The Electrocution

“I a man die, shall he live again?  All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.” (Old testament: Job. 11:14)

There is a giant cross that still stands at its post along O’ Farrell Street. It looms out on its wide hill and watches the goings on below in the Tenderloin.  A sentry; it’s watch, a silent one.

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.  

She got in. 

“Hey.  What are you up to tonight?” she asked in her “nice girl” voice.

“Just driving around.”

The girl began her calculation: “Clean cut, corporate, probably married, straight, has money. Could get $100.  Won’t push it.”

But she forgot to look at his shoes. 

It is always in the shoes that you can size up a man. Who is he?  Look at his shoes! Are the shoes new? Made from expensive Italian leather? (likes to spend money, charge above $100) or old? (saves money and is tight, likes to be in control—stick with the standard $40), are they tight fitting? (uptight so be careful) or loose (easy-going/easy to manipulate), are they an outlandish color? (vain—flatter him—wants attention), or are they a dull brown (low self esteem, build up his confidence), are they boots with steal tips? (violent nature—stay away), or are they soft sneakers made for running (COP! Run like hell!), or are they plain scuffed up loafers (a dull nature—and broke). And the final calculation: do the shoes fit the clothes the man is wearing?  

She forgot to look at his shoes—because she was tired.   She had been shooting cocaine the night before.  And she felt weak.  And no amount of heroin could make her strong.

She got in the car.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked beginning her routine.

“No go right ahead.”  The man pulled an unused ash tray out.

The girl now reached into a small purse and brought out her usual cigarette –pretended to fumble for a light.  She then lowered her long lashed eyes to the right and looked for the buttons that unlock and open the door—and the windows.  

She lit her cigarette—lowered her puffy hands—hands that were only a year before long and beautiful.

“Can you crack open my window?  I can’t seem to find a way to open it.” She fumbled about most convincingly.

“Sure,” he said staring straight ahead while manipulating the buttons to lower the window on her side.

“Half and half?”

“OK.”

“$60.”

He nodded his head and smiled very slightly.

“Hot tubs? You know—on Oak Street?”

“No—I don’t think so.  I want to stay in my car. “

He turned his head and steered his eyes to the back seat.

Her eyes followed his.

She began to notice that there were no personal effects in his car—nothing to give him away—nothing to tell her who he was.  OK car was rented.  But that was not unusual—could be he’s in for a convention—business stuff. 

But the girl was just racing for midnight. The dials of the clock were moving into position and she was running with them—those straight lines.  She was now moving so fast that she forgot so many things.  

Then, with both of them staring ahead, the car moved straight, then made a sharp right and began to climb a hill.

“I know of a place—the parking lot up here,” the man said, nodding his head towards what the girl could now make out as a giant cross.

“I dunno .…”

“It’s dark there and no one’s ever around,” the man said as he continued the climb.

And she forgot what Maria taught her: never go where the trick wants you to go.

…

She began to calculate: risk against time—time against risk—a merciless equation. Time was everywhere—time was on the cross before her—time was in the man’s face—in his eyes which she could not see—time was in his wallet. Time was her gifted mouth. 

Immobilization was not allowed to be part of the equation.  If she failed to make the money and score tonight, then she would wake up sick—the running nose, the yawning, the sweating, that strange smell on her skin—bleeding out—the poison of a hundred days. 

She was not allowed to wake up sick. If she woke up sick she could not work.  It would be very, very difficult to attract a trick sick—because her mind would not be working well.  She could maybe get lucky and run into Tom Henry, who was always good for $100 and the Hot Tubs.  At the Hot Tubs she could at least disguise the smell on her body—and the hot water would revive her circulation which would be getting very slow—very slow.  But if the hands of time rose up to high noon—well then she would become too sick.  And she could not pull it all off—so well—the walk—with the beautiful graceful sway—on the high heels—almost a skip in her long step—a step made from a dancer’s elegant legs.  

There was power in those legs.  Those legs once pushed a car door open against the strength of two full-grown Chinese men. She braced her right leg against the door so hard that they could not close it.  She pushed on it so hard until it gave way and she had enough space to squeeze out of a back seat and free herself to the street.  And once she hit the street it was all over for them.  And they never could catch her. 

And if she got sick—well her thinking would not be clear—it would not be so good—she would forget to cover up the tracks on her hands—on her arms. And then the desperate phone calls would begin—to Brooks Penney—or her mother—or anyone she could think of. 

And then the begging from the dangerous one—the connection she wanted to avoid—the one she knew so well—Michael Barry. 

And she had to pay the Patels—every single day—$40.  Come rain or shine.

“Can you pe—can you pe me now?” The Indian beggar maid’s hand would open and her eyes would lift beseechingly towards the heavens.

For her room. With the dirty rigs in the nightstand drawer. 

And the song from “Cheers:” 

“Sometimes you wanna go

Where everybody knows your name

And they’re always glad you came …

You wanna go

Where everybody knows your name.”

Playing on the small television set in the center of the room. The empty milk cartons on the dresser. The stockings—and condoms on the floor. The ash tray. Over flowing. Cigarettes burning from Charles’ endless chain smoking. Him stretched out on the unmade bed—a bed riddled by machine gun rounds of small holes. On the nod.  Cigarette dangling, moving in slow motion—gently down.

And there’s that smell—that all pervading smell—it gets on your clothes—and in your hair—in your very finger tips. And you can’t get away from it—it’s on you—that smell of mildew—that smell of death.

 

…

 

The trick smiled at her now—as if he could see her decision before him.  He tilted his head slightly towards her for just a second—then went back to staring straight ahead. 

He made a sharp left this time—and drove into the bowels of the grey concrete slab of a building.

The car stopped inside the parking lot, right beneath the giant cross, but in a shaded area, away from the flood lights which illuminated sections of grey stone.

Silence.

“O.k.  I guess we should get in the back seat?”

The man nodded.  

The girl did not move.  She crushed out her cigarette.  She could see from a jagged cut of light, red lipstick on her cigarette filter. The man rolled up the window. She still did not move.

Then taking her cue, he leaned back against the leather seat and pulled out from his wallet in his back pocket 3 crisp twenty dollar bills.  She could smell the money. And her stomach churned. 

And she was sure the trick had done this before—all of this before—some floating memory. She was sure.

Looking straight ahead, then, he leaned his right hand back against her breasts—brushed them slightly.  And again on cue she gently touched the bills with her finger tips and then ever so gently pulled the money from his open hand.

Then she rolled up the 3 bills and placed them in her right blue jean pocket.

The man popped the locks. 

And they both got out of the front seat and climbed into the back.  It was awkward.  He was tall—and he did not fit well.  And she kept hitting her head on the ceiling as she had to pull her shirt up—to expose her beautiful, round, full breasts—and then pull her jeans down around her knees to free one leg.

He never looked at her face.  He seemed deeply preoccupied with something—again—something floating—a memory.

For a moment he returned to the present and then looked up and down the parking lot.

“I thought you said it’s safe here,” the girl said.

“It is—it is.  Just making sure there’s no security guards around—or anything like that—for the church.” 

Then she felt it—the gut feeling.  Like a brush of air—behind her neck.  

And she thought she could hear whispering—from the angels—talking in slow, measured, loving voices—over and over saying “Want to live. Want to live. No matter what happens—no matter how bad it gets.  Want to live.”

But she shrugged off the angels now.  She was so used to handling these men—these pathetic men.  They were all the same—no outlet of expression for their desires beyond a play act—to get off—these men who were so disconnected from their souls—their feelings—they were just like she was. Their dicks could only respond to a lie—and the girl created the lie for them—made it easy to believe—that they were special—and desirable—that she loved sucking their dicks.  That she enjoyed the act.  Pure sex with no feeling.  No person inside the flesh. And no soul inside the person.  No pity.  No care. A thing—there—to get off.  A huge turn on for these men: the disconnect.

He sat next to her now and she could hear him breathing.  He began to loosen his belt buckle.  And then he asked her a question.

“Can you hand me that tissue over there in the side pocket?  See it?”

The girl turned to look—following his eyes.

Then suddenly, she felt a sharpness—like a knife—a blade—cutting into her left side.  She thought she had been shot!  And like an animal she squirmed around to face what it was. It was a small black box. And she screamed. And she could smell something burning.  It was her own skin!  She screamed again—with words this time, “Stop it!  What are you doing? Stop it!”

Now the battle was on.  Every time she squirmed away from the black burning box, he would race after her and try to pin her down—her arms—so he could get to her stomach and rib cage.  And she would not let him. She just kept fighting.  Every time he tried to get at her stomach, she squirmed away.  She met every turn of his body—again and again and again. Twisting and turning frantically—pulling her arms and hands and legs away from him.  And he became frustrated.  And so he used his legs to pin her down to keep her from moving.  And he pushed his body against her and she could hear him breathing against her.

The girl met every stun he sent into her stomach and sides with a struggle. And she was screaming.  And she could feel tears streaming down her face, and she could hear herself begging for her life. “Please stop it—please God—please, please stop it!”

And then she could hear the angels—those strange faraway and close up voices calmly talking—telling her how to do it.  How to stop it.  

As she was fighting and as he was pinning her down and electrocuting her mid section, something happened.  It was as if another part of her was watching from above.  An untouched part.  A most determined part—a mother fucker! 

“Want to live. No matter what happens—no matter how bad it gets. Want to live.”

And she could see the cross above her body—and she was not religious.  And she heard the angels talking—again—in those strange, loving voices—calm—telling her what the secret was.  And she listened with everything she had inside of her.  That part of her above. 

And she was sure.

And she said, “Take the money! I don’t want the money! The $60 dollars!  You can have it back!”

Now she let him zap her—just one more time—to get to the $60 dollars. She had to let him.  So she exposed her stomach and she reached into her pocket as he zapped so hard that her body arched back.  And she knew if she lost consciousness she would die. And she wanted to live.  And she was going to live.

And so she used all her strength to pull the money out of her pocket—she got it—in her sweaty fingers--her shaking fingers—and she threw it at him.

“Take it—please God!  I don’t want the money!  You can have it back! Take it!”

And suddenly it stopped….

She could hear a breeze roll through her head—an opening of space inside of her soul.  And the angels were not talking—she was.

“I won’t tell anyone about this. Just let me out of the car. I don’t care about the money—you can have it.”

His hand was holding the black box and he looked at it as if stupefied.

Then slowly he opened the car door on his side in silence and rolled out of the back seat and straightened himself.  He buckled his pants up. He held the crushed bills now in his hand.

He got into the front seat and looked through his rear view mirror—back at her—studying her face.

So she did nothing.  Said nothing.

Then he started to speak, in a strange almost high voice, “Did I hurt you?”  You know it was supposed to tickle.”

The girl said nothing.  She didn’t even breathe.

“Look here,” he said as he leaned back into his seat and pulled his wallet out from his back pocket.

“Did I hurt you?  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The girl held back tears. She held her whole being into a tight fist. And waited.  

“Take this,” he said and handed her 3 crisp hundred dollar bills.

The girl took the money.

Then he popped the lock. 

And she was out and running. And they never could catch her.

© Mary Catharine Lemons, DBA “Cathy Lemons, ” April 6^th 2012.

John Lee Hooker and the Ra Ra Rolling Stone, Part II

I was 8 blocks from Hooker’s house. I was wedged in between 2 black giants inside a red Cadillac that was being washed by swooshing brushes on all sides. I can still see the swirling soapy circles clouding up everything around us—making us feel safe.

We were crouched down dividing up our cocaine and heroin into 3 rigs and concentrating a great deal. Heavy breathing. There was a negotiation—no one being particularly generous—but then again as it goes, for addicts, we did very well.

“I don’t care about the cocaine. I just need the heroin, guys. Wa wa wait now—I don’t think that’s gonna get me straight now. Ah ah ah. I’ll take that.”

We shuffled various powders into bottle caps—used melted ice from a Burger King cup for the water--and cotton from a cigarette. 3 rigs. We measured.

“Fair?” Said the thinner giant.

“Fair enough.” Said the fatter one.

And I said, “OK—we got a few minutes left. Let’s git this.”

Silence all round. More heavy breathing. The fatter one was really wheezing now.
I placed my arm under my knee and squeezed. Until I could see the vein above my wrist. And then I made the hit—smooth and clean—a little blossoming of blood—and then slowly in.

I waited. Nothing much.

“I knew it,” I said. “I knew I wasn’t gonna feel it. Hell I should’a done the coke!”

The fatter one was silent. His eyes looked wide and dancing-like. But the thinner one looked over at me and said,” Here—I’ll give you a little more. “ And he brought out from his pocket some more powder.

“Where is the water—hand it over! Woops! Dropped the cotton somewhere!”

Silence. Then a shuffle. Then we were back to the negotiation.

I had spent the last 10 hours with these men and we had become rather good friends.

I had been stranded at a Kentucky Fried Chicken in East Palo Alto because the crack head I had tried to score coke from had grabbed my purse and ran off with it. So there I sat. Waiting for a rescue of sorts. Or an angel to call in.

I had called John Lee Hooker. I called the house and his driver/secretary, Kathy, put him on the phone.

“Wha wha wheah you at?” Hooker says.

“John—now don’t get mad. I’m in East Palo Alto. I done lost my purse. Can Kathy come and bring the car—ta to pick me up?”

Long silence.

“John?”

“Ya you gonna have to fa fa find yo way back. East Pa Pa palo Alto! Whatchoo doin’ down theah?”

I heard him mumble … then his voice trailed off. Then the phone went dead and I knew I was sunk.

So there I was. Sitting in the middle of a shrapnel. Every kind of hooligan around and staring at me like I must be some kinda crazy white girl.

Then a big red Cadillac pulls up. And a long thin giant steps up to me and says, “You need a ride? You look like you need a ride.”

At first I said “No.” But he continued to talk. He and his fatter friend were dressed in gym clothes—you know the spandex thing—with stripes going down each side. Sneakers. Ball caps. They were scalpers. They’d been to the game and had made a lot of money and wanted to party.

I finally decided to get into the big red Cadillac. And off we drove to a fancy hotel room high up somewhere.

The thinner one kept up a rap with me about his “girlfriend,” a “most kind and compassionate person.” He said she would be “happy to help me in any way she could.” At some point I saw this “kind and compassionate person.” A tough looking blonde in more spandex.

Somehow during the night of partying with cocaine the “kind and compassionate girlfriend” turned out to be a hooker who had taken the thinner giant’s car and disappeared. At some point at dawn she returned to the hotel. And the thinner giant disappeared into the bedroom with her for about 30 minutes. Then it was back to reality as the sun came up, and I had to get back to John Lee Hooker’s house in Redwood City. Before I got into real trouble.

The car wash was about 8 blocks from Hooker’s house. The two giants got out of the red Cadillac and each one bent down and gave me a hug goodbye. We parted amicably--all of us in our own way liking each other. There is a special kind of respect that addicts have for one another. It’s a “big boy’s game” and only the strong get to play. And you have to be very very good or you won’t last even a week. I guess I was a “big boy” that day.

I walked through the suburban streets. Feeling a little nervous. I was trying to think of what I was going to tell Hooker. I was practicing my story in my head and watching the timed sprinklers go off, one by one, on each identical lawn, shooting pellets of water at me as I passed each neat little boring box that looked just like the other. And I wondered what in the hell Hooker saw in this world—this great man of feeling that could heal the sick with his soul. And here he was in a landscape so dull that it became hellish to walk in. For me.

To my relief when I walked up to Hooker’s door it was quiet and his big black Cadillac was gone. So I sauntered on in and went straight to my room. Hit the bed. And crashed.

……

John Lee Hooker had a granddaughter that liked to come by and cook grits and eggs in the morning. And he would tease her. He was paying for her college education. And she looked like him. And he loved her. And then the mother of all his 8 children—an old lady with bad teeth—fat and bent—nappy gray hair—would come over to cook too. And he would tease her—and he liked her. And he made fun of her and she would smile. They would smile at each other. He would tease her about talking too much and then move his hands together like a duck—opening and closing his fingers together like a beak. And he’d laugh.

Then there were the mean, clean young white women. They hated me. They wouldn’t even look at me. I remember they would always get all dressed up in their stylish jeans and ’80’s cut hair, and they’d want to go to the Pioneer with John, and they’d be all mad when I’d come. Because I could sing. And John was moved by that. And because John talked to me. Alone.

When I’d sing, those mean white women would sit there and turn their faces from me. And if I was at Hooker’s house in the kitchen in the afternoon with Kathy, who I liked, one of them or another would come in to see John, but if they saw me they’d never say a word to me. So I never said a word to them.

And then there was Larry. Larry was a gorgeous black man who could play the bass like nobody’s business and every woman was in love with him. And as it turned out his eyes turned towards me. So one night, me and Larry disappeared into my room “fo awhile” so to speak and we were getting high on cocaine. And other things. And Kathy got real jealous.

Then all hell broke loose at Hooker’s house.

If I came into the kitchen to get something to eat from the fridge, Kathy would start to give me the evil eye. And she’d say, “Damn it, did you eat all the such-and-such. You should at least BUY something!”

But I never had any money to buy food. And If I ate anything I don’t remember.

There was no peace in the barnyard after that night with Larry.

On other afternoons Deacon would come around and hang out with Hooker drinkin’ beers and talkin’ on the phone. And he’d tell me that I had to “keep it together. “ And he’d take me to gigs to sing. And he’d say to Hooker after every gig I sang on “She stole the show!” which I did. Well, if I wasn’t too high.
…
So another tour came down. Arizona. Next would be Texas.

It was bad enough everybody thinkin’ I was Hooker’s mistress. It was bad enough. But to go home to the place I started out from—and then have that kind’a talk? Well it made me feel sick. And I started to look for a way out. Besides I started to feel more pressure from Deacon.

You see Deacon wasn’t satisfied with the old pretense goin’ on.

He wanted the deal sealed so to speak. And although he never got into my personal business as to who I did sleep with, I could feel him late at night when I couldn’t close my eyes—somewhere in that background of my mind—holdin’ the axe.
I could feel the blade just above the hairs of my neck.

…

One morning early Roy Rogers came into Hooker’s living room and they were talking. He was hired for this particular tour. Roy was ignoring me like he always did—like I was air. I didn’t care. I always thought he needed less white and more spine when he played anyway. He had the chops, but blues is not only about chops. You need an edge. And to me ol’ Roy didn’t have no edge at all. His wife looked like a baby child. All round-faced like a Vermeer painted doll—and she had a new baby—also round-faced—another baby doll. And he was so damn professional. Always talkin’ to Hooker soft-like and sayin’ how he wanted to hear him play the guitar more and hear those old songs again like “I’m Mad” or “The Flood” instead of the more electric thing. And even though I agreed, I never said much. And then later, of course, Hooker did pick up the guitar, and he and Bonnie Raitt not long after did “I’m in the Mood” acoustic—and it was a big hit. And I always thought it was probably because of Roy Rogers influence on Hooker and how he told him to go back to the deeper stuff. So I have to give Roy that.

Deacon never forgave me for walking away just before that big hit with Bonnie. He thought I could’a had that hit with Hooker. He always shook his head at me like I was just the biggest fool. Threw away my one-way ticket. You bet.

…

So we did a tour through Arizona and New Mexico. And this time it was rougher—a lot of driving in a big rented Cadillac with the guys behind in a van. So it was Hooker and me and then Roy driving. Then in the van: Kenny Baker, Michael Osborne, Larry, and I can’t think of the drummer’s name. Deacon by then was not allowed on any tours. Hooker loved Deacon—but he didn’t trust Deacon. No tours. And only some gigs. If Deacon did a gig, most of the time it was something he put together.

…

It was in some little club in Arizona somewhere. I can’t remember the place. It reminded me of a Mexican restaurant anyway. I remember that night I was getting real sick of the weird silences from ol’ Roy and Michael Osborne. And their jealous vibration towards me when I sat with John. And I was thinking to myself that I would not go to Texas. And I was thinking to myself that I wanted to sing “Real Good Thing (Is About to Come to an End)”. And I knew it had ballad-like changes where they would go to the 2 and the 6 but I thought like Hooker did—and he did this all the time—that I would take the words and fit them into a 12 bar blues and make it work for me. And I did.

And not to my surprise Mr. Rogers interpreted it as me not knowing what the hell I was doing. I believe he thought that I didn’t know where the changes belonged in the first place. And maybe he thought it was some kind’a sacrilege to change a song like that. So I sang it. And I felt it. And Hooker liked it. And afterwards, ol’ Osborne and Rogers sat together conspiring at the bar. And not soon after they invited me over to sit with them.

Michael opened the conversation up: “So how long are you gonna be touring with John here?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean—what’s the deal here?”

Roy just looked into his beer.

“Well John is showing me the ropes. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” Grunted ol’ Osborne.

Silence.

“You goin’ to Texas?”

“I might.”

…

When Mike Osborne played he never smiled. He stood stiff—like he was scared. Scared of coming outt’a his skin. Maybe feeling something. And Hooker knew it. And I knew it too. You see Hooker didn’t pay real well. Those guys were making $100 a night. Kenny Baker, the sax man, well he was a sweetie-pie and he always talked to me and he told me they got back into town with barely nothing after these tours. And the guys had to share up rooms. Sometimes even 3 to a room. So it wasn’t a real good deal for the players. So Mike Osborne may have been playing with Hooker—but that didn’t mean much.

So after the conversation at the bar, Hooker came over to me and said, “Ca Ca Cathy—the guys—and he motioned his head over to Osborne and Rogers at the bar—wanna know if you would just sing 1 song instead of 2. Na na now it’s up to you. You you you do what you like. An ahl back ya.”

I said nothing for a minute. Then I looked over at those two white boys at the bar and I said “I wanna sing 2. Every night!“ And Hooker smiled and said, “Thaaaat’s ahll right!” And he smiled at me in that funny little boy way with his ragged front tooth showing. That’s when I loved Hooker. Those times.

…

It was a gritty night. You see I got madder and madder. I got so tired of what people imagined in their minds. I read the menus to Hooker—every night—I told him what the street signs said—every day. I helped him find his medicines. I helped him get ready and dressed. I’d even go get his food late at night from the kitchen. I helped him. I told him how to spell words when he had to autograph something too, words like “Birthday.” And once when we were up late at night talking about his Detroit days and how he worked in a factory and how he got his first big hit I told him I could help him—teach him to read. But John was a very proud man and he just said nothing back at all. And I always treated him with respect when I did these things. And he never pushed himself on me. But he could not have been happy. And here I was sharing a room with him. I started to feel that old blade up against the hair on the back of my neck again.

…

It was a bigger gig—we were now in New Mexico—hot weather—dry. I had started to drink that night. I was feeling like something inside of me was slipping down. Like there was a notch inside of me that was wrong—that was sliding down into the wrong place so the machine would not work right.

And I got real drunk. So drunk I couldn’t keep my eyes open. My eyes felt like sand was in them. And I remember after the gig I was lying on one of the twin beds in Hooker’s hotel room and Hooker all disappointed with me and lyin’ on the other. And the window was opened and there was still no breeze. And I had my clothes on. And my boots on.

And ol’ Roy Rogers knocks on the door and comes on in. He is carrying a suitcase of money. A suitcase. It was after a big gig—in a big place—opening act and everything. And so a lot of money had been made.

So Roy comes into the room. And as usual he doesn’t even look at me. And he sits down on the edge of the bed and opens up the suitcase. I had never seen so much money in all my life as was in that suitcase.

“You you you counted it all?” John asked.

“Yes.” Said Roy with his typical expressionless face.

Roy said something under his breath I could not make out and turned his head away so I could not see his face.

Hooker laughed.

Then Roy shut the suitcase up. Stood up. And said goodnight to Hooker. He nodded my way and then walked out.

And then the notch slipped down.

When you are an addict there is this thing—it’s like a pressure that builds up. And you can hold it and hold it and hold it. And white knuckle it and be the bravest of brave—for awhile. Until that old notch starts to slip. And once it does. Well. You become free. You can and will do anything required. To get high. You discover strengths you never had. Courage you were never born with. You can do things you never believed would be possible for you to do.

I went into the city to get high like I always did after a tour when I had some money in my pocket. But this time I knew things were different.

I packed up a bag and got a ride from Kathy (we made up) to the train station in Redwood City at high noon. And I had my boots on.

I went to see Brooks Penney. He was my speed connection and an old friend. And I wanted to get high real bad. I had already set things up to meet him in the city. And when I arrived I made a B-line for his brown brick hotel on the corner of Larkin and Geary. That place still stands today—Hotel Heartland. It is the place where Brooks Penney died a decade later. Stabbed to death because he jumped a connection. Blood all over the walls.

Brooks Penney was an unusual man. He loved to hear me sing. He was in love with me and he also understood me. He was an English major who loved to read great books. He was an educated “radical” who had gone to UC Berkeley in the ‘60’s. He had been married and then divorced—he’d had the big house—the great friends—the cook outs on the back porch. And it meant nothing at all to him. Brooks also had a great son about 10 years old at that time—a sweet blonde kid that loved his father so much and would even come to visit him in his ratty hotel room.

I had done everything I could think of to this man. I had robbed him of his computer, I had stolen his money, I had left him waiting for me on the street for hours. But he’d always forgive me. I introduced him to an underworld. The underbelly beast of the Tenderloin. And he was fascinated with it all. To a man like Brooks Penney it was real life.

At first he was holding down his unlikely job as an iron worker. And it was said that he was “so catty” up there on those high beams in the sky. Good at his job--often a foreman. But after a while he started doing a lot of speed and cocaine. And it was I who taught him how to shoot up—yes this is on my conscience. And he went from there. And he fell in with the crowd down there and he never came back up.

Brooks and I would do speed together. And then he would get me off. And he was the best at it of any man I ever met—well almost. And I did not love him. But I was his friend until the end. And when he died I cried bitter tears.

I used to sing to Brooks Penney for 8 hours at a time. And he would listen in rapture. On speed. Both of us sky high. Songs like “Sky’s Cryin” or “You Ain’t Gonna Bother Me No More” or “The Day is Passed and Gone” or “Stones in My Passway.” I would sing him the great deep songs. And that’s what he liked. The sad ones. And then I’d hear the street cleaner machines throttle up their motors just before dawn on the Tenderloin avenues and I knew it was time to sleep. If I could.

So there I was living with Brooks in his one-room hotel room. This time I had been away from Hooker’s 10 days. The longest I had ever been away in many months.
And I got a phone call at Brook’s one afternoon from Deacon Jones.

“Hooker wants you back here. Ya gotta come on back now. He wants to know where you are.”

“Ya?”

“He wants you to go on the Texas tour. To go to Texas with him. Two weeks.”
Silence.

“Deacon, I don’t think I wanna …”

Silence.

“Deacon?”

More silence.

And then he starts shouting, “Are you fucking crazy? Get your but back up here! Don’t blow this! Don’t you understand what he can do for your career?”

“Deacon I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t go to Texas or anywhere else.”

And I hung up.

…

And then I went from speed and cocaine to heroin. It only took me a little while to get strung out since my system was permanently changed. Heroin addiction once you get a habit is like an allergy. Once addicted—and it took me a whole year of using daily—you can’t turn back the genetic clock. If you use a few times in a row, it’s back to a full throttled habit—and within just 3 days that’s what I had.

I didn’t like to kick. I didn’t even like to be in my own skin. Let alone endure a miserable kick.

And so I started turning tricks to make the money.

In my mind it was better. To turn tricks and support my habit and not go to TX with John Lee Hooker and get pushed into being his mistress.

Because I wasn’t really for sale—not my soul. Just my body. And with heroin you can turn the body off like a switch.

I remember one of those first tricks. I had to pay my hotel room bill in one of those “Patels” downtown. “Can you pe? Can you pe mee now?” the Indian hotel keeper women would say? And she would put her hand out like a beggar. And I had to get well. And I could not come up with schemes. I was all schemed out.

So I was walking down O’Farrell Street and an older man in his 60’s pulled up. Middle class. Gentle looking—cultivated. He stopped the car—gave me the eye--and I got in. And he took me to his house—where all the pretty gingerbread houses were—on that street –the postcard street.

And inside I saw all these artifacts and paintings. And I could see that he was married—because I could see the pictures on the mantle—of a man with a nice enough wife. And I could also see that he was dying of loneliness. And I could see that he was almost shaking after I took my clothes off. And I felt sorry for him. And I made my money. And I left. And that was the beginning of a 3–year stint that at the end almost cost me my life—and in a most brutal fashion.

One late afternoon I was working. I was standing on the corner of O’Farrell and Leavenworth and a beautiful young Mexican man with strong shoulders and a built body walks up to me and smiles. He wants a date to my surprise. I can’t imagine why on earth a handsome young man like him would ever need to buy a woman. But he wanted to, so I took him to the hot tubs on Oak Street. And he was so handsome. Those black eyes. And he was so taken with me that he wanted to go out with me on the town--take me to a Phil Collins concert—that night. And he was willing to pay for my time so I said "Yes."

And I got high first on heroin—and he didn’t mind—he bought it for me. And then we went to the concert. And I remember that at the end he lifted me up on his strong beautiful shoulders--up high--so I could see the stage better—and I felt so light on his shoulders. And he felt so strong.

And we went back to his place—and I had a rule not to ever go to a trick’s place. And I broke it. And we made love in his dark room. And he was a sweet fine young man who wanted to help me. And he kept asking me about what I did and I told him I was a blues singer. And he kept asking me why I was out there on the street like that. He said it didn’t fit. That I didn’t belong out there. And he said I could stay with him and he’d help me to get straight. And so I told him about Hooker and Deacon and the sale of my soul.

And I started to cry. Really cry. And this young man held me in his arms. I was naked in his arms. And I could not stop crying. And I wept for my pitiful life. And I said to him, “I can sing! Damn it! I can really sing. Why couldn’t they have treated me like a person instead of a thing? Why?”

One month later I saw that same young man. I was wearing my short blue jean skirt—black glittering stocking—heels. My pink ironed blouse. Pink lips. Purple eyeliner. Blue eye shadow. The street was glittering now the way October does in a downtown afternoon. If you look out at the street towards the sun, the gems come alive in your eyes. And I was standing on the corner working. And he came up to me and looked at me and looked right through me. And he stood right in front of me and would not go.

And my face was like a rock. And I would not look in his eyes. And I did not acknowledge in any way that I even knew him or that I could even see him standing there next to me. And finally he turned and walked away.

And I stood there on that corner and waited for a trick to come along so I could get my heroin.

But I still had my boots back at my hotel room. And I still didn’t have to go to Texas and be humiliated by those men musicians that thought they were so much better. Better than me and Vala. Better than any woman that wanted to be—a blues singin’ star. Better than the day that they were born.

To Vala Cupp who hung herself in an Austin motel room.  She was John Lee Hooker’s third send-off singer, after me.

—Cathy Lemons

John Lee Hooker and the RararaRolling Stone (Part I)

Lyin’ Marvin lived in a hotel room the size of a long narrow closet.  He told me the night before when we smoked crack together naked on his single bed, his long athletic black limbs reclined against mine, that he just needed a woman that he could work for and then he would straighten up.

The next morning I walked out of that hotel room and made a call to John Lee Hooker from a pay phone in a downtown laundromat.  It had been only 2 weeks earlier when Deacon Jones had arranged for me to meet Hooker at JJ’s Blues in San Jose, and I arrived with Randy Bachman, the midget photographer.  While I sang “Crossroads” Randy kept putting his tiny finger to his lips saying “Shhhh.”  In other words, I was singing too loud and with too much force.  Randy wanted me to be a star.  The band was quiet and he wanted me to sing quiet.

John Lee Hooker always sat in the dark corners of any club.  On this particular night he was with Deacon, John Garcia, and a few other nameless sidemen that god seems to have created a whole lot of throughout these generations of blues players.

I remember JLH had on a red suit and a red hat.  The hat looked too big on his head.  And he smiled at me with a little boy smile.  And his hands were so soft and rubbery—and I felt I should squeeze them—like I would squeeze a child’s hands to reassure them.

John was moved—he thought I could sing.  He gave me his phone number and told me to call him.  Deacon just stood at the sideline and smiled like a trainer at the ropes—waiting.

I walked out onto Post Street to a cold morning in San Francisco. It was mid July 1987.  I had been chipping again with the heroin, and my mother had changed the locks on her apartment door and put my 2 suitcases in the hall.

I was not sure if I had a habit—and I thought maybe if I could get out of town I might get back on track.  I had already blown it with Mark Hummel and Paris Slim.  They thought I was goin’ down and stopped booking any work with me. Paris Slim cancelled my appearance at the upcoming San Francisco Blues Festival—the bastard.  But it was my own fault.

So I stood out on Post Street at Taylor and sure enough along came a big black Cadillac car.  A youngish chubby Mexican woman with beautiful long black hair was driving—she had on red lipstick—wore a wide smile.  JLH was in the back and motioned with his boogie-man hands to come on in with him.

I could smell the leather—the soft comfortable leather.  And I got in.

…

I had been wanting to get high all week but Deacon would not set it up.  I had done everything right so far.  I had my own room at Hooker’s house.  I had recorded a demo—over of all people’s voices—Buddy Miles.  I had done the photography shots for Virgin Records.  The songs Deacon had written for me to sing were his ticket to paradise—or so he thought.  His best song was “Livin’ on a Dead End Street” which I did a good job on. But the problem was all the songs were a step and a half too low for my voice.  And so I could not get a big sound.  And Deacon and Hooker did everything so cheap.  The promo shots didn’t really do me justice.  And I only got to do 2 takes on the recordings to be sent off to Virgin.  I was sure it would amount to nothing in the end.  Plus I was not sleeping well.  I was not strung out—but I could not sleep.  JLH gave me valium sometimes at night and we would talk in his room.

JLH could not believe that I knew his songs.  I did.  I had been listening to “No Shoes” since I was 22 years old.  And “Crawling King Snake” and “I’m Mad and I’m Bad like Jesse James” and “The Flood” and “Blues Before Sunrise” and “Serves me Right to Suffer.”

You see I knew who he was.  I knew what he had.  I knew what I could learn from watching and listening to him.  And he was a gentle soul.  He never pushed himself on me—not ever.  He would just smile and look at me with a quiet longing and say “Cathy you are a ra ra ra rolling stone” or when I sang good, “Now that’s Big Mama!” which to me was the greatest compliment in the whole world.  And he told me how he remained friends with his x-wife—a French woman.  How he still spoke to her on the phone.  And I liked that he could be friends with women and not try to own them.  And it fooled me.

Deacon also never laid a hand on me.  He had 2-women trouble of his own.  He had a buxom blonde girl that was his mistress, and a long, lean, dried out woman for his wife that was like a rock and managed things for him—and she was also the mother of his children.  These 2 women would stand side by side at Deacon’s gigs and sell his CD’s and T-shirts.  It was insane—but that was “Sneakin’ Deacon,” as Hooker would say.  When Hooker said “Sneakin’ Deacon” he always giggled and ran his hands together like a little kid thinking about something real bad that was gonna happen.

Deacon said, “Let me handle the drugs, Cathy, all you have to do is sing.”  And I believed him.  I did believe him. 

So here I am living in a blues legend’s house—and the demon is flying.

…

Deacon picked me up at 7:00pm because Hooker had already left for the club. We drove in a batty beat up old van.  John, his dealer, was driving.  We pulled up to the Palo Alto projects and lord, lord, lord.  It was already dark and so you could not see clearly, but there was a child at the door.  Her eyes did not look right and she was so thin, and her hair was all nappy and tattered-like. 

We entered and there were people huddled in corners on the floor—there were several rooms. I looked over inside one of those rooms and saw a bathtub filled with some kind of dark refuse—it smelled horrible.  I saw in another corner two children asleep huddled up on a small table.  The little boy with his round black head was sucking his thumb.  Everyone’s eyes looked strange in that place—all lit up from behind like.

Deacon’s dealer finally walked in and it was like Christ had come. All the creatures gathered round—as if he was their long lost lover.  He took some of the men aside into one of the bedrooms.  And I waited.

Deacon finally motioned with his hand for me to come into the room.  He looked at me very seriously and then handed me a balloon of heroin and a tiny plastic bag of cocaine.  And a rig.  And a spoon.

I found and slammed the bathroom door. I could hear him talking to me—like a father would to a child, “Now don’t get sloppy silly on my ass—you gotta sing later and meet John at the club.  John’ll kill me.  And don’t stay in their too long or I’ll have to break the damn door down.”

“Deacon I’m all right.  I’m fine.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

I can handle it.  I can handle it.  Well I couldn’t.  I did the cocaine shot first and I got such a rush I thought I heard angels talking and spinning above the bright lights of the bathroom ceiling—talkin’ “Not your time yet—not your time yet”—like a clock hands that tick—but singing like. 

And then I did the heroin and I had to sit down. 

My head was spinning—and I felt sick.  Then I felt all warm inside as if no one could ever hurt me again as long as I lived.  And I felt home.  And all the fear inside of me was gone.  All of it.

Deacon began to knock at the door. “Cathy—you gotta come outta there right now! You been in there too long—you gotta come out right now!”

Well I came out and he took one look at me, and then he looked at his dealer and went all gray in the face, and his afro was shaking back and forth, and his big round eyes were burnin’ mad.  And he started yelling, “John is gonna kill me! You gotta straighten up right now! I gotta get yo ass straightened up!  I gotta do something man!  Look at her!”  Dealer man smiled, shook his head at both of us, tossed his head back, and laughed.

…

We got to the club and the band was playing, and there was Hooker in the dark corner table with a few women plus Kathy his dark haired housekeeper.  I sat across from JLH and smiled at him.  I was flyin’ high.  And then I squeezed his hand, his soft child-like hand, and he gave me the greatest smile back.

That night after singing and standing in front of a gorgeous looking sax man with dark slick hair—long and lean—I went home with him.  I told him stories all night after making love about what it was like to be a dancer.  He was fascinated.  He wanted me to do the moves, so I did.  And then I remember him saying as we listened to Aretha Franklin “Can you sing that shit?  Can you sing like that? You know you could make a lot a money. Let me hear you sing that shit.  Hell—you could make more money than Hooker.”  He was a gorgeous handsome man.  And when he drove me into the city the next day he couldn’t believe I actually had a gig of my own and had pulled a band together. 

Well I crawled back to JLH.  And he wasn’t mad even—or he hid it.  And he told me he wanted to take me on tour with him to the North and then Canada, a packaged show with John Hammond Jr., Elvin Bishop, Pinetops Perkins, the rhythm section from The Nighthawks, and Elvin’s back up guys which included Elvin’s rhythm guitar man.  I would be the send-off singer opening the shows.  I said yes.

________________________________________________

JLH took me to a hairdresser in Redwood City. I felt her lovely hands on my hair and head and she cut my brown strands and they fell to the floor like bark from a tree—beautiful brown gold shavings.

The hairdresser had teased up red hair and white skin—and she wore a blue dress—kinda like Nancy Reagan would wear—but shorter.  She told John who was sitting in the chair across from us as she cut and styled my hair under the bright light that she was a singer.  And John said, “Well maybe I should get your phone number.  I am always La-la-l-looking for singers.”

I remember thinking “Oh Ya—she’s gonna suck and in more ways than one.”

…

The first stop on the tour was Detroit.  I remember I bought a long silk blue shirt there—Detroit—the place where John Lee Hooker was from—the place where he worked in a factory—the place where he first recorded.  John gave me some money to buy some clothes, but he had one of the guys drive me to a store—said I could not walk out in the city there—that it wasn’t a good idea.

…

The first song I sang to open up for John and all of them was “Black Night” and after I sang it Elvin Bishop came up to me backstage and said “That’s a great song there that ‘Black Night,’ a great song, and you sang it real good.”  And at the time I didn’t know that Elvin never complimented anyone ever. How was I to know that?  There he was in his overalls with his frizzy hair and deep southern twang—and his chewing tobacco which he spit out anytime he felt like it.  And clearly everyone respected him.  But behind the cartoon-like persona I saw a man who had lost his soul just like me to alcohol or whatever and was just marking time before he died on that stage.  He didn’t really care.  He didn’t even hire a good singer but sang himself.  He was a trouper though—tough as nails.  He worked hard every night on that stage.  And he played that guitar great. But he couldn’t get up in the morning like the rest of us—at 6:00 am.  He drank so much the road manager had to wrestle with him.

…

We were in Montreal, Canada and there was a huge crowd out front in the packed auditorium.  I wore a shiny gold lame shirt and tight new jeans and heels.  I was pacing back stage, back and forth.  I could hardly breathe and my heart was jumping up and down, up and down.  When the stage guy signaled for me to go out on that big stage I thought I was going to die right then and there.  My legs were shaking.  It’s hard to walk in heels when your legs are shaking.  But I was not drunk and I was not on heroin.  And I started to feel better the minute I heard that great big sound from those great big monitors.  And suddenly I forgot about all the bullshit about havin’ to share a room with John Lee Hooker even though all the other guys didn’t share rooms.  And I forgot about how Elvin Bishop kept looking at my breasts.  And I forgot about how I liked that young rhythm guitar player, and I forgot about that handsome John Hammond who wouldn’t even open up his hotel room door to tell me where the swimming pool was.

And I felt so alive up there!  I could FEEL the music.  And I sang “I’m a Woman,” and suddenly it dawned on me that this was where it was at—on the big stages—with the big lights and the best musicians and the best sound—and you would never have to strain your voice through four sets a night singing through a tin can.  You just did a few numbers and the next night you did it again—and you could build—and keep you voice clear—and it would get stronger over time instead of weaker from having to hammer through it all.  It was easy street and anybody with any talent could do it. Well I kept on singing, and I felt so alive, and by the time it was over I had the whole auditorium up on their feet clapping hands with me.  And I felt great.  Like I had been born.

…

And then after I came off all sweaty-like Hooker came over to me and he was smiling his little boy smile and he said in his low voice “John Hammond been pa pa pacin’ up and down looking for you ba ba backstage—wants ta tell ya how good you done.  Go on over there and tat a ta talk to ‘im now.”

…

And so I went back there to where John Hammond was and he smiled at me and said, “You know you sound so good.  We really don’t have any women singers singin’ real blues ‘cept for Rita Coolidge—and she’s just so pretty.  You know you should keep at this—you are just so good.”  I watched his crocodile lined eyes lookin’ down.   And I smiled and beamed up like a child lookin’ at this handsome son of a legend--handsome son of a legend who was married and called his wife every night in his room and would not open that hotel room door.  Lord have mercy!  And he was such a gentleman to me and never gave me the looks like the other guys—those sly sideways looks like I was some kind a whore.

…

And I started to think about those sideways looks.  And it made me mad.  And I went out to the crowd.  And mingled with the sights and sounds.  And somebody came up and told me I was great and would I like to do some mushrooms.  And then I had some tequila and met up with that rhythm guitar man out front under the marquee.  And we started talkin’ and suddenly I came up and kissed him and he didn’t know what to do.  He just shook his head and went back into the club.

…

We had to get up at dawn one morning and it was cold outside.  And I got in the limo with John Hammond Jr. and John Lee Hooker and the road manager who drove the big black car.  I had done some valium the night before and I felt horrible that morning.  My eyes were swollen.  With half-opened eyes I laid back on the soft back seat and listened to the talk. John Hammond was in the front seat and he was talkin’ with John Lee about Aretha Franklin—how she was so great—maybe the greatest ever born for singin’—and how something terrible had happened to her—by her own father—and  how when she was 16 she had to go away—16!.  And I saw that deep lines were forming along John Hammond’s mouth—creases down the sides of his face.  And then he talked about his own father—same sadness in his voice.  And John Lee Hooker just listened and nodded his head like a father to him.

…

Things were getting bad.  You see I got lonely.  I was 28 years old and I got lonely for love.  So one night after a show I was supposed to get John Lee Hooker his food from the kitchen, which I did, but I made a B-line for that rhythm guitar player’s room.  And I sat on his bed and we talked. And he told me that he wasn’t happy with his girl for well over a year. And he told me he didn’t think we should make love because it wouldn’t amount to much.  And after we made love he motioned for me to get out of his room.  And I got so damn angry that I grabbed my clothes and threw my shoe at him.  And he told me to sit back down on the bed.  He said, “Oh come on back. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”  And I told him I had nowhere to go, had nowhere to live, and that I was strung out on heroin and living with crack heads downtown before I got up to Redwood City and Hooker’s house.  And I said “What was I supposed to do?  John said he’d show me the ropes.  That was all.”  And he smiled and I smiled and I stayed a while longer.

By the time I got back to John Lee Hooker’s room—well he was so mad.  He said in his deep mad voice, “I don’t care about where ya beeahn!  I just don’t want ma ma ma fa fa’fa food to git cold! Bring me that food!”  And his hands were shaking a bit when he pulled out the fried potatoes all wrapped up in tin foil.  And he wouldn’t look at me.  And he didn’t talk to me much that night and went to sleep in his silk t-shirt and his black boxers like he always did.

...

In Montreal there was big hotel—a beautiful, rich hotel.  I was with Hooker and Hammond at a table and we had ordered breakfast.  I could order anything I wanted.  Suddenly there was a commotion over to my left at the front desk because RobinTrower in a big coat came in with a pretty girl on his arm, and behind her came a few roadies carrying his guitars and bags and such. Then he saw John Lee Hooker and came over to our table.  Trower and Hooker stepped a few paces away from me and Hammond.  But I could hear them talk: “Ya, well I got me a real good lookin’ one over there—see her over there?”  And Hooker to my horror said back “Well I got me one right over there!” He pointed to me.  I turned all red. I coulda died.  And I will never forget how John Hammond looked at me—like it was all right—that I had nothing in the world to feel ashamed of—that I wasn’t a whore—that I was a real person—a fine singer—and not a whore … not a whore.

Now things started to get real bad because I got sick and tired of all these men starin’ at me like they wanted me while at the same time they were all mad at me because I didn’t want any of them.  Once I had slept with that rhythm guitar man the word got out. Elvin was the worse one of the bunch.  One night he and the rhythm player were gonna go out to the clubs after a show and I wanted to come.  And when I got down to the lobby all dressed up and lookin’ nice, Elvin motioned his rhythm player  to come over to the side to talk. And Elvin kept shakin’ his frizzy head.  And then the rhythm player came back over to me and shrugged and said, “Elvin don’t’ want you to go with us.”  And I said, “Now why is that?”  And he said, “Well he just don’t want you to go, that’s all.”  And so I had to turn around and go back upstairs to the room and hear John Lee Hooker snore.  And I was so mad that I tried to steal some valium outta John Lee’s bottle on the bed stand and he jumped up and grabbed my hand and said “How many you got in yo hand?” And he made me open my hand and he took two pills back.  I was so humiliated.  And there was nothing I could do—nothing at all.  Nothing at all.

…

The last leg of the tour was in Buffalo, New York.  When you cross the line over from Canada suddenly you are back in the old USA.  The huge auditoriums fade and suddenly you are back in the smaller, darker clubs that smell of whiskey and cigarettes—stale like. And the crowds are rowdier, and they don’t listen like they do up in Canada.  Suddenly that special feeling of being a real artist is gone.

But Hooker could thrive anywhere; he had so much magic in him and he’d been doing it so long.  I sat on the sidelines with the rhythm player that night and watched Hooker sing “One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer,” watched his hands move as he told the story—his boogie-man hands—watched how he would smile out at the audience at the funny places in the story—watched how his feet would keep perfect time on the floor.  Hooker—sitting in his chair—with that big hat too large for his head—his rich deep voice filling the place up—filling everything up.  And I remember thinking to myself, “How does he do that—tell that story so relaxed—with that voice so rich?”  And I remember watching him on that rickety wooden stage—how he cued the band with his hand moving in a cross—with a fist headin’ down—to end the song with the downbeat kick.  And then the rhythm man whispered in my ear “You know, Cathy, Hooker’s singing about YOU.  That’s what he does.  He sings about what’s goin’ on.  That’s what all the greats do. He’s sure singing about you.”

…

You know when I got back to the city I went wild after that tour. I went and sang at a couple of clubs and saw some old friends, and then one mornin’ I woke up with one of those old friends and realized I had nowhere to go.  Except back to Hooker’s.  And I didn’t wanna do another tour, but I knew I would anyway because I had to sing.  And so I did my drugs and went back to Hooker’s house to kick.

To Be Continued …

© Mary Catharine Lemons, February 20 2012