ILLUSTRATION FROM DREAMSTIME
Christopher Davis stepped out the backdoor of Leroy’s Beale Street Blues Shack into the tight alley. He stayed under what little shelter the tin awning provided from the autumn rain. The alley was flooded with a cocktail of muffled blues that leaked from the adjacent bars. Christopher stared at the molded bricks on the other side of the alley as he took a draw from his cigarette. He wondered if his grandmother made it home from the casinos before the storm rolled in.
“This rain’s a cold one, ain’t it?” A tall man asked as he approached Christopher.
“Typical for this time of year,” Christopher said.
“I saw you playin’ in there. Figured you snuck out back after your set. I didn’t know I was gonna have to walk a block around to find you.”
“Name’s Chris.”
“I like Danger Lee. Mine is James, James Dean,” the man said.
Christopher laughed.
“James Dean, huh? Okay, Jimmy. Guess we’ll just stick with stage names.”
James handed Chris a business card. “I’m only in town for two more days. Call me tomorrow. My hotel’s number is on the back.”
James walked away as Chris read the card: J. Dean Talent Management - Las Vegas, NV. The card looked legit. Musicians from Memphis rarely made it out those days. Not any that played half-assed joints between Midtown and Beale Street anyway.
“Yo, DL, you back up in a minute. These fools at the bar keep requestin’ some Eagles. Give ’em some CCR.”
“Thanks, Harry. Creedence it is.”
Chris pulled himself on stage. There were no stairs or steps. He squinted in the dim light to dodge holes in the carpet. Without tuning his guitar, he started plucking high-pitched riffs. None of the patrons looked his way. Chris cleared his throat, “Some of y’all might know this one. I’m Danger Lee. Tip your bartenders. And if you want a song, donations are welcomed.”
It was around three-thirty in the morning when the last straggler stumbled out of Leroy’s, rambling about something no one could make out. Chris didn’t have to help clean up, but he did anyway. If anything for a free drink or two.
“Yo, Chris. You goin’ to Alex’s?” Harry asked.
“Man, I don’t know.”
“Nah, you goin’.”
“I ain’t stayin’ long. though,” Chris said.
Alex’s Tavern was a far cry from the kitsch bars on Beale. Alex’s regulars were off-duty cops, veterans missing war, cooks who nearly cut their finger off that night, and forlorn musicians. The drinks were served in plastic cups. Cash only. A place Chris felt safe despite being in a neighborhood filled with decrepit schools and houses the city forgot about. An urban desert.
“Danger, how come I ain’t seen you at the jukebox?” Harry asked.
“Man, just thinkin’ about this.” Chris handed James Dean’s business card to Harry.
Harry’s eyes went over the card like a tennis ball in a heated match.
“My dude, call him,” Harry said.
Harry threw back his shoulders and nodded towards the shuffleboard table before walking away.
“Danger? That’s your name?” The redhead sitting next to Chris asked.
“Danger Lee’s the name. It’s what my Mom used to call me when I was a kid anyway. Always jumping bicycles off anything,” Chris said.
“Sounds like a fun mom. You still a daredevil? And I’m Barbara, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Barbara. It’s just a stage name.”
“I like it. Take it you’re a musician. How ’bout you play somethin’ for me sometime.”
Chris lumbered out of the back door of Alex’s towards his car. He plopped down in the driver’s seat, and leaned his head back on the headrest feeling like he was going to vomit. The old Honda Civic looked like a clown car with Chris’ lanky legs. He rubbed the business card between his fingers. Pinching the numbers. He wondered who to call first. James Dean or Barbara. The clutch popped twice before he got the car in gear. He put his thumbs at the ten and two and tried to keep them on the yellow and white lines of the road so he wouldn’t swerve. If Grandma was up when he got home, he knew she’d give him a talking-to until well after the sun came up.
His eyes burned as his vision narrowed and the popcorned ceiling crept into focus. His mouth felt like yellow. He heard old ladies arguing on the television. He wouldn’t call anyone.
Bradley Beau Holland is a Memphis native. He is a U.S. Army veteran and University of Memphis alumnus.
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories are published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. The Very Short Story Contest recognizes ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’
newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate. To submit: fiction@memphismagazine.com
