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