Sonny Boy Williamson called Marcus on the phone. The real one, dead for 70-plus years, not the more recently deceased imitator, gone only fifty-five. “I’ve been expecting you,” Marcus said, and they both laughed, because, really, he hadn’t, the call came as a surprise, as would a call from anyone dead for that long, not to mention a famous harmonica player who had, back in 1948, been walking home at the height of his fame after busting out the joy at the Plantation Club, black and tan faces both upturned with glee, had felt so good in fact that he had even put his hand on the shoulder of the manager and expressed additional condolences regarding the recent passing of The Big Fella, had strode out into the street to go home, purposeful, dollars in his pocket, thinking of cigarettes, thinking of women, made it as far as 31st and Giles, was set upon by thugs, beaten to within an inch of his life and then an inch further, had risen into a heaven that he had not, a moment before, believed was real, let alone included recently built staterooms that resembled those on a luxury cruise ship with their luxurious bedding, luxurious bedmates, and even a telephone, “which is how come I can talk to you like this.” What was not a surprise was that Sonny Boy kicked off the call with that story, and not a short version either.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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