The stillness of traveling 90 mph... ugly poetry 12-03
The bar was smoky, the kind of smoky that burns your eyes and throat, but not thick enough to cut with a knife. The atmosphere was adding to the drug induced delirium. Our hearts pounded at bass drum levels. I looked down at my hands and thought I saw a slight tremble, as the confusion seemed to run through my body causing simple tasks, like breathing, to be practically impossible. Driving was definitely out of the question, and this smoky bar was the first thing I could find off I-94 out of Wisconsin.
The announcement had come over the radio like a bullet from a gun.
“The helicopter Stevie Ray Vaughn and the like were riding developed rotor problems and crashed 2 minutes after take off, killing everyone aboard.”
I remember the hush, the stillness of traveling 90 mph in my ’62 Chevy pick-up. The lights of the freeway held a hypnotic yellow that added to the somber announcement. Dismay, disbelief, was it really true or a very cruel April fools joke pulled eight months early? It was late August the Indian summer was just taking shape to unfold into one of the spectacular October color changes of fall. This was not the time for the blues to be blue. Then it came again, Stevie was dead. Suddenly the hush, the stillness, the somber lighting was completely obscured and overcome by noise, the noise of car horns morning a fallen angel, a lost hero, the greatest magician of the slide guitar. The radio was silent. The music stopped. The horns over powering. Then the radio chirped, and “Life by the Drop” faded up. Brake lights started lighting up as car after car pulled off the road to pay homage and cry. I looked to my friend who looked as pale yellow as the streetlights. I pulled off at the next exit and headed for the only lights I could see.
The neon sign read “Old Style on Tap” and upon entering the smoke engulfed every hard line and edge, softening the crowd of regulars, from mean ol' bikers to leather clad teddy bears.
The bartender asked “What does the likes of you want here?”
To which my friend responded by lying his head in his arms on the bar and starting to weep. The bartender’s mouth dropped open not sure what to do. I said “How about a couple of beers, and a couple of shots of Cuervo. To help kill the pain of a fallen friend who will not be with us any more.” The door opened behind us as five more concert-goers entered and headed for the stools next to us. With half his bar suddenly full of remorseful patrons, the bartender asked, “What the hell is going on?” The young woman at the end of the bar spoke up and said, “Stevie Ray Vaughn was killed a little while ago when his helicopter crashed into a hill outside of Alpine Valley.” A look of disbelief crossed the bartender’s face. The loud miss cue of a pool stick echoed across the room followed by someone screaming “What the fuck did you say?” The young woman simply said, “Turn on the radio.” The bartender walked out from behind the bar and over to a jukebox and unplugged it. Then walked into an office obscured by the smoke and the pool table. The radio came alive over the sound system Ozy Ozborne screaming some unrecognizable song about trains. “WXRT 93.1 fm” a voice chimed in, static, and then “A long way from home” off some live performance tape. As the song ended Marty Lenertz again sounded the grave news and continued to play a small tribute to the guitarist. The bartender slowly emerged from the office and came back to the bar; poured us some beer and a huge line of Cuervo, maybe fifteen or twenty shots. The bikers playing pool stopped and seated themselves at the bar. When everyone had a shot in front of them the bartender removed the pour spout, raised the bottle, nodding at every one, we all followed suit.
He said, “ To Stevie. And life by the drop.”
Silence.
Then he took a swallow, and we followed, the bite of tequila burning my mouth and throat as it passed on its way to my stomach. Several more shots followed as more stragglers off the highway entered. The music was somber and uplifting at the same time. My drunken haze was only equaled by the smoke of the room. We took turns telling stories of past experiences with Stevie, the small shows at the Cabaret Metro, dancing afterward in the Smart Bar, just because you didn’t want to go home yet. His incredible appearances at the summer blues festival, the suprise appearances he made at Buddy Guy’s or Rosa’s. Chicago was like a second home for this Texas boy. Chicago loved the blues, and Stevie’s way of playing it, was magical. He would be greatly missed but he would not be forgotten.
Around five in the morning, the dew and morning mist were the only other things up, besides the bartender, the young woman, and myself. We slowly moved around the bar picking up empty bottles and glasses for the trash or dishwasher. Then we picked up our friends and poured them into the right vehicles to mosie on back to reality, school, work, and home, whatever called us back to where we belong. For Henry the bartender, a wife and child. For Jennifer the young woman, Office Mart and her cash register. For myself, the cornfields of central Illinois and another school year.