You have to know the street to sing blues.
Cathy Lemons
Suitcase Part 1
We would talk into the darkness, the hollow tin cup of darkness, our voices like pennies thrown into a dank tunnel. Secrets rolled, hissed and reverberated down into the hollow bowels of endless cells. San Bruno County Jail in 1989 was like an ancient catacomb. Before they made it all into one big dormitory, there were just two sides of 12 rooms, separated by a long steely hall. Iron rooms, iron halls, tiny perfect cages for secrets to be passed.
I could no longer destroy myself. A judge had stayed my hand. And my brilliant short friend, Deborah Ellstat, had also been temporarily spared. So we talked about Deborah Ellstat's uncle, David.
This is her true story about her uncle and his suitcase.
Keep Steppin’
My advice to young women that want to sing blues is this: don’t ever let anyone ever tell you what you can and can’t do. Don’t ever let people stop you from your dream. Just roll. And get as many skills as you can.
Sweet (Part I)
To watch Ron charm a southern old lady behind a jewelry counter was something to behold.
We all three, me a Texas homespun slender brunette, Donald, a fat handsome Arab, and Ron, a long, lean sweet talker waltzed into a Dallas mall, one of those huge, refrigerated, endless, underground worlds, and go to work. Ron wore a suit, his tie skewed off to the side. He swept his blonde hair back with both hands and settled his eyes on which victim. It would not matter. All the old ladies loved him. We stared down into a sea of glittering wonder: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires--all behind a long glass case. “Oh let me see that one,” Ron said, pointing to a giant rock set on a shiny band. The lady with her slow southern way, took her key from a small Styrofoam cup and opened up the glass cage. Brought out the ring like a big smiling surprise. “Sweet!” Ron said with a slight whistle between his teeth. He motioned for Donald and me to come over. My boyfriend's fat stomach practically rested on the glass counter. “Well? Which one should I get her?” He said.
John Lee Hooker and The Ra Ra Rolling Stone (Part I)
It all begins with an idea.
The Electrocution
The man pulled up in a black SUV at the busy corner of Van Ness Avenue and Geary Street—part of the Tenderloin stroll. He tilted his head slightly down and looked at the girl dressed in tight blue jeans, heels, a black leather jacket. She lowered her body slightly and peered into the car—her long hair falling. She could not see the man’s eyes—it was dark.
The girl was pretty. Twenties. Not so hard like so many. Heavy makeup on her face. Bluish circles under her blue eyes. She stood there peering in—trying to see. There was a moment’s hesitation—a pulling back of her elegant body—a pause—like a puff of air—out of nowhere—during a flat day—a desert day.
Red Shoes
“Don’t think—just listen.”
Those were the words that ran through my head as I turned the corner inside the small bright shoe store … just a little ahead of my trick. His name was appropriately called “John,” and he was obviously not going to let me out of his sight. I was there to pick out a pair of dancing shoes—his gift. He noticed that I wore only one pair night after night, and so he made this magnanimous offer—eyes gleaming.
“I wear a size 8, where are the sizes … here they are … oh these are nice!” (the routine).
“Why don’t you pick up several pairs,” asks John dear.
“Oh no, that would be too much. I just need one pair—I want something elegant—a little flashy even—like these.”
I picked up a pair of red high heeled shoes and ran my hands along their smooth surface. I could smell the new leather—high arch, long heel line, elegant tip—sleek. Like me.