Bookshelf Battle

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3    Part 4    Part 5

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Hettie and I found a seat.  I flipped through her mother’s bible and read the various excerpts the Good Reverend Jedediah Blodgett had marked for me, each one promising me a variety of punishments and torments in exchange for touching his daughter in an inappropriate manner before marriage.

Now concerning the matters about which you wrote: ‘It is good for a man not to have sexual relations with a woman.’ But because of the temptation to sexual immorality, each man should have his own wife and each woman her own husband.

1 Corinthians 7:1-5

JEB’S NOTE IN THE MARGIN: “Hell, Jake Hatcher!  You got no idea how hot the fires of hell are.  You best think about that before you lay a hand on my baby girl.  Hettie can do a whole heap better than you, boy, but you’d better put a ring on that finger if you can’t control yourself.”

“Put a ring on that finger.”

3.5 readers, before you complain about how unfair things are in modern times, consider this fact:

In 1938, it was illegal for me to put a ring on Hettie’s finger.

I was white.  Hettie was black.  And somehow, the government decided that two differently colored people couldn’t possibly be allowed to live together as man and wife.

Jeb knew that.  He wasn’t talking about a legally registered and recognized marriage.  He meant I should find a minister who’d of at least bound us together in the eyes of the God he loved so much.

Finding a minister who’d agree to marry an interracial couple was a near impossibility in those days.  We’d of asked Jeb to do it but, you know, set three Kings and a Sultan in front of Jeb and he’d of gladly explained why every last one of them wasn’t fit for Hettie, so I never stood a chance in his eyes.

That we weren’t able to get hitched bothered us but we wanted to be together, so we were together.  We didn’t need anyone’s approval, which was good, seeing as how people weren’t exactly standing in line to give it to us.

Ma Hatcher’s point would soon be proven.  Up until then, our world had been spending time together in the Hatcher family backyard, or on Jeb’s spread across town.  Sure, we turned a head or two when we walked down the street together but, we truly had no idea what we were in for.

“BACK OF THE TRAIN!”  the conductor barked.

Hettie and I just sat there, confused.

“BACK OF THE TRAIN,” the conductor repeated.

“Huh?”  I asked.

“No colored folk allowed up here,”  the conductor said to Hettie.  “Get to the back.”

It was the first of many times I’d get more ornery than a mule at a kicking contest over this subject.

“Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute, buster,”  I said.  “We paid for two tickets on this rattle trap, that was LATE by the way, and we aim to sit wherever we damn well please!”

Yeah.  I know you 3.5 readers would of cheered for me, but the other passengers looked as steamed as a plate of broccoli and were hankering for a good old fashioned lynching.

“Sir,”  the conductor said.  “Is she your servant?  I suppose I could look the other way until this car fills up, but then she’ll need to head to the back.  Rules are rules.”

“My servant?!”  I shouted.  “She’s my girl!”

A collective “GASP” wooshed over the car like a high wind blowing in over the sea.

“Jake,”  Hettie said as she stood up, embarrassed.  “Stop it.  I’ll go.”

Like a bump on a log, I stood there, with no clue what to do next.

“Wait!”  I shouted as I grabbed Hettie’s hand.

I turned back to the conductor.

“I suppose next you’re going to tell me there’s a rule against white people sitting in the blacks only car?”

He thought about it, then said, “No sir.  No, I think you’re more suited for the filth back there.”

I had half a mind to knock that bastard out but the whole car was applauding him like he was the hero and leering at me like I was the villain.  I’d of been drawn and quartered had  I made a move on him.

Hettie and I walked, and walked, and walked some more.  So many eyes stared us down along the way as if we’d done something wrong just for being together.

We finally found the car reserved for black passengers.  To our surprise, there was a celebration afoot.

There was a fiddler strumming his strings like his fingers were on fire, a trombone player tooting on his horn with so much gusto that he looked like he’d pass out, and a drum player being his set like it owed him money.

The singer was a dapper gent in his late twenties.  Real smooth type.  Spiffy vest.  Gold ring on the finger.  He was holding a saxaphone, but was belting out a tune at the top of his lungs:

Honey!

Oh, I say, ‘Honey!’

That must be your name ‘cuz there ‘aint nothin’ sweeter than you!

Oh Honey!

Like a flock of baby ducks, the singer had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand.  They shouted back, “Oh, he said, ‘Honey!”

And then the fella continued:

That must be your name ‘cuz ‘aint nothin’ sweeter than you!

Finger snapping.  Toe tapping.  Hand clapping.  The whole crowd was into it as the singer puckered his lips up to his sax and blew it to Kingdom come.

I was impressed and overcome with the nagging feeling that I should have spent less time reading comic books and more time practicing the piano like Ma Hatcher wanted me to.

A minute or two later, the diddy came to an end.  The passengers went about their business and the attention was on me, who was more out of place than a third wheel on a bicycle.

Would they accept me or hate me as much as the people in the car I just walked out on?

There was silence for a moment then the makeshift emcee poured a brown jug marked “X” into a cup and handed it to me.

“Welcome friend!  This here will grow some hair on your chest!”

I sniffed it.  Paint thinner had more appeal, but not wanting to look like a teetotaler, I chugged it, and instantly felt ready to keel over.

“Whoa, nelly!”  the man said as he whacked me hard on the back.  “That’s something you got to sip on!”

Everyone laughed at me as I choked and sputtered, but it was a good kind of laugh, not a making-fun kind of laugh.  At least that’s how it felt.

“Come on in,” the singer said.  “Plenty of room.”

We found a seat and weren’t shooed away this time.  An older couple in the seats in front of us took an interest.  The man offered me a hunk of chewing tobacco but I passed, still reeling from what I assumed was high octane moonshine.  The lady offered me a mint, which I gladly accepted to get rid of the bad taste in my mouth.

The band packed up their instruments and found their seats.  The train chugged out of the station and we were off.

“Think they’ll hate us forever?”  Hettie asked as she rested her head on my shoulder.

“Who?  Our folks?  Nah.  They took it a lot better than I thought they would.”

“Almost wish they hadn’t,”  Hettie said.  “Might of made it easier.”

“It’s easier to run away when you’ve got something worth running from?”

“Maybe,”  she said to me, looking at me with those pretty brown eyes.  “But I know we’ll make them proud.”

I didn’t know that at all, at least about me, but I nodded anyway.

“Hoo-wee!”

The singer interrupted us, dabbing beads of sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It was way too hot in here for that spectacle, let me tell you!”

He stretched out his hand.  I shook it.  He took Hettie’s.  To my chagrin, he kissed it.  That was something fellas used to do. Act like they were all polite by kissing your girl’s hand when really all they wanted to do was put their lips on any part of your girl that they could.

“Clyde Montgomery,”  the man said.

Clyde snapped his fingers and grooved out to an impromptu dance number, jitterbugging a few steps then completing the routine with a twirl.

Hettie laughed.  Yours truly was unimpressed.  I knew what this palooka was up to.

“But people call me ‘Step-Aside Clyde,’ on account of my fancy footwork.  Who are you nice people?”

I plugged up, not wanting to encourage him.  Realizing my rudeness, Hettie stepped in.

“Oh,”  she said.  “I’m Henrietta and this is Jake.”

“Henrietta and Jake,”  Clyde said.  He waved his hand and his band members walked over.  One by one, Clyde introduced them.

“That cat on the strings was my main man Ray ‘Too Late’ Turner.  People call him that because if you’re girl’s missing, it’s too late because old Ray’s run off with her already.”

Jealousy.  The green eyed monster.  Call it what you will, but this guy was oozing with personality and confidence, two qualities in a man that broads will eat up with a knife and fork.

I was more worried about Clyde running off with my girl than Ray.

“That man on the horn was Bo ‘Hurricane’ Harris, ‘cuz ‘aint no one blow harder than he does I assure you.”

Clyde put his drummer in a playful headlock, rubbed his head, then released him. “And of course we got Russell ‘Rat-a-Tat’ Walker.  There’s nothin’ this boy can’t beat on to make a beat.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,”  Hettie said.

And then you know what happened next?  Each one of those fellas smooched Hettie’s hand “out of politeness” too.

What a world.  I was barely in it for five minutes and people either hated me or wanted to abscond with my girlfriend.

“Together, we’re ‘Step-Aside Clyde and the Tennessee Trio,'”  Clyde said.  “Perhaps you’ve heard of us?  We’re on the radio now and then.”

Crap in a hat and pull it over my head.  I had heard of them.  Pa had let me drive around in his studebaker and I’d definitely heard the announcer introduce their songs once in awhile.

But I wasn’t about to give Clyde the satisfaction.

“No,”  Hettie said, naively.  “My Daddy never let me listen to the radio.  He thought music was the devil’s work and such.”

That comment elicited hooting, hollering, knee-slapping laughter from the band.

“Oh darlin,’ your Daddy don’t know what he’s missin’!”

I tried to move things along.

“So fellas, it was real swell to meet you and all but…”

“We’re on a cross-country tour,” Clyde continued, completely ignoring me like I wasn’t there.  “We got those prim and proper Yankees up in Boston, Providence, and Hartford stepping to the beat, had a big to-do in Atlantic City, and next up is the Big Apple.”

I didn’t know what to make of Hettie.  She smiled and was polite but she wasn’t rolling over for the fella either.

“Where are you two headed?”

Like I dummy, I was half-way through blurting out, “Las” when Hettie patted my knee and answered, “Oh, we’re just sightseeing.”

Clyde looked at me.  “Brotha, why are you sightseeing when the prettiest sight is sitting right next to you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

Clyde handed Hettie a flyer.

“If you happen to stop by any of these cities while your sightseeing, I hope you’ll stop by.  Drinks are on me.”

Clyde wrapped it up with one last dance shuffle, another twirl, concluded by pointing both fingers at Hettie (thumbs up style, like his hands were guns).

“A pleasure to meet you Henrietta.  Enjoy your travels.”

Clyde and the Tennessee Trip disbursed.

“You lied to him,”  I said.  “We’re not sightseeing.”

“Jake, that man was like a fox that just spotted a hen,”  Hettie replied in a tone all too reminiscent of her father.  “He only had one thing on his mind and if I kept him talking he’d of never walked away.”

The Good Reverend Blodgett had trained his daughter well.  That was the only time I was happy for his teachings.

I took the flyer and read it.  After New York City, Clyde and his pals were going to play in Chicago, Omaha, and Phoenix.

The bottom of the notice stood out to me:

Miss the tour?  Step Aside Clyde and the Tennessee Trio play nightly at the Clyde Side in Los Angeles, CA.

There are moments in your life when they don’t seem like a big deal at the time, but years later, when you look back at them through the benefit of hindsight, you’re able to pin point them as the exact instant when your life took a turn.

For me, it was for the worse.  For Hettie’s career, it was certainly for the better.  Whether or not it was better for her personally is a question only Hettie could answer, and like so many people from my past, she was one more person I wish was still around.

Given the chance to do it over again, I’d of just shut my mouth and enjoyed the train ride.

But I didn’t.

“You know Hettie, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to know a guy who owns a club in LA,” I said.

Hottie looked to the bottom of the flyer I was pointing to.

“You think?”  Hettie asked.  “I don’t know. He seems just a little too slick if you ask me.”

An aversion to slickness.  We should have hopped off the train right there and walked back to Bayonne, because God knows that’s all there is to Hollywood.

“So?”  I asked.  “If he gets fresh, just sock him one,” I said while I made a fist.

I didn’t trust Clyde but I trusted Hettie.

“I don’t know,”  Hettie said.  “I already told him we’re tourists…”

“So?  Just go tell him you were nervous because you’re daddy told you never to talk to strangers.  Then tell him you’re a singer on your way out to LA and maybe you could sing at his club sometime.”

Hettie took a deep breathe.  She needed to get over those nerves if she was going to make it big.

“OK,” Hettie said.  “Let’s go.”

“Nah doll.  You go.  I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Baby, we’re off to Tinseltown.  You’re going to have to talk to all sorts of big shots and celebrities on your own without dragging me around.  Just give it a go.  I’ll be right here.”

“OK.”

Hettie strolled down the aisle, took a seat with the band and got to talking.  I couldn’t hear or see much but five minutes went by.  Ten.  Fifteen.  At some point I actually heard Hettie sing and the band clap.

When we hit the New York stop, it was time for Clyde and his Trio to go.

“Girl, you better call me as soon as I get back in town,”  Clyde said to Hettie as the whole group shuffled past my seat on their way out.

“I will.”

“You can’t be hidin’ that talent from the world.”

My girl returned and I was anxious for the news.

“How’d it go?”

Must have went well.  She was smiling to the point she was going to burst.

“He said I could sing there whenever I want!” Hettie screeched as she wrapped her arms around my neck, practically choking me with excitement.

“And he says he knows people at the record studios and he’s going to set up some meetings for me, oh my God, Jake, oh my God!”

Oh my God.  I was such a dope.

“Guess it went well then, huh?”

“Jake this was the best idea you’ve ever had!  We’re not even in LA yet and I’m already getting started!”

Sigh.

“He said I have to change my name though.  No one’s going to line up to see, ‘Henrietta Blodgett.'”

“I’d line up to see Henrietta Blodgett.”

“What’s a name that sounds good?”  Hettie asked.  “Something that, you know, will drive the fellas wild?”

I’d created a monster.  The Good Reverend’s instructions were quickly wearing off.

“Candy?  No.  No.  Sapphire.  Jake, what do you think of, ‘Sapphire?'”

“I don’t know,”  I said.

I lifted the lid off the cardboard box.

“All I know is I skipped breakfast and now I’m ready to chew my arm off.  I’m going to eat your old man’s pie.

And a star was born.

“Peaches,”  Hettie said.

“Peaches,”  I replied.

“Peaches Blodgett?”

Hettie frowned.  Putting a name on your budding fame wasn’t easy.

“Drop the Blodgett and just use your middle name,”  I said.

“Peaches May?”  Hettie asked.  “‘Peaches may, what?’  That sounds like a question, not a name.”

“Add a Le to it,”  I said as I stuffed a piece of the crummy, fruity goodness into my aptly named pie hole.  “People will think you’re French.”

“Peaches LeMay,”  Hettie said, her mind obviously wandering off into dreams of big checks she’d cash and songs she’d sing in front of admiring spectators.

I continued to stuff my face, absolutely none the wiser than I’d just launched the next celebrity sensation as well as orchestrated my own heart being ripped to shreds.

But for more on that, you’ll have to wait for the novel Bookshelf Q. Battler is helping me put together, 3.5 readers.

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

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