Johnny Greer’s Blues - Part 17
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The first night’s show in Biloxi was a a bit of a let down. Johnny had gotten used to the state fair crowds in Jackson, and was surprised that he didn’t fill up the Skeeter Den, a small shack of a bar near the water. After the first set, Johnny sat at the bar, commiserating with a shot of Old Crow, when a tall, heavyset white man in his late 20’s wearing a green army jacket, beat to hell jeans and a black beret approached him.
“That was some good playing, brother,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Johnny said, trying to be polite, but more interested in the Crow than the man.
“Yeah, shame more people weren’t here tonight. That was some bad playing, comrade.”
Johnny laughed. “Comrade? Now that’s a new one on me.”
“We’re all comrades out here just fighting the good fight against the man, you know? I’m Biscuit,” the man said extending his hand.
Johnny’s brain snapped to attention. Part of him had forgotten all about Biscuit during the show. The rest wanted to.
“Oh, hey, yeah. I got something for you. Out in the car.”
“You lead, I’ll follow,” Biscuit said.
Johnny and Biscuit went out to the parking lot. When they reached the Impala, Johnny looked around to make sure no one was watching. He opened the trunk and lifted up his spare tire to retrieve the red envelope. He handed it to Biscuit, who opened it and started to riffle through the contents.
“Pardon me for asking, but you didn’t dip into the supply did you? No big deal if you did, I just need to know what I got.”
“No, I don’t touch that stuff,” Johnny said.
“Smart man. Me either. But, hey, who am I to judge how another brother gets himself through the day. Long as he’s got the bread, it’s not my place to have an opinion. Anyway, pleasure doing business with you. I really do dig your playing.”
“Appreciate that, Biscuit. Why do you call yourself that, anyway?”
“I like me a biscuit. It ain’t nothing deep. Pleasant journey’s, Johnny.”
Johnny wandered back into the bar for his second set. He had thought that getting rid of the envelope would lighten his mental load, but it didn’t. He played to the small crowd, but images of that red envelope and the devil stamp stuck with him. After the show, he did not sleep well. He heard a police siren pass his motel and he tensed up, sure it was coming for him.
The next night’s show was in a different ramshackle Biloxi bar with another small turnout. The folks that were there liked what they heard, but Johnny’s full heart wasn’t in it.
After one too many shots of whisky, Johnny made his way back to the motel. Sirens roused him from sleep several times. Police cruisers and ambulances zoomed past his motel, their sirens loud and discordant throughout the night.
Johnny left town the next day and made his way to Mobile. The venue and accommodations were a little nicer, and Johnny even heard the local radio station playing one of his songs while promoting the show. The hall was filled that Saturday night, and Johnny felt good about the gig.
His Montgomery show went well too, and Johnny was starting to get excited for his next show at the University of Alabama in Birmingham. The campus had only been open a few years; Johnny had never set foot on it. But it was in Birmingham, and Johnny was looking forward to that stop. He wouldn’t be camped out in a two-bit motel. He was going to stay with his parents, who he hadn’t seen since he caught that bust to Memphis.
The drive was only 93 miles, but the Montgomery Highway was a slow route. It took Johnny a little under three hours to get to Birmingham. That three hours gave Johnny a lot of time to think about how quickly everything had happened for him and how quickly he had gotten in deep. Johnny never thought he’d be a professional musician, but he also never dreamed he’d be part of a heroin trafficking ring. It was all too much - all of it. The one thought that hit him like a runaway train was that Honi would be disappointed in him if she knew. So would his parents.
Johnny broke down crying as he pulled into the gravel driveway of his parents’ home in Birmingham. He wasn’t sure if they were tears of happiness for being home or shame bubbling up from his soul.
But, he supposed none of that mattered in this moment. Johnny Greer was home.
The next part will follow.
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