A Poor Boy Summer

My claim to fame lasted only one summer, but it was a fine summer! It began hangin’ out wonderin’ what we were gonna do. Sometimes we would walk downtown to Benny’s to buy some candy with change we had picked up along the street.

One time, Blinky lifted some chaw, and we sat behind the shed at my house. I wished we had paid attention when our Daddies chewed. Ever one of us swallowed a bit and got sick as a dog. Green in the gills we were! I don’t reckon I’ll ever chew again.

A group sittin’ around wonderin’ what to do before our last year of learnin’, we was beggin’ to get in a mess of trouble. That is until Poorboy’s granny came to town. She was a mighty nice lady, and Poorboy was her only grandson. That left him to carry on the family name, and she thought it fit to give him a present to celebrate him becomin’ a man.

She surprised him after dinner that night with a present wrapped in butcher paper. It didn’t look like much, but he didn’t mind much. His granny always got him somethin’ nice.

As he tore the paper away, he said his eyes got about as big as the wheels on his Daddy’s Ford. Inside was his granddaddy’s Kalamazoo. He had messed around with it a little when he was a boy, and his granddaddy taught him some things, but he never expected to own it. It was probably 20 years old or better, and it wasn’t much when his granddaddy bought it, but it was more than any of the rest of us had.

Poorboy’s granddaddy passed a few years back, and Poorboy was mighty sad to see him go. He was a good man and taught Poorboy the things his daddy couldn’t because he had to spend so many hours down at the mill to make sure there was food on the table. All our daddies had to work long hours. Those years were tough.

We were all mighty jealous of Poorboy when his granddaddy would take him fishin’ and huntin’. He made it better because he’d tell us all about it. He and his granddaddy had grand adventures, to hear him tell it. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to think he was spinnin’ a yarn, but it didn’t matter much. Poorboy could tell a fine tale.

It all started when Poorboy would play the Kalamazoo for all of us out at the gravel pit. It was far enough away from anyone that they wouldn’t holler about the racket, and we could get as rowdy as we had a mind to.

After a while we got tired of just listenin’ to Poorboy pluck at those strings. It didn’t matter how good he was. One day Rooster shows up with his gramma’s washboard and a stick. He said he saw a man play music on one of them a while back. The man was blind and played on the street down in Shelby for money. He figured if a blind man could play it, so could he. It took some practice, but he did get pretty fair on that old washboard.

A few more days and Blinky shows up with this contraption he rigged up from a wash tub, a stick, and a string. He said he’d seen some man play it before, and it was called a gut base. It was the cheapest instrument he could come up with, that is unless his momma found out. She’d tan his hide for sure he said!

It took him a while, but he got so he could make that bass thump!

I didn’t want to be left out. It was no fun watchin’ everyone else have all the fun, so I headed down to Benny’s that night and lifted a kazoo. I figured if you can hum, you can play a kazoo. It didn’t take long for me to get good. By the time I showed up at the gravel pit the next day, I was practically a pro.

We were satisfied with foolin’ around for a few days, but then listenin’ to them caterwaulin’ got pretty old. It was decided that I was the best singer, and that made me mighty proud. It was Blinky’s bright idea that we be a band.

Well, a band’s got to have a name, and everybody knows that bands are named after the man who sings. I made sure they remembered that fact. After all, they wouldn’t have been much of a band with all the catterwaulin’ they had goin’ on.

Poorboy wanted billin’ too, since he was the only one with a real instrument. We figured that since we was all poor boys, it was fittin’ to call ourselves Willy and the Poor Boys. It was kind of like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys in that book Miss Hemshaw had us read last year. We thought we had a good thing goin’.

After about a week of practice, Rooster shows up bustin’ at the seams with this great idea. If the blind man could play his washboard on the streets and get money, why a bona fide band could make a sight more. We had four instruments and a singer. We were about to hit the big time.

That Friday we all met down on Main with our instruments and a box for all the money we’d be makin’. We started playin’, and I was a-singin’, and a few people stopped by and heard us and left a little change.

Now, Poorboy was hoppin’ mad at Rooster, since he said we’d make a mess of money. Rooster was thinkin’ hard and said it must be because not very many people went by us. The next day we met in front of Benny’s because there was more traffic there.

Boy, was that the right move! People would come to Benny’s and hear us playin’ and they’d stop and listen. In a little bit they’d be clappin’ or tappin’ their feet and getting’ lost in the music. By the time we took a rest, they’d plum forget why they even came to Benny’s, and they’d put a little money in our box and go home.

That happened more and more, and before you knew it, they were comin’ just to hear Willy and the Poor Boys. We were just sure there was goin’ to be some big-time music man that was goin’ to hear about us and sign us to make a record, and we’d be on the radio all across the country.

Well that man never came to hear us. Least ways, he didn’t like us enough to put us on the radio. We went on that way for the whole summer. We made a fair amount of money, and it kept us from getting into any more trouble.

We didn’t lift anything more from Benny’s. We had money, now. I don’t know if our playin’ and distractin’ people had anything to do with it, but Benny’s closed that winter, and we were mighty sad to see it go.

That last year of school was mighty rough with teachers giving us more work and all. Everyone was just plannin’ how they’d get out of that town and make somethin’ of themselves.

Poorboy did leave town. His granny paid for him to go to a good college up north. It cost a lot, but her husband left her some life insurance, and well, Poorboy was her only grandson. He doesn’t keep up with us anymore. Everybody knows him by his given name, Charles, now. And he works as an accountant in Chicago.

Rooster moved up to Shelby and couldn’t find work. He fell back on his skill at liftin’ things he needed, and that didn’t fair too well for him. Last August, at the age of 19, a man who owned a store shot him for stealin’ a fifty-cent candy bar. His tombstone says Richard, but he’ll always be Rooster when his friends remember him.

Blinky never did get out of town. He’s workin’ out at the mill just like his daddy and his granddaddy before him. I reckon he’ll die young from that work just like they did. The patch on his work shirt says Brian, and nobody at the mill would dare call him Blinky.

Me, I worked in the mill for a year and saved up my money. Then, I decided to see if we were right about my voice bein’ the best of ours. I moved up to Nashville, and went around singin’ for all the record people. They all said my voice was good, but others were better. Still, people all over the country hear me singin’ on the radio. I sing the jingle for Swisher laundry soap. I didn’t make it big like I hoped, but I guess I fared better than poor old Rooster.

I reckon one summer of fame is more than most folks get.