Chasing the Ghost of Tyre Nichols

I don’t expect “free” hotel breakfasts to be good, but you couldn’t call the morning buffet at the Union Street Holiday Inn Express in Memphis bad.  I was cutting an OK waffle into bite-size pieces with a flimsy plastic knife and fork when a young man from the front desk walked over and pasted a Post it Note next to my coffee cup.  It said:

I looked up at him.  He smiled.

“Claire wanted me to make sure you got this message.”

I’d forgotten.

“How nice of her.  How’d you know it was me?”

“She described you pretty well.  I knew it had to be you.”

“Tell Claire thanks when you see her next.”

After breakfast, I google mapped House of Rhythm and Blues+Memphis and headed to 2558 Warren, my first stop of the day.  I arrived at a sad building on a dead-end street in South Memphis.  There were weeds and no cars in the gravel parking lot.  I walked all around it.  No mural.  Back to the Chevy.

Next, I added Steve A. Castle to my House of Rhythm and Blues search.  This time the address popped up as 2536 Jackson Avenue.  Not far away.  As I drove down Jackson  I saw the mural, with a large smiling Tyre Nichols, from half a block away.

As I was in the street taking pictures, a middle-aged man came out of the building with a stack of Styrofoam clamshell containers and walked to a pickup truck parked near me. 

“You must be Steve Castle.”

He stopped and turned.

“That’s my business name.  I’m Steve Adams.”

“I just came from the House of Rhythm and Blues on Warren Street.”

“That’s my old club.  I had to shut it down during the pandemic.  I got this place about a year ago.”

“You delivering take-out food?”

“Yeah, my wife’s inside cooking.  We added a Soul Food restaurant.  We hope to start booking bands again come summer.  The pandemic was hard on the music business.”

Steve put the clamshells in his truck and came to where I was standing.  We both looked at the mural.

“I’m just passing through.  Woman at a hotel downtown told me about the mural. It’s beautiful.”

“The credit goes to David Yancy.  He was the force behind it, I just supplied the wall and the paint.  He worked closely with the family.  We didn’t want to do anything without their approval.  They gave us that picture of Tyre.  David and the Memphis black arts community took it from there.  We had a nice crowd at the dedication.  His Mom and Dad came for it.  Good people.  I’m glad I could do it.”

“It says “Hello Parents” up there.  What’s that mean?”

“That’s what Tyre always called out when he came in the house, to let his parents know he was home.  They were close, the three of them.  Sometimes he came home from work on his lunch break to eat, check in with them.  Not a lot of twenty-something kids would do that.  They can’t believe he’s gone.  My heart goes out to them.”

“He worked at FedEx, right?”

“Yeah.  FedEx is the biggest employer in town. Something like 33,000 employees.  Memphis is their world hub.  FedEx is a huge part of the airport.  24-hour operation, three shifts.”

“What kind of kid was he?”

“Good kid.  Skateboarder.  He was into photography.  If you Google him, you’ll see links to his FaceBook page and his photography website.   Crazy about sunsets.  I didn’t know him before he got killed.  Wish I had.”

I looked back at the mural.   

“You a reporter or something?”

“Just a blogger.  Small group of readers.”

“You gonna write about this?”

“I probably am, yeah.”

I fished a DaveintheShack business card out of my wallet and handed it to him.  He looked at it closely.

“I’m heading to where the cops stopped Tyre next.  Do they think he was coming home from work when he got stopped?’

“I don’t know what they think, 'cause they’re not talking but he was stopped at like 8:30 at night close to home.  Makes sense to me if he worked an afternoon shift.  But like I say, we don’t know.”

“I appreciate you letting me interrupt your day.“

“No problem.  Here, have a takeout menu.  I’ll write my email on it.  Maybe if you write about Tyre you can send it to me?”

 

“Sure thing Steve.  Thanks again.”

Please meet the artist who created Tyre’s memorial mural by holding your control key and clicking on this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0tTTtwhKG8

Tyre Nichols was stopped by Memphis police offers assigned to the MPD Scorpion Unit at 8:24 p.m. on January 7, 2023, at 6679 E. Raines Road near the intersection of Raines and Ross Roads.  A reason for the stop was never articulated by the police or cannot be heard on video and audio from police body cams. Memphis Police Chief Cerelyn Davis later stated that the department had reviewed camera footage and could not find any evidence of probable cause for the traffic stop. 

A small memorial has been created there, in front of Prospect Christian Methodist Evangelical, a large 154-year-old Memphis church led by Rev. Dr. Robert H. Washington, Sr..   Across the street from the CME church is Kirby Middle School.  338 sixth through eighth graders attend Kirby, a newly established charter school.

Tyre was driving east on Raines.  There’s little doubt that he was about to turn south onto Ross Road.  800 yards south down Ross Road is the main entrance into Brandywine subdivision where Tyre lived with his parents.  A left turn through that entrance takes you onto the curved streets and cul-de-sacs lined with Brandywine’s tidy brick bungalows.

Tyre’s vehicle never made it past the church.  Body-worn camera footage shows an officer pulling Nichols out of the car as Nichols says “I didn’t do anything.”  An officer shouts “get on the fucking ground”.  Tyre complied.  Moments later another officer shouted “I’m going to tase your ass.”  Tyre was tased in the leg.  Officers simultaneously yelled numerous commands.  While Nichols was on the ground an officer continued to yell for Nichols to lay down.  Nicols responded “I am on the ground.”  Pepper spray was deployed against Nichols which hit several of the other officers as well.  At that point, Tyre broke free from the police, ran down Ross Road, and cut left through the gates of his subdivision.  He nearly made it home.   

Tyre was caught in a foot chase and wrestled to the ground inside Brandywine subdivision at the corner of Castlegate Lane and Bear Creek Lane.  Brandywine subdivision is in the Hickory Hills neighborhood in South Memphis.  A brick home near where Tyre lived was listed online with an asking price of $247,000 at the time this blog post was written.  

A sign not far from the second memorial reminded Brandywine residents that HOA (Homeowner’s Association) fees were due quarterly.   A swimming pool and a tennis court, part of the perks that their HOA fees make possible, were directly across the street from where Tyre was beaten so brutally the second time.

Video of Tyre’s apprehension and beatings were all taken in the dark. I watched the video many times, trying to make out the surroundings, and the context, and listened closely to the audio.  I was there in broad daylight.  A second memorial stands where Tyre’s final dash to make it home ended.  I could see it all clearly.  I could imagine it happening.

Of most interest to me was determining the location of Tyre’s house.  During his beating, Tyre can be heard shouting out for his mother three times.  Information supplied by the police at a news conference described Tyre’s home, where he lived with his parents as being “within a hundred yards.”  No address was released that I could find. 

The thought that you could suffer a life-ending beating so close to home is what brought me to Memphis.  That Tyre called out for his mom made me think he was close enough to think she might actually hear him and come to his rescue.  I understand that.  Children count on moms throughout their lives.  I wanted to see just how close Tyre was to safety.

George Floyd called out to his mother as he was dying on the street in Minneapolis, his neck under the knee of policeman Derek Chauvin.  George Floyd’s mother had died two years before his fatal interaction with the police.  He may have imagined joining her.  There is a boy inside every grown man.  All of us are at times desperate for help, crying out to the person in life we count on most.   But that night Tyre Nichol’s cries, like George Floyd’s, did not save him.

As I stood there on the street, at age 71, I thought of my own mom, big and forceful.  I could picture her running down that street seeing her son in terrible trouble.  In my mind, she screamed at the cops, threw herself on top of me, put up her own arms to stop their blows and keep me alive. 

But it was, after all, January 7^th.  Memphis was deep into winter. The sunset, Tyre’s last, happened at 5:05 p.m..  The air temperature was 50 degrees.  Not cold for Memphis in January but cold enough to keep the windows closed.  If anyone in the neighborhood heard the commotion, there is no evidence they came out of their houses.

The cops caught up to Tyre on foot at 8:33 p.m..  He was taken to the ground once again, pepper sprayed a second time, kicked in the upper torso numerous times.  More cops arrived quickly.  On the videotape, an officer can be heard yelling “I’m going to beat the fuck out of you” before striking Tyre several times with a baton.  One officer punched Tyre five times in the face even though officers had control of his arms.

Tyre’s conduct has been described as non-resisting and nonviolent.  There is no indication he struck back at the officers.  The accumulation of blows Tyre absorbed both there and in front of the church most likely led to his death.  An autopsy has not been released.  

I tried to imagine it all as I stood near the spot where it happened.  As I did, a car drove by slowly, parked on the driveway nearest the memorial shrine, and honked.  The car was driven by a middle-aged African American woman.  A much older silver-haired African American lady came out of the house walking with a cane.  She walked slowly to the car and stood by the driver’s side door.  The driver, presumably a relative, rolled down the window.

“Honey, go in the house please and get my sweater.  I didn’t know it was this cold.”

The driver went up to the house and open the door with her own key as the gray-haired lady walked to the passenger side door.  That’s when she saw me.

“Three doors up,” she said.

“What’s that ma’am?”

“Three doors up on the right-hand side.  That’s where his parents live.  When people like you stop, that’s what I tell them.  Three doors up.”

She pointed past the memorial on the street where I stood, making an arc with her hand and arm.  I looked in that direction.  Castlegate Lane made a gentle turn to the right, a bit uphill.   I saw the first house plainly and counted two more rooftops.  It wasn’t a hundred yards.  It was barely fifty.

“Oh my God.”

“Yes sir.  That close.  I don’t know the parents.  They’re fairly new here and I don’t get out the house like I used to.  But I hear they’re wonderful people.  I can’t imagine they’ll stay.  Nobody deserves that.”

The younger woman came out of the house with a sweater over her arm and both got in the car.  I was still standing there, stunned, looking towards Tyre’s house when they pulled out of the drive and drove away.

I lost all desire to discover more about the senseless death that occurred that January night in America,  this time in Memphis.  Not from a gun this time but a brutal beating.  Not  a black life snuffed out at the hands of white aggressors this time but black-on-black crime.  Cops let their unchecked anger play out violently for reasons I cannot fathom.  It’s beyond reason.

Someone else might have walked up to the Nichols house and described it for his readers.  A true journalist would have knocked on the door, given whoever answered his card, and asked if he could speak to them.  Not me.  Not that day or any other.

We can picture Tyre’s ordeal because of the video and the police reports.  But we will never see videotape of the Nichols family’s grief.  There will never be a detailed account of the loss that will haunt his mother and father for the rest of their lives.  Their son was murdered by the police on the street corner nearest their house, closer than the corner where my kids waited at the bus stop when they went to grade school.  Can you imagine any justification for that?  Is there any rational reason why Tyre Nichols is dead?

If there is an answer, it’s this.  Americans, you, me, the Nichols family, all of us, live in a terribly violent country.  Yet we do nothing about it.  Not only do we fail as a nation to confront violence and change our violent behaviors, we don’t even admit to them.  Is this the kind of country you want to live in?

 

Memphis Part 2

…yesterday in DaveintheShack.blogspot.com

“I used to play Chicago back in the day.  You been to Rosa’s Lounge?”

“Yes, not long ago.  My daughter and her family live close to there.”

“Well, if you get back there tell them Princess Baker wants to play their stage again.”

“I’ll do that.”

I know I’ll be back at Rosa’s Lounge, but not at all sure I’ll remember her name.  I put a tip in the bucket, and she went on her way.

 

The guy on the next barstool, an African American man about my age, turned towards me.

“Excuse me, I heard you talking to Princess there.  I lived in Chicago, in Austin, for four years after I got out of the service.  Went to city college there but came back to Memphis.   What part of the city your kids living in?”

“One’s in a bungalow in Hermosa, and the other in a condo in Pilsen.”

“Things getting’ better in Chicago?”

“Well, I’m afraid Austin hasn’t improved much, but Pilsen and Hermosa are doing good.”

He stuck out his hand.

“My name’s Walter.”

“Dave.  Nice to meet you.”

“What brings you to Memphis, Dave?”

“I’m driving to Florida to meet my wife who flew down.  I’ve been here before.  I stopped this time to learn more about Tyre Nichols being beaten to death by cops.”

“Oh God, it’s awful.  My wife passed at the beginning of the pandemic.  I’m glad she’s not here to see this.  Our kids are all in Memphis.  So are the grandkids.  She’d be so angry about what’s happened.  And scared for the kids of course.”

“Sorry about your wife.”

“Thanks.  I’m close with my kids and they help me a lot.”

He took a pull on his bottle of Bud, and I sipped my bourbon.

“What do you do for a living Walter?”

“Did.  I’m retired.  I’d guess you are too.  I was an accountant.  I made a living helping small businesses, churches, not-for-profits and the like.  Tried to help black-run organizations as much as possible.  How about you?”

“You’re kidding.  I ran a not-for-profit for over thirty years.  I probably could have used your help, especially in the beginning.”

“What kind of not-for-profit?”

“Social work with kids and families.  Foster care, counseling, therapy, community work.  Tried to bring more help into a rural area.  Did a lot of collaboration.  A little lobbying without calling it that.  I liked it.” 

“That work with kids and families is the toughest.  State contracts.  Never enough money.”

“I think that work with spreadsheets, numbers, and auditors is even tougher.  Just as important, that’s for sure.  You can’t do social work without taking care of the money.  I’m sure people like me in Memphis appreciated your help.”

“It was good work, but I have to say I’m glad it’s over.  Nothing’s getting easier.”

“I hear you.” 

We drank again.

“So, what do you know about know about Tyre Nichols?” I asked.

“Nothing I should repeat.  Except for what’s in the press, it’s all rumor.  But in this case,  what happened is all there to see on video.  I didn’t know the man or his family.  He is an out-of-town brother.  Grew up in Sacramento.  Came here to work at FedEx in 2020.  Lived with his mom and stepdad, who moved here not long before he came.  Wasn’t healthy I hear. Frail.  6’3” and had Crohn’s disease.  Didn‘t weigh but a hundred and forty-five pounds or so.”

“What we in Memphis can’t figure out is what he did to piss off the cops so bad.  There was a rumor he’d been involved with a woman known by one of the cops. That was disproved quickly.  I think that rumor got legs because it’s something people might understand for a beating getting out of hand.  But we’re all pretty much baffled.  And now we’re not going to know anything till the trial starts.“

“But black cops beating a fellow black man to death with their hands and a baton?”

“I know.  The story went quiet when everyone found out the cops were black, didn’t it?  I know it did for the black community here.  I don’t know why.  Black-on-black crime happens all the time.  It’s not complicated.  I think this case is about power and the culture of the Memphis police.  Probably lots of police departments.  Ferguson, Missouri for one, not so far away.  Chicago has had its troubles too.  And if we didn’t know before, we should all know now abuse of power is just as deadly as racial violence, and just as important to solve.  It’s so shameful.”

It got quiet.

Where did you grow up Dave?“

“On a small dairy farm in Central Illinois.  Went to school in an all-white town of 800 people.  Graduated in a class of 27 kids.  That little town had one part-time cop.  He drove around odd hours in a used Bel Air Chevy with a six-cylinder engine.  Not much crime in Danvers Illinois.”

“Crime grew a lot here in Memphis during the pandemic.  It’s a big local political issue.  Our police chief, black woman they brought in from Atlanta, started that Scorpion unit to combat the increase.  And look what happened.”

“I think crime is up in every American big city.  Chicago’s facing a mayoral election.  Reducing crime and reforming the police are at the top of the list.   But reforming the Chicago P.D. is proving to be damned hard to do.  Being a cop has gotten to be a very tough job.  They’re short on cops in Chicago.  Recruiting is a problem all over.”

“I keep track of this stuff,” Walter said.  “Memphis has around 630,000 people and 2,000 cops.  Over time, the demographics of the people have flipped. Fifty years ago, Memphis was 60% white, 38% black, and not much else.  Now it’s like 63% black, 30% white, and the rest Hispanic and whatnot.  We lost white people to the suburbs and black folks from outside the city moved in.”

“I’m not sure how Chicago breaks down.”

“You’re a lot more balanced.  You still have a white majority, about 36%, but the African Americans and Hispanic folks together make up almost 60%, about a third each.”

“Hey, you really do keep track.”

“It’s kind of a hobby.  The saving grace for Chicago is they have Illinois, a blue state still willing to help them.  I live in the South, and here in Tennessee, we got a hostile gerrymandered Republican supermajority in the statehouse doing everything they can to work against Nashville and Memphis.  Could be Chattanooga and Knoxville soon.  But Tennessee politics is a different story.”

He went on.

“Here’s why I think this change in demographics is important.  Fifteen years ago, give or take, Memphis put on a big push to hire more black police.  As they should.  We need those jobs as much as anyone else.  And we deserve those jobs.  So now Memphis has like 58% black cops.  Getting close to matching the city’s demographics.  Do you think all those almost twelve hundred black police we’ve worked so hard to recruit are good guys?  I don’t.  In fact, I know they’re not.  We’ve got to face the fact that Americans are violent people.  White and black alike.  I know brothers been hired as police that scare me to death. You know anybody like that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Or did anyway.  Fifteen miles away from where I lived in Illinois, are two towns, Bloomington and Normal, with something like 130,000 people combined.  Bloomington’s where they had the McLean County 4-H fair.  In 1967 I saw a white kid, from a wealthy farm family, get into a fight one night during the fair. Beat up another farm kid in the beef barn just for something he said.  Knocked him silly early on, got him down on the ground, then wouldn’t stop punching.  Took a bunch of guys to pull him off.  When they got him to his feet, he was still crazy mad.  Pretty easy to see he had issues.”

“I never really knew what 4-H was but go on.”

“I lost track of that guy.  I went to college, was gone for a while traveling overseas, and when I came home, mid 70’s, I found out he’d been hired as a cop for one of those big towns near us.  I thought right away they’d hired the wrong guy.  And sure enough, later on he got in trouble, hurt some guy pretty bad, but got off as I recall.  Anyway, I’ve seen that same thing in other places and professions.  Bad people seem to be drawn to jobs with authority because they get off on it.  And the people doing the hiring put them there.”

Our conversation sobered us up.  We paused to take a drink at the same time.  I broke the ice.

“You know, Tyre Nichols didn’t die but two months ago.  Since then, so many more awful things have happened in this country, I’m afraid by the time the trial starts people won’t hardly remember his name, let alone take any measures to fix what killed him.”  

“I know.  What kind of country do we live in that this keeps happening? Where’s all our anger coming from?”

“I got ideas, but I can’t tell you anything for sure. Wish I knew.”

My new friend excused himself and went to the bathroom.  He returned as the band was starting their next set. 

“I’m going now.  Nice talking to you Walter.  Thanks for acquainting me with Memphis by the numbers.”

“My pleasure Dave.  Have a good rest of your trip.”

We shook hands and I walked outside.  It had stopped raining.  The streetlights and neon bar signs were reflecting on a still-wet Beale Street. 

I hoped to learn more about what happened to Tyre Nichols on other Memphis streets the next day.

Memphis

 I slept late at the Sunset Inn in West Memphis and woke up forgetting where I was.  Then the musty smell reminded me.  I opened the curtains to see where I had landed by daylight.  It was still raining.  I Googled to find a new hotel in downtown Memphis and headed out. 

The night clerk was right.  In three minutes, I was crossing the Memphis & Arkansas bridge over the Mississippi River.  Soon after that, I was checking into the Memphis Holiday Inn Express on Union Street where I met Claire at the front desk.  It was a totally different experience than the Sunset Inn.  After Claire got my name and credit card information, she asked for my email address.

“It’s four words all run together.  Dave – in – the - shack, at gmail.com.” 

She smiled.

So, you’re Dave?  And you’re in a shack?  Excuse me, but I don’t get a lot of email addresses like that.”

“I know.  I built a small shack at the edge of my property before I retired, with a wood burner and a computer, and I write in there.”

“I see.  What kind of things do you write Mr. McClure?”

“A blog mostly. It's named Dave in the Shack.”

“Makes sense.  So, what brings you to Memphis if I may ask?”

“I’m on my way to Florida, but I’m stopping here to learn more about the killing of Tyre Nichols.”

“Oh my.  I think everybody in Memphis is trying to understand it.  How do you plan to do that?”

“I’m going to where he was pulled over by the cops and start from there.  But most of all I want to see where he lived.  It’s described as being close to where he was beaten.  I think he was very close to home. I watched the video.  Seeing and hearing him call out for his mom haunts me.”

“I think of how it must make his mother feel.  I think it haunts every mother in Memphis, to think your baby could have his life snatched from him so close to home.”

She paused.

“You going to write about Tyre?”

“I think so.”

“Then let me suggest one more place to visit.  There’s a mural been painted they say is just beautiful.  I haven’t seen it, but my friends have.  Let me find you that address.  And if there is anything else we can do to help, please let us know.”

“I will.  I know it's not check-in time, but do you have a room available now?”

“Let me see.  I think we just might.”

Claire looked closely at her computer screen and then smiled.  Friendly staff make a big difference when you’re on the road.

“Here you go, Mr. McClure.” 

Claire handed me my key. 

“Enjoy your stay.  Breakfast is from 7:00 – 9:00.  I won’t be here tomorrow morning, but I’ll leave you a note with that information about Tyre’s mural.  Ask for it at the desk here.”

“Thank you so much.”

I brought my stuff in from the car, opened the curtains, and settled into what would be my home for a night or two.  After a shower, I opened my laptop, put in the Wi-Fi password, and checked my email.  I created a Word file from notes taken in the car the day before and began to think about how I would write about that first long day.  As I did, I kept glancing at the big bed to my left, and the rain falling outside the window to my right. 

If sleep was a bankable commodity, like dollars in a bank account, mine was seriously overdrawn.  Weary is the adjective that comes to mind.  I’d been on a roll since Guatemala, but that roll was grinding to a halt.

I lay down on that soft bed and when I woke up it was dark.  I threw some water on my face and headed down to the lobby.  A young man named Jamal had taken Claire’s place.

“Excuse me, last time I was here I had barbeque at a joint downtown in the basement of a big old building.  Might have gone in through an alley.  Did that place make it through the pandemic?”

“You’re talking about the Rendezvous, Charlie Vergo’s old place.  It’s still open.  Been open forever.  I don’t recommend it much anymore unless you want to go for the history.  If you’ve been there, you’ve done that.  It’s gotten real touristy. The BBQ is OK, but the sides have gotten small, little bitty cup o’ baked beans.  Same size slaw.  The place I like to send people is The Pig on Beale.  If you’re going for music anyway, it’s all right there.  Not fancy mind you, and not old-time famous either, but very good.”

I took Jamal’s advice. The rib choices at The Pig on Beale were Regular (4 bones), Large (6 bones), and Full (12 bones).  I opted for a Large with baked beans, cole slaw, and a draft PBR.

The motto of The Pig on Beale is “pork with an attitude.”  The ribs are smoked with a dry rub and served with sauces on the side, one sweet and one spicy, both homemade.  The draft beer comes in this plastic cup.

If you go there, you’ll appreciate the paper towels on the table.  The ribs are so juicy there is no getting around picking them up with your hands to get the last bits of delicious pork off the bone and into your belly.  Big thumbs up for The Pig on Beale.

It was the first restaurant I’d gone to on the trip.  I’d eaten in my car for a day and a half.  Nice to be waited on, be around other people, and back into an American city with history, despite its troubles.  I had another beer before venturing back into the rain for a bar with music.

Around the corner from the restaurant, I saw a familiar sign. “Blues Hall Juke Joint.”  A sign in the window advertised drinks to go.  If I was right, my wife and I had been there four years ago on our way back from Florida.  We did Memphis up big on that trip.  A tour of Graceland, a couple of nights on Beale, a visit to the Lorraine Motel, and the Civil Rights Museum near it.  It seemed so long ago.

As soon as I walked in, I knew it was the same place we’d visited.   In fact, I think I could have visited when I was ten and it would have looked just the same.  The band was on break.  I took a seat close to the stage and got the attention of a bartender. 

“Do you have Old Grand Dad?”

“No. Wish we did.”

“Knob Creek?”

“Nope.”

“Bulleit Bourbon?”

“You, sir, have hit upon a winner.  How do you want it?”

“On the rocks.”

“You got it.”

As I settled into the whiskey, always smoother on the second sip, I looked around and realized how comforting it is to once again be in a very old dive bar.  While visiting our kids on St. Patrick’s Day 2021 soon after my granddaughter June was born, my wife and I wandered into the historic and renowned Phyliss’ Musical Inn in the Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago.  We’d just gotten our initial doses of the Moderna vaccine and braved going into our first bar in a year.

The one we chose by chance was beautifully run down, easygoing, and had a band to boot.  We felt like kids again.  We didn’t want to leave.  The Blues Hall in Memphis reminded me of that night and her. 

The band came on stage, and more people entered the bar.  Soon all the bar stools and tables were full.  The band was called Cashmere.  They were a curious mix of talents.

The bass player was a tiny woman who played the hell out of her instrument with zero emotion, looking down at her fingers on the strings without smiling and moving hardly at all.  The lead guitar player was all over the stage –strutting, smiling, making faces, and enjoying herself immensely. 

The drummer was steady, non-assuming, and very good.  A tall older man handled most of the vocals and played a competent keyboard, while an older woman with bleached blonde hair took center stage, played nothing but a tambourine, and sang hardly at all.  Maybe she owned the equipment?  Got the booking?  I never found out.

At times they sounded wonderful.  And when they didn’t they were still good.  I liked them despite their shortcomings.  They were playing the live blues and I was six feet away.  What’s not to like?

At the next break, the blonde woman with the tambourine came around with a white plastic tip bucket making small talk.  She asked where I was from.  When I said I lived in a small town southwest of Chicago she perked up. 

“I used to play Chicago back in the day.  You been to Rosa’s Lounge?”

“Yes, not long ago.  My daughter and her family live close to there.”

“Well, if you get back there tell them Princess Baker wants to play their stage again.”

“I’ll do that.”

I know I’ll be back to Rosa’s Lounge, but not at all sure I’ll remember her name.  I put a tip in the bucket, and she went on her way.

 

…Part two tomorrow

Taking the Long Way

 I drove too far and too long on that first day of my road trip.  I was all jazzed up.  Unlike earlier road trips when I took nothing but two-lane roads, I was bent on getting to Memphis as soon as possible.  So, I opted for speed over scenery. 

I’d been to Memphis before.  It wasn’t the barbeque, Beale Street, or Elvis this time that drew me, though BBQ and Beale helped.  It was Tyre Nichols, the young African American man beaten to death on the street by African American members of the Memphis Police Department.  I couldn’t imagine it.  But news reports of the tragedy led me to believe I might be able to visualize it.

I wanted to stand in the spot where Tyre was first stopped by the police.  The place he abandoned his car and ran away.  I wanted to be in the place where the police caught up to him and gave him that savage beating.  I saw Tyre on video in that spot.  He was on all fours and looking, I assumed, towards his mother’s house, straining to see it I think, and calling out to her.  He yelled the word “MOM!” three times. 

I’ve yelled for my mom that way when I was a kid; when I was sick, hurt, or otherwise in trouble.  The police accounts said he was within a hundred yards of his mother’s residence.  I wanted to see for myself just how close his home was.  Hard to comprehend.  Maybe being there would help.   

But first, I had to get there.  I-57 South is the fastest way to get to Memphis and that’s the route I took.  Everybody was in a hurry.  I maintain this theory that going with the flow is more important than speed limits on those big, safe, limited-access roads.  That’s what self-driving cars will do I’m told.  No more gapers blocks, no more driver caused slowdowns.  They will know the speed of the cars around them and adjust to maximize steady and safe travel.  The flow that day on I-57 was about 80 m.p.h..  The sun was out.  I was breezing, you might even call it blasting, towards Memphis, a plate of barbeque, and a tall PBR.  That’s Pabst Blue Ribbon for the uninitiated.

I took food and ate in the Chevy.  I stopped only for gas and bathroom breaks and made great time, until I got into that little notch of Missouri by the Mississippi River that extends into Arkansas.  Between Cairo, Illinois and Sikeston, Missouri, I crossed the river, and the countryside emptied out.  There were ponds in the fields, and for some reason, the traffic got heavy and slowed down.  It was late in the afternoon. 

The GPS on my smartphone, connected by a cord to the Chevy and showing a road map on its screen, suggested an alternate route.  There was a notice that the route included a ferry crossing.  I looked ahead at two southbound lanes of interstate clogged with cars and trucks and took it.  I like ferries.  On the very first road trip after retirement, I took a ferry in Hardin County across the Ohio River at Cave in Rock on the Illinois side.  Really just a barge pushed by a tugboat.  It added to the adventure and felt like a short cut.

I might have known, after getting off the interstate and finding myself the only vehicle on an empty blacktop road, that my decision was iffy, but somehow Spotify had morphed from Bob Dylan to John Prine without my asking.  As if it knew I was a fan of his too.   It was right.

I was singing loudly to “He Was in Heaven Before He Died” and all wrapped up in thinking about Prine’s Common Sense album.  I’ve got the album on vinyl in the shack.  I could picture the cover. 

 “He was in Heaven…”  is a short little song, three verses with a simple repeated chorus separating them.  Steve Goodman plays acoustic guitar on it and sings background vocals.  Leo LeBlanc plays steel guitar.  The second verse is good, but the third one is better.  Gets me every time.  Steve Goodman died in 1984 at age 36, and we lost John in 2020 at 73 to Covid.  They recorded that album in Memphis in 1975.  Neither Prine nor Goodman knew what the future held for them then.  Who does?  I think I’ve written about that song before.  But what the hell?  I’ll throw those two verses in here with the chorus anyway.  Writing that good shouldn’t be forgotten.  Find the audio and listen if you can.

              Now the harbor’s on fire

              With the dreams and desires     

              Of a thousand young poets

              Who failed ‘cause they tried.

              For rhyme without reason

              Floats down to the bottom

              Where the scavengers eat ‘em

              And wash in with the tide.

 

              And I smiled on the Wabash

              The last time I passed it.

              Yes, I gave her a wink

              From the passenger side.

              My foot fell asleep

              And I swallowed my candy,

              Knowing he was in heaven

              Before he died.

 

              The sun can play tricks

              With your eyes on the highway.

              The moon can lay sideways

              ‘Til the ocean stands still.

              But a person can’t tell

              His best friend he loves him

              ‘Til time has stopped breathing

              You’re alone on the hill.

 So that’s what I was doing, as I took turn after turn on an empty blacktop road, blindly trusting my GPS to take me to a ferry and across the river.  I was wrapped up in the music, wishing I could listen to all the songs on the album in order.  If it was Alexa, I’d ask her to repeat that song, and play the title track next, followed by another great but forgotten Prine song on that Common Sense album called “Way Down.” But it was Spotify, and I didn’t know how.  There are far more apps and gadgets than I can keep up with.

Soon the John Prine songs were gone, and I turned the sound system off.  I was on what I believed was the wrong side of a levee.  The road was getting narrower, and I still hadn’t seen the river.  The fact that I’d seen no other vehicles since I’d taken this alternate route was a bad omen.  But I’d gone that far, and I was determined to see the thing through. 

And then, as the sun was dropping quickly, I turned off the blacktop onto a gravel road and the river was in front of me.  It was high and running fast.   A big tree limb floated by.  I had a bad feeling.  Next to it was a mobile home on concrete blocks, a pickup truck all jacked up with big tires, and most notably - no ferry.  There was a small billboard advertising the ferry though, with an 800 number.  I called it.

“Due to dangerous river conditions, ferry service has been suspended.  We hope to resume Thursday.”

The bottom of the sun touched the horizon.  I had promised myself not to drive after dark, but that pledge appeared to be in jeopardy.  I had thrown a good wool blanket in the back, but more for the beach than a sleepover in an SUV.  All I knew for sure was I wanted to get on the other side of the levee.

As luck would have it, a young couple in a sports car with Arkansas plates pulled up beside me.  The driver and I both rolled down our windows. 

“I take it the ferry isn’t running?”

“Yep.  Looks like we’re out of luck.  I called the number there.  Nothing till at least Thursday.”

“Damn.  We’re out for a drive and thought it’d be fun to take a ferry ride.  Never been on a ferry.”

“I have, and they are fun.  But it’s not going to happen today.”

The woman beside him leaned forward, smiled, and waved.

“Where you headed?”

“Memphis eventually.  But for tonight I’d be glad to just make it to a motel.”

“Want to follow us back to the highway?”

“I’d love to.”

The way out seemed even longer than the way there.  We finally went up and over the levee, through a very small group of houses on stilts, and finally to a road with a line painted down the middle.  Sometimes a road with a line is a sign you’re on the right track. 

They honked their horn, waved out the window, and turned north.  I headed south.  I’d be lying if I told you I knew where I was.  Closest I can tell that was the Dorena Hickman ferry I missed by two days. And if I’m right, I was in Missouri with Arkansas not far away and the border where Kentucky meets Tennessee on the other side of the river.

I finally found my way to Interstate 55 and took it south.  My trip got sketchy as it got darker.  I pulled over, put some drops in my eyes, and consulted Rand McNally.  It was still a ways to Memphis.  Since I was on the interstate, I figured I would find a hotel fairly quickly.  Turns out I should have stopped at Blytheville in Arkansas.  My advice to travelers in that area along the river is to make reservations ahead.   There’s not much out there.  

I was seriously sleepy when I pulled into The Sunset Inn, a West Memphis hotel with a vacancy sign.  When I went into the office there was a woman behind a thick glass window set up like a currency exchange, with a little metal trough that made a dip under the window.  A sign handwritten in black marker taped on the window announced there was a discount for cash.  After a very short conversation, I slid three twenties and my driver’s license through the trough.  She slid my license, six bucks, and a key back.  Told me the room was three doors down.  No breakfast.

“How close am I to a bridge across the river into Memphis?”

“About two hundred yards.  When you leave in the morning, go out the parking lot and make a right then a left.  You can’t miss it.”

It was raining.  When I opened the door to the room it smelled like someone had been smoking in there.  I didn’t care.  I was just glad to be out of the car.  I closed the curtains, got under the covers, and fell asleep within minutes.  

Road Trip Redux - 2023

I took a day to rest and do laundry when I got back from Guatemala and left the next day on a road trip.  On that same day, my wife arranged for an early ride north to Rockford to catch a plane for Sarasota where her sister lives.  I headed south mid-morning.  I was driving my wife’s 2018 Chevy Equinox with 39,000 miles.  I felt guilty leaving the Buick parked in the garage.  So guilty I apologized out loud before the garage door shut.

I don’t name my cars, but I develop feelings for them.  I owned a long string of used Buicks, the 2006 Lucerne I left behind on this road trip being the latest one.  I bought them each from my friend Jerry Trost (rest in peace pal) starting with a 1988 LeSabre with a little over 100,000 miles.  

That was the deal.  Used to be that at 100,000 miles the resale price on American cars dropped like a stone, making it a great value for a guy like me.  I gave that 88 LeSabre to my daughter when she was at U of I in 2003 after I’d driven it almost another hundred thousand.  It finally died her senior year.  It was a great car.

They were all great cars.  Each had the 3.8-liter six-cylinder engine.  Jerry thought that was the best engine General Motors ever made.  Called it bulletproof.  The transmission on the 2006 Buick Lucerne went out in Sarasota Florida last year and my wife lost all confidence in its ability to get us home from there once more.  I would have taken it on the trip in a minute.  Nothing beats a big Buick sedan for comfort on a long ride.  The fact that the Lucerne now has 169,000 miles and a rebuilt transmission doesn’t bother me.  But then, I’m not the only passenger on the trip back home.

I missed taking my CDs.  The chevy was upgraded to having no CD player.  I know, they’re throwbacks too, but there’s something thrilling about choosing a CD from a sack full of discs, sliding it into the dashboard, and cranking up the volume.  The Chevy has SiriusXM radio, and I’ve found stations I like, but you never get track lists, songs in the same order one after another, as you remember on those old CDs.  

The kids put Spotify on my phone and showed me how to run it through the Chevy’s sound system.  I wouldn’t let them load the version that costs money, what with the Sirius radio already costing us, and free Spotify runs ads every three or four songs.  Nothing ruins Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited like an advertisement for Avatar: The Way of Water sandwiched between “Ballad of a Thin Man” and “Queen Jane Approximately.”

Not that there aren’t good things about the Chevy.  I like the backup camera and the screen where it’s displayed.  I can run Google Maps through my phone to that screen and see my route without stopping to consult either my phone or the Rand McNally Road Atlas.  And those lights on the side mirrors that flash when a car is in the lane next to you?  Handy.

I doubt I’ll get to enjoy the ultimate advancement in automobiles - the self-driving car.  Can you imagine doing a crossword puzzle, perhaps nodding off, while your car negotiates traffic and turns?  That’s a car made for a driver like me.  I can’t imagine I’ll buy a used one of those with 100,000 miles for what I used to pay Jerry for the Buicks.  Or a cheap used electric car for that matter.  Everything changes.

My dad, born in 1909 (114 years ago), used to tell me stories of farming with horses.  His father kept a two-horse team of draft workhorses, along the lines of Belgians.  When dad talked about them, he remembered them fondly.  Here’s his favorite workhorse story.

When gas-powered trucks began hauling goods and supplies on country roads a coal truck went into a ditch near their farm and ended up on its side.  The truck driver walked to their farm and asked for assistance.    My dad and his father took their team down to help.  The driver doubted they could right the truck, given the size and the weight of the load.

As Dad told the story his father ignored the truck driver, hitched his horses to the side of the truck, and set them to pull it back up on its wheels.  At first, they failed.  My grandfather stopped them, let them rest, rubbed their heads and necks, and talked to them.  Then he set them back to the task.

Dad said he had never seen their pair of horses pull as hard or as long as they did that day.  They got down low, threw themselves into the harness, reset their hooves over and over, and began to sweat and pant.  The muscles in their legs and chests bulged and twitched.  Dad thought they were going to hurt themselves.  But his father kept them on task, touching them and talking to them loudly.

And then the truck began to move.  The horses sensed they were succeeding and pulled all the harder.  All at once, as Dad told it, they reached the tipping point.  The truck righted itself, falling back onto four wheels.  A shower of coal nuggets slopped over the top of the truck onto the horses, startling them.  The truck driver was amazed.

“Those are some horses you got there sir.”

“I know,” my grandfather said.  “They’re the best.”

My dad had a way of telling stories.  You could see it happening.  His eyes were alive, his voice rose, and he was animated.  I could sense how he felt about those animals.  They meant a lot to him and his father, their family.  They were prized, valued, and appreciated.

But he only told me that story once or twice.  At some point, all the farmers in Central Illinois sold their workhorses and bought tractors.  That’s the way it went.  They said goodbye to how it once was, no matter how much their animals meant to them, and moved on.

Me?  I have been writing about the Buicks; their engines, their dependability, Jerry who sold them to me, and their repairs – for years and years.  I go on and on about “the Buick” every time I talk about these road trips.  Like those who have gone before me, I’m going to have to let this gas-powered Buick thing go.  It’s becoming part of the past.    

 

Putting nostalgia for my mode of transportation aside, I was more importantly once again on my own, free to go wherever I chose as long as I made it to Florida in a reasonable amount of time.  My plan was to head toward Memphis.  Or not.  Plans exist only in the future.  By living in the present, we are free to change them at any moment.  On solo road trips, after consulting with no one, changes can happen with a mere turn of the steering wheel.

I feel a lot of energy at the beginning of a road trip.  It never goes away.  Once the trip is underway, all things are possible.  I had nowhere to specifically be by nightfall and all day to get there.  Freedom such as that is a rare and lovely thing.

Next up?  The streets of Memphis.