Since I have a rumbling, misbehaving tummy, we're going to delay our mystery trip until tomorrow. While I nap and read, Mike has made eight Key Lime pies and delivered them to the women at the bank, the mechanic, the welder, the insurance agent, and several other friends.
Mike is not a writer, but he's an old-school storyteller. I wish I could capture the stories he tells just as he tells them.
He used to love to go to the magic shop in some alley in Memphis when he was a boy. Once he saw a huge plastic iguana with glass eyes and he wanted it with all his heart, so he put it on layaway. His mama disapproved of such an ugly addition to the house, but Mike wouldn't be dissuaded "even though it was very expensive." How expensive? I wondered. "Oh, about six dollars," he said.
He has the kind of memory that makes his stories sink in--I feel like I've read a book about growing up on Beale Street, I know them so well.
One of his favorite people was the principal, Mr. Barnes, who whipped him often for various transgressions. But it was worth it, he says--as he recalls the times he took a bunch of friends off campus for lunch and other rule-breaking adventures. Mrs. Barnes was the secretary and the "sweetest woman" he knew. They had two sons, one a professional football player--but both have since died, one in a car crash, the other by suicide.
He remembers being the only white boy who bought his clothes at Lansky Brothers store, the various bleaches and colors he applied to his long hair, and what he bought when and for how much. He knows the name and history of every musician and met many of them on Beale Street. Graceland was purchased from his mama's boss, a lawyer in town who let Mike answer the phones on Saturday mornings.
I think I may do a Story Corps interview of Mike on our road trip and hopefully capture some stories on audio.
No comments:
Post a Comment