A Southern Place (25 page)

Danny sang—this time about a girl who was black and “sho-nuff pretty.” There was not a black face in the redneck crowd, but a half dozen female faces seemed to think he was singing to them, smiling and preening and bobbing their heads. He sang about her short skirt and sturdy legs, and girls in high-heeled sandals and shiny dresses lifted up their skirts, revealing even more leg and thigh, reveling in themselves as Danny sang on.

The dance floor was full, my tables empty and pushed together as I tried to figure out which drink went where. I sat down my tray and waited. As I stood listening, I realized that my knees were bending to the back beat, and my arms were involuntarily flexing as well. I could feel the pulsing of the bass guitar in my chest, and for no explicable reason, I wanted to be dancing, too—to be swaying, singing along, participating in the music. What the hell?

I watched the dance floor. With every verse, the rifle-rack-bearing, Dixie-flag-wearing, sons of Lynard Skynard danced to their heart’s content, oblivious to the fact that their roots might be just a generation beyond the KKK. They sang from the dance floor, badly, but they sang.
“Living, just enough, living for the city, just enough!”

Before the applause could start, Danny began the intro for “Long Train Running,” and they all screamed with pleasure. They stretched the song to almost ten minutes, with two guitar solos and a harmonica solo, then sailed straight into Pink Floyd’s “Money,” then Ray Charles’s “Money,” then stopped and took stock of the energy level.

“Do we keep rockin’ out,” Danny screamed at the dancers, “or do we need a slow song or two?”

“FREEEBIRRRD,” some guy yelled from the back of the room.

Danny grimaced, but then smiled. “How ’bout one for the ladies?” he said. “A nice slow song, find yourself a pretty lady and hold her close, then we’ll finish out the set with another good dance tune.”

“FREEEBIRRRD,” the guy yelled again.

“A song from Elvin Bishop,” Danny said, and a few guys in the crowd applauded. “For the ladies, guys, get the ladies up and dance.”

As Danny began the smooth, lyrical opening of the song, I watched the dance floor change shape like a slow-moving kaleidoscope: Some couples left the floor, others left tables in the far corners of the room to be a part of the center. Some remained but moved closer or farther away from the stage. The mass of frantic individual movements disappeared while groups of two became one, and the groups of one made a new vision altogether. The music was slower, so the people moved slower. Their shapes became a pattern of soft colors rippling as if in wind. I stood there, mesmerized, not even thinking about my tables or the drinks or collecting any money. I just stood there and listened.

The words were corny, but sweet. He’d had a million girls (and
Danny
probably had) but none of them meant anything until, suddenly, with one girl, it happened. Yeah right, I didn’t particularly believe it, for him, but he delivered the song well, made me believe it for
somebody.

Danny sang and I thought about my nonexistent love life. I’d never been in love, nor really wanted to be. But maybe I could. Listening to the band, right then, I thought maybe I could be normal, like other girls. Have those relationships other people had. Maybe.

“Fooled around and fell in love
,” he sang, and that was the rest of the song. Over and over, the same thing. There were some nice vocal “aaaah’s” and then a beautiful guitar ride. Then it went back to the same words, monotonously, over and over. Was that what love was? Just endless mumbo jumbo, useless words that made you redundant and stupid? Who the hell needed that?

I grabbed my tray and straightened out the drinks for those that were seated, collecting their money and taking their next orders. I looked out into the crowd. The colors I thought were waving in the breeze were really just standing still, rubbing body parts against one another and rocking from one leg to the other to keep from falling down. So much for the sweet mystery of love.

Danny counted off the next song, which re-filled the dance floor. “Here’s one from Tin Lizzy,” he told the crowd. “Last song of the set. Come on up and dance!”

I grabbed my tray and headed back to the bar.

“Hey, Mojo,” said Gracie, behind the bar with her purse strapped across her shoulder. “Could you fill in for me a few minutes?” I gladly ducked under the end and took her place. I needed a change of scenery.

Within minutes he stood at the bar, right in front of me. It was like I couldn’t escape. A big woman wearing a too-small shirt advertising Daytona Beach gave up her seat for him.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing a bar napkin and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Could y’all play “Sweet Home Alabama” for me?” she asked. “I’s born in Alabama and that’s my favorite song.”

“Sure,” he agreed without making eye contact. “No problem.”

Then he raised his hand, trying to get my attention like some innocent schoolboy. Like I’d fall for that garbage. “Budweiser?” he asked,

“Sure,” I said. I opened it for him and wrapped a napkin around its base. “You’re in the band, right?” I asked, remembering the look on his face when Gracie showed the same kind of attitude.

“Yeah. Danny,” he said.

“You guys are good,” I said, adding, “I really like your singing.” Why the hell did I say that? It’s like the words just fell out of my mouth, without asking me first. I looked at the floor, turned quickly and waited on another customer.

Danny finished his beer in a couple of swallows. I brought him another. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re new, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Mojo,” I said.

“Mojo?” He raised his eyebrows. “Unusual name for a girl. Can’t say that it really fits you, but it’s interesting.”

“It’s not my real name,” I told him, “just what I’ve been called all my life.”

“Oh. What’s your real name?” he asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Mary Jane,” I said. “It doesn’t really fit me, either.”

“Maybe it does,” he said. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Need some more beer?” I asked. Had anyone noticed that this guy drank like a fish?

“Not this second,” he said, standing. “But can I get a couple for next set when I come back from the restroom?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m going back on the floor when Gracie’s off break. I could bring ’em to you.”
What? Where did this dumb blonde voice keep coming from?

“That would be great,” he said, and headed off to the john.

They started back with Clapton’s “I Shot the Sheriff,” and before the song was over, I was bringing three Buds and setting them on Danny’s amp. They covered Foghat, Steely Dan, Hendrix, Grand Funk Railroad, more Doobie Brothers, and of course, “Sweet Home Alabama.” As the dance floor filled for “Knocking on Heaven’s Door,” I caught myself singing as I carried a tray of drinks to a table near the stage. I was definitely under the influence of something.

On the band’s next break, he caught me beside the waitress station. “Hey,” he said. “You doing anything after we close down?”

I shook my head. “Are you crazy? When they turn on the lights and start running people out, it’ll be 5 a.m. When we clean up all the tables and turn in our bank, it’ll be closer to six. I don’t plan on doing anything but going home and going to bed.”

Danny placed his hand under my chin, turning my face towards his. “Would you like some company?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, then used my own hand to remove his from my face. “I may be young and green, but I’m not ignorant,” I said. “There’s plenty here that’d be happy to oblige you, Rock Star.” I swept my hand across the room. “Go talk to them. I brought you beers because I’m a waitress. That’s my job.” I turned and walked away, not knowing if I was about to laugh or cry. Danny followed me.

“Mary Jane,” he called. I could feel
him watching me in the crowd.

“Mojo suits me fine,” I answered, flipping my hair over my shoulder like a cheerleader with attitude. “Now please, leave me alone. I’m working here.”

“Mary Jane,” he said again, catching up to me. “I’m sorry. I was really just kidding, I—”

“You were really just kidding now that you know I won’t. But if I’d said yes, you wouldn’t have been kidding at all.” The room was loud, and I was glad he couldn’t hear the shaking in my voice.

“I–I—you’re right.” He stopped, speechless, then seemed to gain his composure. “And I was being an ass. Working nowhere but nightclubs for five years has left me a little jaded about women in general. But being turned down by you was—the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Let’s start over. Can we?” I kept walking ahead, emptying tables, dumping ashtrays.

“I’ve gotta go back to work now,” Danny said, “but this conversation is not over. Understand?”

I said nothing.

“Damn, Mojo, can’t you at least answer me?”

“I don’t even know you. Why do I have to keep talking to you, or understand anything? Go back to work. Go sing your songs. Go on and leave me alone.”

“Can I play something for you? What would you like to hear?”

“The sound of your footsteps leaving in the opposite direction,” I said.

“Okay, Miss Smart Ass, point taken,” he said. “But it’s last set, maybe even just two or three songs more. Isn’t there anything you’d like to hear?”

I thought for a moment. “Something slow, but not corny. Something
you
like, something you think you do well. Something you don’t usually play.”

The drummer and bass player were already on stage, starting “Some Kinda Wonderful,” probably the only song they could start without him.

“You’ve got it, Mary Jane,” he said, saluting me as he walked away.

The crowd thinned out and the dancers were fewer. Though the song was of shuffling tempo, two of the couples were simply embraced and swaying, as if hearing a ballad all their own. After just a verse and chorus of the song, Danny cued the others to the ending. During the mild applause, he turned back to the band. “Just follow me,” he told them.

Danny switched guitars. “Last slow song of the night,” he announced. “Everybody get close.” He struck a mellow, ringing chord, and the drummer answered with a rain-like tinkling on the cymbals. Both faded out. Then Danny established a bluesy rhythm of two chords. The others joined in, adding little fills then laying back in no hurry for the melody to begin. “From George Benson,” Danny said.

Danny sang in a different voice than he’d used all night, a genre-less, color-less voice that imitated no one, but was simply a new instrument used as the medium for a melody. They sounded so different—it was almost as if someone had found a way to play the jukebox through the sound system. I heard it, that different sound that made me want to forget my customers, my tips,
everything
and just go stand by the stage and listen; so I tried with all my might to put it out of my head. My mama had warned of such voodoo in the music of a man’s voice, and until that moment I’d always believed I could abstain from any such foolishness.

The song was beautiful, but it was late at night and people were drinking. It was one of those songs that could mean a thousand things, have a different meaning for each person who listened. It could be beautiful and touching to some, or downright torture to others, yet they’d all take away something from it.

But then Danny began to scat, and this was beauty on a new level.

From the first note onward, this new sound in the universe was exquisite. He scatted through a verse, a chorus, another of each. And although the bands there always ended with an up-tempo tune, suddenly the lights came on with Danny still scatting, ending on a slow, bluesy tag: “
We’re lost—in a mas-querade.”

No one complained. Danny wiped off his strings, put away his box of pedals, packed up his guitars and headed out. He stopped at the bar, where by then I was sitting, counting my tips.

“Forgive me?” he asked, standing a good two feet away, like he was giving me some space.

I thought for a minute, then answered, “Sure.” I had that naked feeling again, so I looked away, but then added one last remark. “Nice song, by the way, but I’m still going home alone.” I felt the blush coming, but I smiled anyway. Danny smiled back.

“Would it be okay if I called you sometime?” he asked.

“I guess so,” I said.

“How? I mean, can I get your number?”

“I live in Nolan,” I said. “M. J. Mullinax. I’m in the book.”

❦

We saw a movie the next week,
A Star is Born,
my request. Danny liked Kristofferson but thought the movie was totally sappy. He took me home, kissed me at the front door, hung out for a while, but made no effort to stay. He was back at the Plantation for the weekend, where he still worked the crowd but was pretty friendly with me. I invited him to go fishing on Sunday, and he accepted.

We spent the day on the river. Having never been inside a house on stilts, he asked a lot of questions at first, which ended up making the rest of the conversation come pretty easy.

“Wow,” he said as I met him at the door. “This is unreal. What’s the rent on a place like this?” I ushered him in, where he acted magnetically drawn to the picture window and its view of the river. “To wake up to this every day,” he said, “might almost make it worth living in the sticks.”

I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or an insult.

“There’s no rent, it’s mine,” I said. When Danny looked confused, I explained, “My uncle built the place. He left it to me when he passed away.”

“Oh,” Danny said, “I’m sorry.” There was awkward silence.

“It’s okay, it’s been several years now,” I said. “You ready to do some angling?”

From the look on Danny’s face, I was pretty sure he didn’t know that angling was a word for fishing, not juggling iron or sword swallowing, but I didn’t say anything. It was kind fun seeing him as the one at a loss for words.

“I grabbed some bait over at Kelley’s yesterday,” I said. “But all they had was mealworms. Guess that’ll have to do. I’ll get ’em out of the fridge.”

He tried to be cool, but I could read him like a book.
She keeps worms in her refrigerator,
he was thinking, never hearing of such before. He’d told me he’d been fishing as a kid with an alcoholic uncle, but I’m guessing his uncle must not’ve used live bait.

“Poles are out back,” I said, returning with a small cardboard carton. “Let’s do it!”

Danny followed me down the steep staircase and into the back yard. I’d tried on half the clothes I owned before he came, deciding on a soft blue halter with cut-off jean shorts, plastic flip flops punctuating rhythm with every step. Once again, I could feel him watching me from behind, but this time I didn’t feel naked at all, just—special, though I wasn’t quite sure why. When we reached the bottom of the steps, I grabbed the two cane poles with red and white plastic bobbers and kept walking, now at a lively pace. Danny followed.

“Where are we going?” he asked, sounding none too confident about this adventure.

“Just a quarter mile or so, my own private treasure trove,” I said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. People had told me that in bright sunlight, my brown hair was a hundred shades, glistening from chestnut to amber to strawberry blonde. At that moment I was really hoping that Danny noticed it.