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“Shut up, Troy,” said Hunnicut, the sweating man in the white linen suit.
“I reckon I’m nervous,” J.P. said.
“Try it again,” Hunnicut said, bored.
Good morning, blues
Blues, how do you do?
I’m doing all right
Good morning, how are you?
When I got up this morning
Blues was walking round my bed
Yes, the blues walking round my bed
I went to eat my breakfast
The blues was all in my bread
I sent for you yesterday see me baby
Here you come a walking today
Yes, here you come a walking today
Got your mouth wide open
You don’t know what to say.
Hunnicut leaned his weight back in the wood chair and looked at him. He spit on the floor and took a drink of water.
Good morning, blues
Blues, how do you do?
I’m doing all right
Good morning, how are you?
J.P. finished and put his guitar back in its case.
“Do you write your own music?” Hunnicut said.
“That’s one of Leadbelly’s songs. I heard him once when he first got out of the pen.”
“Who’s Leadbelly?”
“He was in Angola. He’s the man that made a twelve-string guitar.”
“Here’s a card. It will get you in the door tonight,” Hunnicut said.
“Do I get my five dollars back?”
“No, you don’t get it back. Do you want to use one of the electric guitars tonight?”
