Johnny Greer’s Blues - Part 16

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The late afternoon sun gleamed off the water as Johnny stared out at the emerald green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Leaning against the Impala, Johnny breathed in the salt-kissed air as he watched a shrimp boat making its way back to the harbor. He let his mind dive into the vast expanse of water as the sound of the crashing surf filled the air. He wondered where he’d end up if he got in a boat and just headed south. Would he land in Mexico or South America, or would he end up somewhere in Antarctica? he chuckled to himself thinking about how cold he’d be as he felt the coastal sun beating down on him.

He’d seen the ocean before, but it was a long time ago. He remembered as a kid his dad driving the family down to Destin, a small town in Florida. There wasn’t much to the town, just a few beach cottages and some fish joints, but the beaches were ivory white and the ocean was serene and cool. They’d spent two days there in small cinderblock cottage near the beach. Johnny must have been eight or so at the time, and it was one of the few vacations he remembered as a child. His dad worked for the Birmingham utility company. He didn’t make a lot of money, and his mom stayed home with Johnny and his older brother. Michael had been two years older than Johnny, and the two got along well, apart from the regular sibling squabbles that any two brothers might have.

Those two days, they Johnny a Michael played on the beach, building sand castles and testing out the water. At night, their dad grilled fish or boiled up shrimp. The other guests at the cottages tended to avoid Johnny and his family. He didn’t know why at the time. There weren’t any slurs or fights, just some unhappy looks and a distance. As racism went, it was probably progress. But, the brothers didn’t notice, and had the time of their lives, despite the fact that they never could get all the sand off of them at the end of the day.

It was the last vacation Johnny and Michael shared.

A few months later, Michael was playing on the school playground and fell from the top rung of the ladder on the slide. It was only a short fall, and shouldn’t have done anything worse than sprain an ankle. On the way down, his foot got caught in the ladder, causing him to tumble and hit his head on the hard asphalt. The fall knocked him unconscious and he never woke up. He had died from swelling and bleeding in his brain a few days later.

Michael wasn’t the only one to not recover. His parents could never accept that their son had been taken from them by such a stupid, random accident. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” he heard his mother say. “How can a boy go through his life not doing anything wrong and get killed like this?”

“The world’s unfair, baby,” his father said. “We can’t go and question God or no one else about it. It’s just the way it is.”

The first time Johnny remembered meeting his uncle Danny was at the funeral. He came by the house and spent some time with Johnny, sensing that his parents weren’t in a good place to give Johnny the attention he needed. The night after the funeral, Danny sat on the back porch plucking at his guitar. Johnny came and sat with him and listened to him play. Danny wasn’t singing, but Johnny could hear sadness in every strum of the strings. Johnny was hypnotized by the music.

When Danny finished the song he smiled at Johnny, “You like that?”

‍ ‍“Yes. What is it?”

“It’s the blues. Old Johnny Farmer song. Seemed right for tonight. How you holding up?”

“I’m sad,” Johnny said. “Can you play some more. I like it. It makes me feel better.”

“That’s why we play the blues,” Danny said. “Put sadness in a song and maybe it takes a part of it away from you. That make sense?”

Johnny nodded.

“Alright,” Danny said, playing through another song.

As he played, more of the family made their way outside. They gathered in the cool night as they watched Danny sitting on an old wooden chair on the porch. No one said a word as they watched him play one song and then another. All of them were the blues; and all of them held a world of sadness. Danny didn’t sing any of the songs; even with an audience he seemed to know that the guitar was doing all the talking that anyone needed to be doing at this time.

It would be foolish and a lie to say that everyone was okay by the time he stopped playing. But there was no denying they felt better.

Johnny’s mother told him it was getting time for bed, but Danny convinced her to let him sit on the porch with him for a little while longer. She didn’t have much fight in her, and she agreed, but only for a little bit.

“I like your music, Uncle Danny.”

Danny nodded. “I like it too, but it’s not mine. I’m just playing something I don’t own. I don’t care what them fancy record companies say, nobody owns music. It’s for us all.”

“Well, I like it,” Johnny said.

“I like to play, Johnny. Maybe someday, I’ll teach you how. Would you like that?”

Johnny nodded.

Danny smiled and took a sip from a bottle of beer that Johnny’s father had handed him.

“Maybe when you get a little older and I’m done prowling the state for gigs. But, I want you to remember something ’til then. You know how you felt when you came out here?”

“I was really sad.”

“And how about now?”

“I’m still sad, but, I don’t know. I kind of forgot about that while you were playing.”

“You’re a smart kid,” Danny said. “Don’t forget that feeling. Music is the closest thing to magic you’re going to find on this Earth. It has this power to make people feel better, happier, you know. And even if that’s just for a few minutes, that’s some strong stuff, and it’s damn important. Musicians are like old healers, and that’s a responsibility a lot of us forget out there. We get wrapped up in people telling us how good we are or we start to live off the applause. But, make no mistake, Johnny. Our job is to make people’s lives better, not matter how short that may be. And that ain’t nothing short of miraculous at time.”

He didn’t see Danny too much after that for a few years. It would be years later before Danny slowed down and put a guitar in Johnny’s hands and really taught him to play. But Johnny took to it quick as lightning.

By the time Danny died, Johnny was as good as his uncle; maybe better.

As he looked out at the Gulf, it crossed Johnny’s mind that he had left his uncle’s guitar with Pete at the Silver Palace. He smiled as he thought of the night he played that bar. Everyone was happy for him, and he was happy too.

Johnny watched some birds diving at the water and saw another boat coming in from the Gulf. He took in one more deep breath and looked back at the Impala’s trunk. The weight that had lifted when he began to look at the Gulf crashed back down on him. He pursed his lips and get in the car to get ready for his show. And his meeting with Biscuit.

The next part will follow.

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