Christopher Moore The Lust Lizard of Melancholy C

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.It was crazy behavior.It frightened her as much as the thing at the beach had, and when they got to her house she immediately took a Zoloft, even though she’d already had her dose for the day.“Leave me be, woman.I said I’d tell you.I needs me some nerve medicine.”Estelle released his hand.“What was that at the beach?”Catfish splashed some whiskey into Estelle’s tea first, then into his own.He grinned, “You see my name wasn’t always Catfish.I was born with the name of Meriwether Jefferson.Catfish come on me sometime later.”“Christ, Catfish, I’m sixty years old.Am I going to live long enough to hear the end of this story? What in the hell was out in the water tonight?” She was definitely not herself, swearing like this.“You wanna know or not?”Estelle sipped her tea.“Sorry, go ahead.”sixCatfish’s StoryWas ’bout fifty year ago.I was hoboing through the Delta, playin juke joints with my partner Smiley.He called Smiley cause he don’t never get the Blues.Boy could play the Blues, but he never got the Blues, not for a second.He be broke and hungover and he still always smilin.Make me crazy.I say, “Smiley, you ain’t never gone play no better’n Deaf Cotton, lessin you feels it.”Deaf Cotton Dormeyer was this ol’ boy we used to play with time to time.See, them days, bunch of Bluesmen was blind, so they be called Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie Jackson—like that.And them boys could play them some Blues.But ol’ Cotton, he deaf as a stone, a little bit more of a burden than bein blind iffin you playing music.We be playing “Crossroads,” an’ ol’ Deaf Cotton be over on the side playin’ “Walkin Man’s Blues” and a-howlin like a ol’ dog, and we stop, go down to the store, have us a Nabs and a Co-Cola, and Deaf Cotton just keep right on playin.And he the lucky one, ’cause he can’t hear how bad he is.And didn’t nobody have the heart to tell him.So, anyway, I says, “You ain’t never gone play no better than ol’ Deaf Cotton, lessin you get some Blues on you.”And Smiley say, “You gots to help me.”Now Smiley, he my friend from way back—my partner, see.So I says I will get the Blues to jump on him, but he got to promise not to get mad how I do it.So he say okay, and I say okay, and I sets to sic the Blues on him so we can go to Chicago and Dallas and makes us some records and get us some Cadillacs and so on like them boys Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker and them.Smiley, he had him a wife name of Ida May, sweet little thing.He keep her up there in Clarksville.And he always sayin how he don’t have to worry ’bout Ida May when he on the road cause she love him true and only.So one day I tell Smiley they’s a man down Baton Rouge got him a prime Martin guitar he gonna sell for ten dollars, and would Smiley go get it for me cause I got me a case of the runs and can’t take the train ride.So Smiley ain’t out of town half a day before I takes me some liquor and flowers and make my visit on little Ida May.She’s a young thing, ain’t much for drinkin liquor, but once I tells her that ol’ Smiley done got hisself runned over by a train, she takes to drinkin like a natural (in between the screamin and cryin and all, and I had my own self some tears too, he being my partner and all, God rest his soul).And before you know it, I’m givin’ Ida May some good lovin to comfort her in her time of grief and all.And you know when Smiley get back, he don’t say a word ’bout my sleepin with Ida May.He say he sorry he can’t find the man with the guitar, gives me my ten dollars, an’ say he got to go home ’cause Ida May so happy to see him she been doing him special all day.I say, “Well, she done me special too,” and he say that okay, her being sad and me being his best friend.That boy was greased to the Blues, and they just wouldn’t stick to him.So I borrowed a Model T Ford, drove over to Smiley’s, and done run over his dog, who was tied up in the yard.“That dog was old anyways,” he say.“I had him since I was a boy.Time I get Ida May a puppy anyways.”“You ain’t sad?” I say.“Naw,” he say.“That ol’ dog had his time.”“You hopeless, Smiley.I gots to do some ponderin.”So I ponders.Takin me two days to come up with a way to put the Blues on ol’ Smiley.But you know, even when that boy standing there over the smokin ashes of his house, Ida May in one arm and his guitar in the other, he don’t do nothin but thank God they had time to get out without gettin burnt up.Preacher once told me that they is people who rises to tragedy.He says colored folk gots to rise to tragedy like ol’ Job in the Bible, iffin they gonna get they propers.So I figures that Smiley is one of them who rises to tragedy, get stronger when bad things come on him.But they more than one way to get the Blues on you.Ain’t just bad things happening, sometime it good things not happenin—disappointment, iffin you know what I mean?So I hears that down Biloxi way, round ’bout one of them salt marshes on the Gulf, they is a catfish big as a rowboat, but nobody can catch him.Even a white man down there will give five hundred dollars to the man bring that big ol’ catfish in.Now you know people be trying to catch him, but they don’t have no luck.So I tells Smiley I got me a secret recipe, and we gonna go get that catfish, get that money, and go up to Chicago and make us a record.Now I knows they ain’t no catfish big as a rowboat, and iffin there was, he’d be caught by now, but Smiley need him a disappointment iffin the Blues gonna jump on him.So I spends the whole ride down there buildin up that boy’s hopes.Cadillacs and big ol’ houses ridin on the back of that catfish.We ridin in that ol’ dog-killin Model T Ford, two hundred feet a rope and some shark hooks in the back with my secret catfish recipe.I figure we get us some bait on the way, and sho’ nuff, I accidentally run me over two chickens got too close to the road.’For dark we down on the bayou where that ol’ cat spose to live.Them days ’bout half the counties in Mississippi got signs say: NIGGER, DON’T LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOU IN THIS COUNTY, so we always plan to get where we goin’ ’for dark.My secret recipe a gallon jar of chicken guts I keep buried in the backyard for a year.I takes that jar and punches some holes in the lid and toss her out in the water.“A catfish smell them rotten guts, they be there lickety-split,” I tells Smiley.Then we hooks up one them chickens and throw it out there and we sits back and has us a drink or two, me all the time talkin trash ’bout that five hundred dollar and Smiley grinnin like he does.’For long Smiley doze off on the bank.I lets him sleep, thinkin he be more disappointed if he wake up and we ain’t caught that catfish.Just to be sure, I starts to pull in the rope, and ’for I got it pulled in ten feet, somethin grab on.That ol’ rope start burning through my hand like they’s a scared horse on t’other end.I musta yelled, cause Smiley woke up and goes running off the other way.“Watch you doin?” I yells, and that old rope burnin through my hands like a snake on fire.Well, that it, I think, and I lets go of the rope.(A Bluesman got to take care of his hands.) But when the rope come to the end, it tighten up like an E string and make a twang—throw moss and mud up into my face—and I looks round and see Smiley crankin up that Model T Ford.He done tied the rope on the bumper and now he drivin it back out the bayou, pullin whatever out there in the water as he go [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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