Boneyard Blues by John Vander

Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck  Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck …

The rhythm of the boxcar rumbling down the track reminds Billy of a song he wrote a long time ago, back when he was still playing for nickels and dimes outside the lumber yards and cotton mills along the Mississippi River. Although he hasn’t sung the thing in years, he can still remember the words.

Ain’t got nothin, baby

Ain’t got a goddamn thing

Can’t give you a golden necklace

Can’t buy you a diamond ring

Can’t promise you the world, no

Can’t give you the stars above

All I got is this old guitar, girl

And a heart filled up with love.

Across from him in the car, Ti Jean takes a swig from the bottle of corn whiskey they’ve been sharing, smacks his lips and runs the back of his hand over his ratty, gray whiskers.

“What you thinkin bout, Billy Boy? You gone ’bout as quiet as a preacher in a whorehouse. You still missin that li’l gal you left up in ’sconsin? I know I’d be. Sheesh! It woulda took a whole buncha wild horses to drag me away from that li’l mama.”

“My thoughts is my business, Ti Jean.”

“Well, I ’preciate that, Billy Boy. I ’preciate that. But it don’t hurt none for a man to share what’s on his mind now, does it? Less he’s thinkin ’bout somethin bad.”

He grins and takes another drink from the bottle. “Now how about you get yo’ head out yo’ ass and give us a song on that ol’ music box that’s layin there next to you? Ain’t so often I gets the chance to hear a li’l geetar music. An’ I know yo’ good, Billy boy. I know yo’ the best!”

“If I’m really the best, how come I’m still playing in dives and juke joints, Ti Jean? How come I ain’t never got to make no real money?”

“Well that’s an easy one, Billy Boy. Reason you ain’t never made no real money is ’cause you ain’t never capit’lized on yo’ talent. A man has to cap-it-al-az on the things he got goin for him. That’s what this country’s all about. Yo’ a smart boy, Billy. You know the game. Problem is, you spent all your time drinkin an’ chasin them li’l ladies. A man can’t make no money that way. A man has to CAP-IT-AL-AZ!”

“Just shut the hell up and pass me the bottle.”

“Haaaah! You see what I’m talkin ’bout, Billy? You see what I’m talkin ’bout? Always the next drink an’ the next li’l gal. Jeez, if I had me a pair of titties you’d prob’ly be tryin to jump these ol’ bones right here in this boxcar!”

“Just pass me the damn bottle!”

Ti Jean gets up from the empty crate he’s been sitting on and hands over the whiskey. “Just kiddin, Billy. Just kiddin. Ain’t no need to be gettin yo’self all riled up now.”

As he sits down again, Billy takes a hit of the liquor and gazes out through the boxcar’s half-open door. The train is moving through broad swathes of farmland. High above the inky-blackness of the fields, an enormous full moon shines down from a sky spattered with a million stars.

“So where we headin this time, Ti Jean?”

“There’s a line change comin up in about thirty miles. A small town called Saint Max. Good a place as any, I reckon. You got what you need?”

“Yeah, I got what I need.”

Recorking the bottle and laying it down between his feet, Billy pulls out his pouch, rolls a cigarette and lights up.

“So what’s your plan, Billy? What you gonna do after tonight?”

“Not sure. Been thinkin about Chicago maybe. Story is you can make some real money there.”

“Chicago? Yeah, lotta boys playin ’lectric geetars up there now. Might be good for you.”

“I ain’t never played no ’lectric guitar.”

“Geetar’s a geetar, Billy Boy. How hard can it be? An’ just think of all them nice li’l city gals. All them nice li’l city gals just a-waitin for some good ol’ country boy to come along and start squeezin their juicy li’l peaches.”

Despite himself, Billy can’t help but smirk. “Well, yo’ right about one thing, Ti Jean, I always did like squeezin’ them peaches.”

“Mmm hmmm. That’s the spirit, Billy Boy! You get yourself over to Chicago an’ have yo’self a good ol’ peach squeezin jamboree! But in the meantime what d’ya say ’bout breakin out that old geetar there and givin us a tune? These ol’ feet is just itchin to be gettin up and gettin down.”

Maybe it’s the liquor, but suddenly Billy actually does have a notion to play. Flicking his cigarette butt out through the open door, he takes his guitar from its case and tunes up.

“Give us somthin to dance to,” Ti Jean says, standing up – “somethin with a beat!”

Billy gets his foot stomping along with the rhythm of the boxcar then starts into the song he was thinking about earlier, adding a new verse that comes to him right there on the spot.

I can’t promise you the world, girl

No, can’t promise you a thing

But if you want, I can squeeze your peach, girl

And ring your ding-a-ling

While he’s singing, Ti Jean grabs up the whiskey bottle and starts dancing around the car, all the time whooping and waving his tattered, wide-brim hat around in the air.

“Whoowee! You play that thing, boy! You make that baby sing!”

By the time the song’s over, he’s out of breath and sweating profusely.

“Jeeez, Billy Boy. You really are the best. You really are. You got me fightin for air, boy.”

He goes to the door and sits down on the lip of the car, sticking his ugly face out to catch some of the breeze. “Man, when I learned you how ta play, I did not fuck around, Billy Boy. I did not fuck around.”

Billy puts his guitar back in the case then quietly gets to his feet. For what seems like a long time, the only sound is the rhythm of the boxcar rocking along the track.

Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck  Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck …

Ti Jean turns his head sideways and speaks over his shoulder.

“I know what yo’ thinkin ’bout doin, Billy Boy. But it wouldn’t change nothin. ’Sides, if it was that easy, you’d’a done it years ago.”

He’s right, of course.

Billy sits back down and starts to roll another cigarette.

#

When the train stops at Saint Max, they slip quietly down from the car and start north along mainstreet. The town is deserted. On either side of the dry dirt road, dark windows stare out at them like the dead, vacant eyes of corpses.

“Not far now,” Ti Jean says, passing Billy the last of the whiskey. “You gonna be okay?”

Billy finishes the bottle and tosses it aside. “It ain’t the first time I done this.”

“I know it, Billy Boy. I know it.”

The cemetery is about half a mile out of town, an acre of overgrown grass surrounded by a low, crumbling wall. They search among the graves until they find one covered with a flat stone slab. The headstone reads:

Nathan Brown,

Died April 17, 1924.

Devoted Husband of Anne

Loving father of Anne and Emma.

“I hate the idea of desecratin’ a man’s grave,” Billy says. “It ain’t right.”

“Maybe it ain’t, Billy Boy. But it has to be done this way. You knew the terms when you made the deal.”

“The deal was that I’d be a big success.”

“Nah, Billy. That’s all in yo’ head. Deal was I’d make you the best damn geetar player in the country. And I did that. Ain’t no one from New York City to Califo’nia can play them ol’ blues like Billy Boy Preston. And you know it.”

“I’m gittin tired of this, Ti Jean. I mean it’s been twelve years. I done paid my debt already.”

“Nah. The debt ain’t paid ’till you move on from this ol’ world, Billy Boy. And you always had that option. Don’t forget that. You always had a choice.”

“The choice of dyin?”

“Never said it was a good choice, Billy. Now git yo’ shit together.”

Billy opens his bag and takes out the things he needs – a couple of candles stolen from a church earlier in the day, his black cat bone, some gunpowder mixed with salt. He sets everything up at the foot of the grave then stands back and looks at his handiwork by the light of the moon.

“Good job,” Ti Jean says. “We gonna make a bonified voodoo priest out of you one a these days.”

“Who is he, Ti Jean? Who is it this time?”

“It’s better you don’t know, Billy.”

“I need to know. I always need to know.”

“Jus’ some ol’ drifter with a hankerin for whiskey. Prob’ly woulda been dead in a year anyhow.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, that’s true. I don’t know that. Not for sure.”

Billy watches as he lays himself out on the grave.

“Now remember, Billy Boy. No hesitation. Jus’ git the job done.”

Billy nods and sighs. “Maybe Chicago will work out. Maybe this year’ll be my year.”

“Maybe, Billy. Maybe. An’ if not, maybe the year after, right? Now c’mon. Let’s git this thing done.”

He lies down flat and closes his eyes. “Be seein you again next year, Billy Boy.”

For a moment Billy thinks about running. Just grabbing up his guitar and taking off into the night. But he knows Ti Jean will track him down again. Ti Jean will always track him down.

He goes to his bag, takes out the knife and kneels down by the side of the grave. For a moment the night goes so still it would be easy to believe the world has stopped turning. Then the cold breeze arrives, same way as always, sighing through the graveyard like the last, tired breath of a dying man.

Lying on the slab in front of him, Ti Jean opens his eyes. Only, of course, it’s not Ti Jean anymore, just some tired, old drifter who happened to ride the wrong boxcar with the wrong guitar player on the wrong night of the year.

“Don’t you worry, old fella,” Billy whispers, lifting the knife high over his head with both hands. “This won’t take but a minute.

“Then I’m gonna be off to Chicago to squeeze me some peaches.”

John Vander

Image – black and white image of a graveyard with table graves