I grew up in Middle Tennessee in the 1950s. I was a country boy. Way back then, on the outskirts or crossroads of every little Southern town, there was at least one juke joint. Places where black people went to blow off steam, drink a little, gamble and socialize.
Almost always, the juke joint was owned by a black guy who knew how to deal with the local boys in blue. All it took was some "under-the-table" weekly cash payments and a few jars of backdoor moonshine with the proprietor's promise that if anything or anybody got out of hand, it would be dealt with.
When it got late, some good ole boy from the sheriff's office would pull his black-and-white around back and collect.
Most of those juke joints didn't look like much on the outside. Many of them were old, rundown, converted gas stations or small, shutdown buildings that were in disrepair. They'd clean up the storefronts and nail Oertel's 92, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jax Beer signs, furnished by the local distributor, all across the front entrance.
With a little help from friends, future patrons and family members, they swept down and painted the interior and built a makeshift bar in the back corner. All types of wooden chairs and square and round tabletops were placed around a big-plank dance floor with plenty enough room to jitterbug or do the Hully Gully.
A band set up in front of the dance floor and played from the time the sun went down till it was on its way back up.
All the dancing took place up front. The gambling was in the back room. Cards and dice, five-card draw, seven-card stud, nothing wild and "rollin' dem bones," mixed with guts filled up on firewater, made for some rough-and-tumble weekends. Don't even think about cheating. All those guys carried blades.
In the summer months, I worked for a blind, black bootlegger everybody called Blind Remus. Just as the sun was setting, they'd start coming by the Remus shack to pick up Mason jars of the best moonshine available in those parts. I helped Mr. Remus by collecting the money and running the jars back and forth out to the customers. I was just 10.
Mr. Remus didn't have any close friendships. He stayed to himself. The only grownup he trusted was his cousin, Theodore. Mr. Remus relied on Theodore to help him pay a few bills and, every weekend, run out a couple of wooden apple crates full of moonshine to the local juke joint, The Easy Club. Most everybody called it "The Easy."
The club was just a few miles out of town on the way to Mount Pleasant. One Saturday night, around 9, Mr. Remus told Theodore, "Theodore, go ahead on and run da' order out to da' Easy. On da way, drop da' boy off at he house." Then he looked over my way and said, "Dat's all da work dey is fo' tonight, boy. We quittin' early."
Theodore was on the short side, not much taller than Mr. Remus. He had a paunch and cinched up his trousers way above his waist, almost to his chest. He wore a snap-down jockey cap and had some silver and gold fillings in his mouth. Seems like he was quite a bit younger than Mr. Remus.
Theodore was a bit high-strung. He must've had a ring of at least 25 keys he was always messing around with. He'd put his pointing finger in the ring and twirl them around, or he'd stick them in his pocket and then jiggle them. It made it seem like he was always getting ready to go somewhere.
Theodore's car was old. One of those big cars with wide whitewalls, worn cloth seats, thin, green, rubber floorboard covers and a smoking motor that ran loud. He had his pistol tucked under his seat and a cardboard air freshener, shaped like a tree, hanging from the rear-view mirror. It smelled like somebody had spilled a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner, the blue stuff.
Theodore said, "Boy, what yo mama gonna say about me drivin' you home?" I told him that my family wasn't prejudice. He got a big laugh out of that. Somehow, I convinced him to let me go with him to The Easy. He asked me what about my mother.
I don't remember Mom ever worrying about me. Many times, I'd spend the night with one of my friends on a school night without clearing it first with her. She was kinda like a hippie mom. Not a lot of rules. I was young, but I think Mom believed that I could take care of myself. And I did.
Theodore took a deep breath, let it out, turned the car around, and we were off to The Easy. Just before we got there, he told me, "You go and gits yo'self in trouble, you jus' take off runnin' fuh yo' house." I said I would. As soon as we turned off the road, you could hear the music. Gut bucket.
We pulled up just as they were throwing out some drunk guy. A couple of big black men had ahold of his pants and shirt and hurled him out the door, into the night. The drunk's wife, a heavy-set black woman, walked out behind them, shaking her head and wagging her finger at him and hollered, "I told you." Theodore started laughing and put the car in park..
A few guys came out to the car, popped open the trunk and hauled away Blind Remus' moonshine. Theodore told me to stay put while he went inside to find the owner and get paid. He said he'd be right back. I waited for a good half-hour. No Theodore. I decided I'd go look for him. I pushed the front door open, and in I walked.
There was a head-bopping crowd of people standing just inside the front door. They faced the lit-up dance floor area and the slightly elevated bandstand. Strings of red, blue, yellow and green Christmas tree lights hanging across the low ceiling and a bare light bulb above the bar in the back was all the light there was.
A haze of tobacco, the smell of hooch and Woolworth perfume was in the air. Tinkling glasses, sheer-delight laughter and people trying to talk above the music hit my ears like fireworks. It was mesmerizing.
The band consisted of a fellow on harmonica, a mustached man at the keys, a drummer wearing shades and a tall, skinny, slide "wa-wa" guitar player. One microphone and a couple of low-watt amps bounced rhythm-and-blues off the surrounding walls of dancing silhouettes. The piano player did all the singing. He sounded a little like Louis Armstrong. He could wail!
I weaved my way through the crowd. I was only knee-high to all of them. When I got closer to the front, there was Theodore, with a huge smile, dancing with two bouncing women, both of them a head taller than he. Theodore saw me, happy-waved and kept right on dancing.
I was the only white person in the joint, yet I felt right at home. Nobody seemed to mind that I was there. Everywhere I looked, all I saw were smiling faces. Men in colorful shirts, soft brimmed hats, button-up vests and spit-shined shoes. Flirtatious women, of all sizes, wearing form-fitting dresses, ruby-red lipstick and flat-ironed hair. They were wiggling, bumping and stepping to the music. The Easy was alive!
A never-before feeling was in my belly. I'd heard black music but never at full blast, up close and in person. Every drumbeat put a little jerk in my neck. My legs began to shake like Elvis. I started clapping my hands. Right in front of them all, I could feel myself turning black.
The band was cranked up and at top volume. It was penetrating. I started getting happy feet. Before I knew it, I was at the corner of the dance floor, shaking my fanny and waving my arms. I was in a trance, lost to the music. Little white boy, me, and a vibrating room-full of grown-up, happy, black folks dancing the night away.
Not too long, and we were out of there. On the way home, Theodore and I agreed that we'd keep the evening's activities to ourselves. We shook on it. I'm not sure if he ever told anybody. I never have, till now.
Bill Stamps' books, "Miz Lena" and "Southern Folks," are available on Amazon. For signed copies, email bill_stamps@aol.com.