asked, gently, "Why'd you do that, Elwood?"
"I'm tired of reading about cars. Looking at pictures. I wanna... I wanna really drive one."
"You're too young, still." Curtis nodded, his hand on the small shoulder. "Give it time..."
Again, wiser than his years, Elwood pieced it together. "I guess the Penguin's scared that Jake's gonna wanna learn how to... uh... drive soon, too."
"There's two types of women in the world, Elwood..."
"The kind you see in the magazines..." Elwood tried to work it out in his head. "...and The Penguin?"
"Well, there's that..." Curtis chuckled. "And there's some ladies who say "yes" and there's those who say "no." You may want to spend your time with the ones who say "yes," but the Lord tells us you should choose the one's who say "No," son."
He looked at Elwood, and for some reason, the man wanted to rethink his answer.
"In the long run, you don't want the pretty one on the cover of the magazine. You want one you can depend on. They're the ones you wanna keep around. They're the ones who'll be there, when you need them."
"Like a good motor, Curtis?"
"Just like a good motor. You see, there's two kinds of women, Elwood. The ones who are easy. The ones you can talk into anything. And then there's the tough ones. The solid ones. The hard-headed ones. And with that kind of woman, there ain't no way to change her mind. She gets her mind set on something, and that's it. No sweet talkin, flowers, candy... nothin's gonna change it. They're the strong ones. And you know what? They'll be the ones to get you through, no matter what."
Elwood looked up.
"Like The Penguin?"
Curtis nodded.
"She loves you boys. You know that."
Elwood squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable.
"She does. It may not seem like it sometimes, but she does! To me, at least, it's clear as night and day. Black and white. So, you boys better listen up, and listen to what she says. You gotta play by her rules. Cause there ain't no way you're gonna change her mind. ”
The right corner of Elwood’s lip turned down in a frown.
“Elwood, she's gonna wanna keep you boys safe, and she's gonna make sure you stay on the right path. And you won't change that. You can't change that woman's mind. Don't matter what you say, don't matter what you do...
"She's the strongest woman you'll ever know."
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2. A Picture of Lincoln(from "Letters From Elwood: False Witness")
United States Post Office
Springfield, Illinois
August 4, 1978Sometimes Elwood hummed. Sometimes he whistled. As he casually slipped the two letters into the mail slot, he slowly whistled a few bars of “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.”
“Dammit,” he thought. “Now that’s gonna be on my mind all day.”
He tried to shake it out of his mind as he turned around to leave the Post Office. As he rotated on his heels, he looked up and noticed the old painting.
The depression era mural, in faded colors, wrapped itself around the wall. He stood up straight, looking seriously, and tilted his head as if to study the old images in fresco as they unravelled across the wall. The first scene was the tale of the founding fathers of Springfield, Illinois, its foundation as state capital. Then he saw the pictures of its most famous citizen, Abraham Lincoln. Another man in a black hat. Elwood smirked at the thought and the outrageous comparison.
“Four score and seven years ago,” Elwood mouthed the words as he read them off of the mural.
He didn’t really spend lots of time studying history when he was in school, but he did remember the stories of Lincoln. He freed black slaves. And he wrote that speech of his on the back of an envelope, if he remembered correctly. He looked back at the mail slot and thought of the letters he wrote, and how nothing much would ever come of what he scribbled on the outside - or even the inside - of those envelopes.
He also remembered Curtis was fond of Lincoln, too. Looking up at the images of the dead president he remembered that. He also remembered something that happened years ago. And the thought made his stomach turn.
Right now, he’d rather be whistling that damned Stevie Wonder hit.
Curtis’ wall was a gallery of men and women involved with the civil rights movement in the United States. The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. Malcolm X. John F. Kennedy. Bobby Kennedy. Yet Abraham Lincoln, whose words on that envelope started it all a hundred years earlier, was conspicuously absent from that gallery.
Absent, at least ever since that day back in 1962.
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“Elwood?” Curtis said, as he looked down at the young boy. “Do you know what happened to it?” Curtis then pointed up to the pictures, and tapped on the wall right above the photo of President Kennedy.
Elwood’s lips were slightly pouty, as he shrugged. Curtis gave him another suspicious look, then turned to Elwood’s older brother.
“Jake?” Curtis continued on with his futile interrogation. Jake refused to meet Curtis’ eyes with his own. Instead, he squirmed in place, shaking his head. Elwood closed his eyes and slightly shook his head, annoyed by his brother’s inability to keep cool. It seemed that Jake was able to bullshit anyone, except for Curtis. Maybe it was some sort of bond that Jake had with the man, but he never was good at hiding things from him. Maybe that was why Curtis was the closest thing to family that they ever had. Like family, he could read through you like an x-ray machine.
“So, neither of you two boys knows what happened to my Lincoln, there?” Both responded with shaking heads.
“You two boys know that stealing is a sin, don’t you?”
“Well, so is bearing false witness,” Jake snapped back at Curtis.
That was the first and only time that Elwood ever heard Jake show disrespect to the man. Elwood’s eyes were wide open behind his dark glasses, and they darted from side to side out of pure fear. Unsure what else to do and terrified, Elwood dropped his head in shame. But mostly in fear.
If he had been a year or two younger, he may not have been able to control his bodily functions.
“Ok, then, boys,” Curtis said, slowly and sternly, holding back his anger, his tongue, and quite possibly the back of his hand. “You just spread this word around to all your little friends. Whoever took my Lincoln can return it, and I won’t go to Mother Mary. No questions asked. You understand?”
Jake nodded and rolled his eyes. Elwood nodded enthusiastically, like the terrified child he was. Curtis sent them out of his room. It was the first and only time that Curtis would toss the boys out in anger. But the fact that he never really punished them, and never mentioned the Lincoln again was one of the reasons Elwood loved Curtis.
He was the only person, aside from Jake, who showed him unconditional love.
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The memory of that morning made Elwood’s stomach turn. Stealing was one thing. But stealing from Curtis? He thought of Jake and his attitude, and he was sick. He thought of his own inability to speak up, and he grew even sicker.
Elwood once again turned on his heels, and went back to the counter. He pulled out another sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp. He wrote a little note, while trying to hold back the emotion.
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Dear Curtis,
I can’t remember if it was me or Jake, but I thought it was time for one of us to make things right.
Elwood----------
Elwood pulled out his wallet, and pulled out the last few bills. He counted two ones, and a crumbled up five. He pulled out the five, straightened it between his fingers, and looked at the image of Abraham Lincoln on the bill. He neatly folded it into the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and licked a stamp for its corner. Finally, he scribbled a few words on the back of the envelope.
In God We Trust.He slipped the envelope down the mail slot, then quickly walked out of the Post Office. As he pushed through the doors, he took one last look at the mural, and a fading painting of the American Flag.
“And God Bless the United States of America.” he whispered as he walked out into the hot August day.
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3. Remembering King(from "Letters from Elwood: False Witness")
Warning: Potentially Offensive Language ahead.
Memphis, Tennessee
April 12, 1978
Elwood looked at the gates from across the street. He stood motionless and solemn, his left hand grasping his right wrist. He watched the tourists gather around the gates, leaving notes, flowers, and tokens of their affection. Like him, they were on their own journeys. They were making their own pilgrimages.
The traffic did not let up for a moment. Cars slowed down as they passed by the big, white mansion. The city even had extra traffic police on duty, to keep the cars in motion.
“They’ll probably turn this place into a damn museum, someday,” he thought to himself.
Was this what it was all about? Tourists driving by the houses of the dead, gawking? Hoping for a quick look back into a life? He expected to see the waddling tourist in Bermuda shorts from earlier that afternoon roll up and start taking pictures. Luckily, he didn’t.
Many criticized Elvis Presley. After all, if he had been black, no one would have called him the King. Certainly, there were lots of other musicians who deserved the honor even more. The Gate Keepers of the Tradition down on Beale Street who he met a few hours before even laughed when his name was mentioned.
But here it was. The home of The King of Rock and Roll. It really wasn’t too far from Beale Street. Just a short drive, when there was no traffic. But the distance between the Graceland Mansion and Beale Street was a chasm as big as the Grand Canyon.
Even if the King wasn’t the grand master of music, he was still a vessel which brought the blues to America, through rock and roll. Everyone knew Elvis’ music was influenced by the blues. Some even say he brought colored music into the homes of every white person in the country. But then again, it was the blues far removed from the ghettos. It was far enough removed that it could be repackaged and served out on a platter to the heartland of America.
Elwood wondered whether Beale Street itself would soon be sanitized, repackaged, and served out to waddling tourists from all over the country, or even the world. Soon, the National Historic Landmark would be just another tourist attraction on a map.
Instead of the living, breathing lifeline to the music and culture of Memphis, would it turn into a cold museum exhibit?
Still, he had to it admit to himself, even reluctantly. Elvis was one of his first musical heroes.
The sisters at the orphanage frowned upon most music. If it wasn’t a hymn, or maybe classical music written by some dead guy in a frilly shirt, they tried to keep it out of the building. But he’d hear Elvis’ music on the radio whenever there was the rare opportunity to listen. That is, whenever Curtis wasn’t teaching him about some of the real giants down in his boiler room apartment. And as a kid, he didn’t know much about music, except that Elvis was everywhere. Everybody talked about him. Elvis was King. On the streets when a car passed by, or through the doors of the corner store, you could always hear the music coming from within.
He bowed his head a little, a sign of his respect.
Still, it didn’t seem right that it had to be him. Why did people need Elvis, of all people, to be the messenger for the music that poured out of the ghettos of America? Why was Elvis the one bringing black culture into people’s homes?
Maybe it was enough that Elvis was a tragic example of the American Dream. Poor kid makes it big. Poor kid grows up to be the King. Maybe not the President, but the King. Poor kid makes it big, finds no hope, kills himself while on the...
No. Elwood shook that image out of his mind.
Then the thought struck him. He wondered where it came from, and why it never occurred to him before.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” he thought, a bit worried. “Jake and me?”
He looked around nervously. All he saw were the tourists and crying women kneeling at the gates. That was America. Pale and plump, and mourning their king not even one year gone.
“Were we just repackaging the blues?
“No. It was different.” he tried to convince and console himself. “We’ve been exploited, all our lives. Will be till the day we die. Jake’s wasting away in the slammer. The best years of his life! And I’ve got a five by ten box of a hotel room I call home. I’ve got no mansion with a white picket fence. I have no pretty woman to come home to at night...”
He wondered why that last image popped up. He shook that out of his mind, too.
“Anyway, we’re not really white, Jake and me.” He sighed, in relief. “On second thought, neither was Elvis. At least, not at first.”
He bowed his head a little and showed his respect once again. But all Elwood could think about was St. Helen's.
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“All right boys. Tell me what happened.”
Jake and Elwood slumped in their seats, visibly uncomfortable. Elwood, in particular, seemed to be in pain. Judging from the open wound on his lip and the bandage on his temple, it wasn’t surprising. His sunglasses, smashed to pieces earlier that morning, were noticeably absent.
“Now, you wouldn’t tell Sister Mary what happened. And I understand that. Boys your age and all” Curtis reasoned with the two. “But you can tell me, now.”
Jake and Elwood looked at each other and they exchanged uncomfortable looks. Neither spoke up.
Curtis got up and found a bottle of soda pop, then poured it into two separate glasses for the two boys. Even though they were getting older, and had their own means of getting their hands on an increasing number of things, a glass of Coca-Cola was still a treat.
“Was it over a girl?”
In unison, the two boys responded.
“Yes!” Jake said, while Elwood protested “NO!”
“It seems we have a little bit of a disagreement here. One of you want to change your story?”
The two brothers turned and faced each other. Nervous, Jake drank quickly, as a way to delay the inevitable. Elwood, after watching Jake drink, handed his brother his own share of the beverage.
“Come on, now! This is the fourth time, Jake, and the second time, Elwood, that you two got into a fight with those boys from Denton Academy!” Curtis was concerned, for many reasons. The age difference between his boys and the others from the private High School was just one of them. Elwood, thin and gangly, and barely 12 years old, was probably lucky to still be walking.
No. Curtis was worried that fighting would be a way of life for his boys.
“Did they try to take something from you.”
“NO!” Jake insisted, as Elwood nodded his head up and down in agreement.
“Boys... something is going on here. And I don’t like it one bit. Now you can hide it from the sisters, but not from me. There’re no secrets down here. It’s just you, and me, and the boiler.”
The two boys remained slouched, and increasingly more uncomfortable.
“Elwood.” Curtis turned his attention to the younger one, guessing he would be the first to yield under pressure. “Did they say something bad about Jake?”
Elwood looked up at Jake, as if wanting confirmation.
“No, son. Look at me. Not him. Did they say something bad about Jake?”
“No.” Elwood said, quietly, biting his wounded lip, then sucking on the wound to stop the bleeding of the newly opened flesh.
“About you?”
The sucking continued, until it was visibly hurting him to continue.
“About the sisters? One of the other boys here?”
Elwood shook his head, almost violently, as if he was going to either explode in anger, or break down in tears. Jake put one hand on his shoulder, which Elwood roughly shrugged off.
“About your parents?”
“Curtis!” Jake finally yelled, out of pure desperation. “They called you a worthless old nigger!”
Elwood’s face wrinkled up, in anger and anguish. The room grew deathly silent, broken only by Curtis leaning back into his chair and sighing. Finally, he simply said “I see.”
“We couldn’t let them say those things about you, Curtis!” Jake added, his voice almost cracking.
“Why not? They’re right, you know.”
Jake and Elwood looked at each other, their mouths open in shock. Then they looked at Curtis.
“To those rich kids, to all rich folk, that’s all I am, you know?”
“But, but, it’s not true! It ain’t right!” Elwood argued, a bead of blood growing on his lip.
“Sure thing, but that’s how it is. You know, they want to see you fail, and go bad, and get violent. All of us. Makes them feel better about themselves. So, it’s you boys’ job not to!”
“Turn the other cheek, Curtis?” Jake asked, sarcastically.
Curtis pointed to the wall behind where the boys were seated.
“You see those men, behind you, Jake? The Reverend? JFK? Bobby?”
“Malcolm?” Jake added. Curtis silenced him with a stare.
“Those men? They’re out there, working and fighting... for people like you and me. Trying to convince folks out there that we’re all the same. Fighting for our rights. Some even lost their lives doin’ it! So show a little respect.”
Jake looked down at the floor, a bit ashamed. He hoped Curtis wouldn’t bring up Lincoln. He was relieved that he never did.
“Don’t look down at the ground, Jake. Look up at those photos. You see, they fight with their words. With their actions. Not with their fists. You best learn something from that.”
“Fighting for people, like us?” Elwood asked, confused, still processing Curtis’ earlier words of social commentary.
“That’s right. Like all of us. The ones on the bottom, Elwood! Cause, you know, that’s what it means to be black. Shoot. It ain’t about the color of your skin, son! You know that! That’s just something easy for bad rich folks to pick on.”
In the orphanage, you weren’t a color. You were just another orphan. You were a damn cot assignment. Even in church, you were only one of His flock. Out there? You were one of the have-nots, in a world full of haves. But it was all the same.
“Now,” Curtis continued. “You figure out a way to spread that word, and then..! Then you’ll be doing me a favor. All of us.”
“But Curtis. I ain’t no JFK...” Elwood said, apologetically.
“Son, you can always spread the word, one person at a time. Shoot. Even one song at a time.”
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Elwood got back into the Bluesmobile, and opened the map once more. He wasn’t exactly sure where his next stop was, and neither were the people he asked. But he wasn’t leaving Memphis without making that final pilgrimage.
He pulled out of the parking spot, and turned on the radio. He wasn’t in the mood for music, though.
The news. People didn’t listen to the news anymore. Was anything even happening anymore?
He drove through Memphis, asking for directions as best he could. He took in the sights, listening to the announcer on the AM radio talk about President Carter’s failure at solving the energy crisis. As if it was his fault, alone.
Finally he saw it up ahead. The Lorraine Motel.
The hotel was just like he remembered it, except now it was in color. The hotel sign. The box architecture. The balconies. He remembered the balcony.
There were no crowds and traffic cops camped out in the parking lot. There were no pale white tourists in shorts with cameras. The remains of a single wreath hung from one of the guard rails on a corner balcony. It looked like it had been there for about a week.
It was all painfully obvious, to Elwood at least. The waddling tourists had made their pilgrimages all right, but they were all paying their respects to the wrong King. They cried at the gates of the lost soul who took his own life, instead of the balcony of a man who fell to a bullet fired in hate. They flocked to the one who found the American Dream and let it slip away.
Had they forgotten the one whose dream really would have made a difference?
“This would make a great museum someday,” he thought.
Elwood pulled into the parking lot, got out and stood in front of the car. He removed his hat, and bowed his head. He wanted to sing a song in tribute to the Reverend, but he was at a lost for words.
Instead, he pulled out his harmonica, and began to play a slow version of Amazing Grace.
When he finished, he noticed a few others had gathered with him in silent remembrance. Perhaps his music made a difference, at least for that one single moment.
He surveyed the hotel, once again. The scene was almost like he remembered it, depicted on the news, on that little black and white tv. He remembered how he and a few other boys snuck down into Curtis’ room that night, back in 1968. Elwood was a maturing teen by then - tall, with a deepening voice. Still, he sat silently at Curtis’ feet as they all watched the news.
Jake wasn’t there. He was already away, in a correctional facility for teens. And Elwood was always convinced that Jake was the lucky one.
Jake never had to sit and watch Curtis break down and cry.
------
August 12, 1978
Dear Curtis,
I found myself in Memphis, and I paid my respects to Reverend King at The Lorraine.
I played "Amazing Grace" for the Reverend.
And I played it for you.
Elwood
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sleepy
sad
bitchy
crappy
confused
bouncy
determined
