The Last Bluesman

God damn. I was knee deep on a bar stool in a ramshackle liquor house in west Virginia. The path that led me there was straight alright, but I might have wished it was crooked. There’s the old story of losin your girl and losing your gig, and losing it all and hittin to the road and ending up far away and far out. That would be the case here but I never had nothing to lose in the first place. I’ve always been a wanderin.

Inside of this Hole was a splintered bar that cared nothing of your troubles and neither did the man behind it. If a smile ever did grace his lips you’d be sure to feast your eyes on his broken teeth and mutton gums. As for my company, there was nothing sadder than a woman alone in this place. The only thing that looked worse off than the bar. She might have glanced up when I walked in but I never saw it.

It was in these conditions that I was draining away whatver time I had left to breathe this beautiful air. I knew there had to be a cliff around this mountainous region that would gladly offer me up as a sacrifice. And I was bout ready to find her. So when a cough came from behind me and I had to see who was joinin me for my last supper. And what a guest.

A black man, looked to be older than petrified wood with a face as smelt as the unfinished face of a metal statue. He carried a homemade guitar case that had been through the entirety of human civilization and back. Grass poked out of the latches like he closed it up in a hurry and never noticed.

The bartender gave him a look that made me think he wasn’t planning on serving him. Black man sat down and a hundred years of walkin came cryin out his backside. Looked like he’d never met a chair before. He put up some nasty lookin dollars and sat back for his beer. Lit up a cigarette from a broken down pack and took a drag. Pulled it back as I stared at him. Held it in. Stared at him. Held it in. Stared. Let her out real slow all the while staring ahead. Turned to me.

“Where you come in from?” I asked. Slow as sin he spoke, “ Been out around, playin this guitar for the people.” “What you play?” I asked him. “Blues” he replied. Took another drag and wrapped his puffy fingers around that mug of drink.

One after another I laid questions on him, took a while, but I finally found out what he was about. Into this bar, had walked, on my last day on earth, in the last place I’d want to spend it, the last, the very last, the last of the last, bluesmen.

Now here it was at the turn of the 21st century, and I know this area is a little slower with the times, but there was no way it was this slow. He said he played on plantations 80 years ago, for people who’s grandparents knew slavery first hand. And he’d show up, start hitting on the strings and the blacks would gather round him in the fields till there boss gave him the boot.

This was a lot to swallow but if anyone looked a hundred years old it was this man. What had he been doin all this time? He’d been travelin around, all alone, playin backwoods towns and any where else where he could make a dime. And now I had to ask him to play me something. To send me out on top. Give me a good song in my head as I took that leap to the great unconscious. I gave him all the money left in my pocket and said I want a show. Just for me. And for the lady at the end of the bar.

The bluesman finished off his beer in slow time and pulled out the guitar. A thing as opposite as it’s ragged case. It looked untouched. He threw it’s old brown strap around his neck and placed the bottom of the instrument on his thigh. And from the first note that he struck a hundred years of life came coughin and cryin and shinin out.

He played to me for two hours straight, only interrupted by sips of beer that the bartender brought him without charge. Even that gal at the end of the bar looked like she’d taken her first breath since she was 15. He played up and down every feeling any of us ever had. A deep voice, raspy at times but clean as stream water when he desired it so. I felt every memory and every memory I wished that I’d had run through my body. From my eyes to my stompin feet. That room must have been glowin if anyone had opened the door. But it was just us and the bluesman.

And when he broke that last note I don’t think any of us knew where we were. That girl was in tears and so was the bartender. I had so many thoughts and so many feelings that they were confusing each other and I couldn’t even move. He took a sip of his drink and eased the guitar back into the case. Stood up real slow like he was a bout to start a thousand mile walk. Nobody said nothing. He just finished what was in his glass and took a step towards the door.

Now I know things haven’t gone right in my life. From women, to my mama, to a home and something to build it with that never came. And I’ve done damn near everything but take a life though I was planning on it in the coming hour. I know that in between every breath I’ve felt the weight of something I just can’t explain but something that’s a bit too heavy to be worth all the effort to take another one. And I know that I don’t know much of nothing. That I’m sure. But I could not just let this man, this creature this resurrecting mystery, walk out the door.

“Mister!” I called, as his hand was upon the wooden door, seemingly waitin for me to speak. He turned, as slow as he’d been all night, and lowered his chin waitin for me to finish what I’d started. “Mister. Can I join you?” Looked like he pondered it inside and out, like he knew that this was a bigger matter than me just joinin him to the next town. Like my life was about to become entwined with all his remaining days. I could see him runnin through the labrynth of his memories all up to this point and even running into the memories he was gonna have, right up till he died. I could see him him running. He looked me over, no doubt seeing my desperation, seein the blues, seein inspiration. He looked me over and flicked his head as slow as a flick can be, towards the door. I couldn’t tell if he motioned for me to join or just that he was headin that way.

“Come on boy” he said. “ I got a show to play come the morrow.” And off I went. Traveling with the last blues man till the end of his days.