Slim

A youngster on a train in the deep south unknowingly unlocks a part of his destiny.

SLIM

By Chris Doyle

         Slim sat upright, back propped against a bale of cotton, the swaying of the boxcar and click-clack of the train making his eyes grow heavy. He looked over to his right where another rider slept, the man's feet visible through the holes in his shoes and the worn cardboard inserts. Slim leaned from side to side, spine clicking as he worked out the stiffness. After a time he levered himself from the floor, hands reaching for the sky as he stretched.
         He was tall and lean, more than worthy of the moniker his father had given him. He started humming softly, patting his hands against his legs in time with the tune.
         "Keep it down," someone hissed. "Tyin' ta sleep over here."
         "Be quiet boy," another voice added behind him, "bulls gonna here."
         Slim fell silent, sitting back down, mention of the bulls sombering his mood. Bulls could either be railroad police or guards who worked for the rail line. Regardless, he knew them both to be merciless and brutal. More than once he'd seen them cast men from trains while they were moving or attack a camp situated too near the rails. The rail line's mandate to keep transients off the trains was taken seriously.
         Before riding the rails, Slim had hitched rides or walked to wherever he was going. But, a few stints in jail for vagrancy and being jumped by whites had driven him to the rails which brought its own set of problems. 'Bos', as many called themselves, could be extremely territorial and there was nothing meaner than a brokedown Ku Kluxer man locked up in a boxcar with you.
         Slim fingered the harmonica hanging from the cord around his neck. Without thinking, he almost started playing before catching himself. Instead, he let his fingers roam across the lettering on the top cover plate, thumb tracing over the engraving of a man framed by leaves. He looked to the far side of the boxcar and saw a bo watching him.
         The man was old, late sixties or early seventies, Slim guessed. It was hard to tell with white folks. He saw him pull a bottle from his inner left coat pocket, the unmistakable pop from the cork loud enough to be heard from across the room. The man took a healthy pull, turning the bottle up before tapping the cork back in place and returning it to his pocket before turning on his side, hat pulled down over his eyes. Minutes later he was snoring.
         Slim sighed. It was still hours before morning and he had no idea how he'd be able to remain awake. He started mouthing the words to an old harvest song he knew, imagining how he'd play it on his harp or who would sing it the best out of the ones he'd come across in his travels. It was a minute or so before he realized his fingers were moving, seeking out the chords on his legs and the floor. He imagined the notes and the rhythms, seeing the keys in his mind, his finger movements sure and precise.
         He played scales, arpeggios, specific finger patterns, finger independence and hand coordination exercises his mother had taught him. He could hear the music, feel it around him, losing himself in the endeavor. How long he continued he didn't know, he just felt the tap on his shoulder, looking up to see a boy he'd fallen in with named Rice looking down at him.
         "They say train gon' be stoppin' soon." He gestured to Slim's bag. "Betta start gettin' ready to slip out."
         Slim made ready to stand up when he realized he was covered in sweat, his forearms and fingers stiff. Rice extended a hand, helping him to his feet.
         "'Preciate'cha." He looked at his friend. "Feelin' any betta?"
         Rice shrugged. "I'd be fine if I wasn't so damn hungry."
         Slim clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll be in Mound Bayou soon." He squeezed the other man's shoulder. "My people gon' feed us so much, you gon hafta let that belt of yours out by the time you set yo' fork down."
         Slim nodded, grinning. "Sho as hell hope so. My doggone navel 'bout to touch my spine."
         Slim grabbed his bag from atop the bale, reaching in and feeling around. After a time he pulled out an apple. "Here," he offered. "This oughta hold you over for a while 'til we get where we goin'."
         Rice took it. "You ain't gotta ask me twice." He sank his teeth into the apple, the distinctive sound drawing looks from the other men in the car, five white and three colored, not including the two of them.
         "Hey boy," one of the whites called, "you got another one of them apples?"
         Slim shook his head. "Jus' had the one."
         "Check his bag," one of the others said. "Betcha he got some more."
         Slim was about to respond when a burly, broad shouldered colored man stepped forward out of the darkness to his right.
         "Man say he ain't got no mo', then he ain't got no mo. Best you leave it at that."
         "Ain't none of your bizness." It was the man who'd first asked Slim if he had more. He was a surly looking customer with cut low on the sides and a mop of unruly hair on top and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than a time or two.
         The burly black man took a step forward. "This here my lil' brotha. Everythang 'bout him my bidness."
         Before the other man could respond, one of the whites said, "Train startin' to slow down." It was the old man from earlier. "Y'all best start gettin' ready to get off or go to jail once we get in the station."
         "Hell," Broke Nose scoffed. "We're comin' up on Mound Bayou. Ain't no nigger sheriff lockin' me up."
         The old man nodded. "What about the bulls? Think they won't snatch you up?"
         Broke Nose looked down at the old man. "Fine." He trained his eyes back on Slim. "Be seein' you around boy."
         "Now see there," the big black smiled broadly, "sounded to me like you just threatened my lil' brotha." His bag slid from his shoulder to the floor. "Or did I hear you wrong?"
         Before the other man could answer, the boxcar jerked, making everyone scramble to stay on their feet, the train slowing noticeably as they drew nearer to the station. The old man gathered himself, hand grabbing the handle of the door and jerking it open a few feet.
         "That there's my cue." He pointed to the others. "You fellers do what you want. Sure hope you like workin' for free. I hear tell they got a bumper crop in these parts this year." With that he slid down to the floor, slipping into the opening to sit on the lip of the door before disappearing as he dropped away and out of sight in the hazy early morning light.
         The other white riders did the same until only two remained, Broke Nose and another one who appeared to be his friend. Both men glared across the car at the other men, eyeing them down as if they were committing their faces to memory. Broke Nose jumped from the train, no sliding off for him, the other following close behind.
         Slim readied to depart as well when the big man shook his head, placing a restraining hand on his arm.
         "We still got a ways to go"
         Slim shared a look with Rice then back to the man who smiled, teeth white even in the dim light.
         "It's alright fellas. I'm from Clarksville and been through Mound Bayou too many times to count. That white man? Old Jack? He knew what he was doin' when he got them to jump off early. We still got 'bout three of four miles to go."
         Rice gave the man a look. "Why would he do that?"
         "I quit tryin' to figure out why white folk do what they do a long time ago. Jus' be sho to thank the man next time you cross paths. Old Jack good people." The man walked to the door, sticking his head out to peer at the surrounding country. He turned, gesturing. "'Bout here oughta be fine. Lotsa sand down 'roun' here." He slid the door open wider, looking at Rice and Slim. "Sit down and step off with ya knees bent and make sho you point yo' toes out away from the train. Try'n stay flat and roll. Be sho to throw yo' bag clear first."
         He let one of the other men go first, followed by the other, then came Rice and Slim. Slim heard the man grunt when he landed behind him. It was a few minutes later when all the five men met up and started on their way, the taller buildings in the town, visible in the distance.
         "Y'all learn fast," the big man called, falling in beside them. "I'm thinkin' it wasn't ya first time. Am I right?"
         Slim shook his head. "No suh, been on the rails comin' up on a year now.
         The man nodded. "Befo' we go on, lemme introduce y'all to my travelin' partners." He pointed to the other two men. "This here's Jerry Dawson and that there's Sam Jones." He tapped his chest with his right thumb. "My name Quinton. Quinton Dukes, but er'body call me Quint or just Q for short."
         Slim tapped his friend on the arm. "This here Rice and Slim is what they call me."
         "Just 'Slim'," the one named Jerry asked. "That's it?"
Slim slowed. "Yeah. Why?"
         "You's a musician, ain'tcha?"
         Slim nodded to the man.
         Jerry laughed. "You cain't just call yo'self Slim. I done seen fo', five Slims myself.
Little Rock Slim. Memphis Slim. Guitar Slim. Saint Louie Slim. Shit, there's a boy south of hear call hisself Natchez Slim." He gestured, "Play the harp just like you."
         Rice pointed to Slim. "He play piano too,".
         "Well, which one he play betta? 'Cause that's what he need to add. Put some pop to
his name." He spread his hands in the air as if he were reading a sign. "Piano Slim. Now that sound like somebody be up on stage doin' sumthin."
         Rice looked at Slim shrugging. "Man got a point. Man over in Yazoo City tole you as much."
         "How 'bout Yazoo Slim?" Sam offered, speeding up to draw abreast of them and join the conversation. "That sound kinda slick."
         "They's already one call hisself that," Jerry countered, not even looking their way, eyes trained on the ground in front of him. "Can't play worth a damn, but thas' what he call hisself."
         "How 'bout Little Rock Slim?" Rice ventured.
         Slim made a face. "I ain't from no damn Little Rock," Slim argued. "Las' thing I need is to have someone ask and I have to say no or they call me a liar on stage for claimin' it."
         Quinton laughed, clapping him on the back and nearly knocking him to the ground. "You got time to come up with one. You boys any good?"
         Rice put his hands on Slim's shoulders, shaking him playfully. "Boy can play," he declared. "Off the top of his head or from the sheet. He can get it done either way. Even play that white folk picnic music from Europe. He blow a mean harp too, but this fool be makin' those keys dance. I swear."
         Quinton nodded, looking impressed. "Hope I get a chance to hear." He pointed to his companions. "We workin' through the season, goin' from field to field, makin' our way back home. Pay's pretty good most time since it's folk we worked for befo'. As for the others?" He shrugged. "It's good if you can get'um to pay you at the end of the day."
         "Was wonderin'," Rice cut in, "did you know that peckerwood from the train? One doin' all the talkin'?"
         Quinton shook his head. "Not befo' today." He looked to the other workers. "Fellas?" The two shook their head. "Nope. Why you ask?"
         "I'on't know," Rice shrugged. "Jus' seem like he had it in for you an' Slim there."
         Quinton adjusted his bag with a hop. "You know how some men get when you bigga than them or," he gestured to Slim, "when you taller'n them. Some of'em take it personal. Make it they mission to take you down a peg or two whether you need it or not" He gestured between the two younger men. "Y'all holdin' anything? A knife or a gun?"
         Slim and Rice traded looks before shaking their heads, both saying, "No."
         The other three men laughed, whistling in surprise.
         Slim frowned, "What?"
         "Best you boys get sumthin' to put in ya hands if somebody start up with ya. Ain't safe to walk 'roun' naked without sumthin' make other folks step back from ya."
         Rice grabbed his crotch. "I already got sumthin' make folk do that."
         All of the men laughed at that. Quinton grinned, shaking his head. "Couple white folk men walk up talkin' 'bout regulatin' you, you betta have more'n yo' pecker to hold'um off."
         "I used to have a knife," Slim admitted, "but I lost it in a card game."
         "Well, get sumthin," Jerry warned. "A baseball bat. A lead pipe. A straight razor. Sumthin'. Only downside to a gun is if the law catch you with one, they'll prolly take it and then you out all that money, but a knife? Shit, er'body got a knife. Jus' don't get nuthin' crazy."
         A farmer called to them from his field, having ridden to the edge of it and waving a hand at the group. "That you Q?" he called.
         "Hey there, Doug!" Quinton called back. "How er'body doin'?"
         "Er'body fine," Doug called back. "You boys hungry, you can stop off by the house. Bacon, eggs, some grits. How that sound?"
         "Sound just fine," Quinton called back, pointing. "Crop 'bout ready?"
         Doug nodded. "Come an' see me in 'bout a week. Should be read'ta go by then." He pointed to the group. "Jerry? You got my money?"
         Jerry shook his head. "Don't even try it. You know I won that game fair and square."
         Quinton whispered to Slim and Rice, "Doug like to pull out the chess board when he got comp'ny. Either one'a you play?"
         Rice nodded. "I can hole my own."
         "He cheat," Jerry warned, but he was smiling as he said it. "Whateva y0u do, don't take ya eyes off the board."
         "Hold up," Sam stopped, beckoning the others to him.
         Quinton spread his hands, "What?"
         "I got it," Sam smiled, looking at Slim.
         Slim frowned. "Got what?"
         Sam hitched his thumbs in his suspenders. "I got you your new name."
         Jerry snorted. "Bet it's sumthin' stupid. That boy don't know nuthin' 'bout show bidness."
         "Kiss my ass, Jerry," Sam snorted. "Know mo' 'bout it than 'yo ass."
         "Alright, alright," Quinton held up his hands as if to keep the two of them apart. "Alright Sam, whatchu come up with?"
         "Befo' I say, I got one question."
         "What fool?" Jerry cut in. "Just tell the man the name, damn."
         Slim smiled. "Nah, it's alright. What's your question, Sam?"
         Sam shot Jerry a look, then turned back to the younger man, smiling. "Where you from?"
         "Mound Bayou," Slim stated, "but I was born in Greenwood."
         Sam's face split into a grin. "Shit boy, that's even better. Greenwood pretty much the heart and soul of the Delta."
         "So what's the name then Sam?" Quinton asked. "You got us all on pins an' needles waitin'."
         "That's it," Sam declared.
         "What?" Jerry croaked. "Greenwood? Greenwood Slim?"
         Sam shook his head. "Nawl." He pointed. "This here's Delta Slim."
         Quinton looked at Sam nodding, smile spreading across his face. "Dang if that ain't got a ring to it."
         Jerry shrugged. "It ain't the worst I heard. Sun do shine on a blind dog's ass ev'ry now and then."
         Rice nodded in approval. "It do snap, that's fa sho." He mimicked Jerry from earlier, spreading his hands high. "Tonite. We got Eric Rice accomp'nied by the one and only Delta Slim on piano."
         Jerry gestured down the road to the farmhouse. "We gon' stand out'chea pattin' this nigga on his back for a name he ain't used yet or we gon' go eat?"
         "Eat!" they said, in unison.
         They'd been walking for a few minutes before the farmhouse came into view, dogs barking and running out to greet them, tails wagging. Fire curled from the chimney and the smell of grits, eggs, bacon and something baking smacked them all in the face, causing each of them to hurry their pace.
         Quinton nudged Slim. "Y'know, Doug and his wife Sara, they got a piano in the parlor. Betcha if you ask'um nice, they'll let you play it. If you want."
         Slim nodded. "I'd like that just fine. Been a while since I had the chance."
         They'd almost reached the back porch when the door swung open and a stout woman with chestnut colored hair with a streak of gray parting the middle stepped out, a bowl under one arm and a baby under the other. "Hey there Q!" she called. "Jerry, Sam how the season been treatin' ya?"
         All three men returned her greeting. Quinton stepped up, gesturing to their new friends. "Sara, this here's Rice and this tall drink'a water is Sl..." He paused, placing his left hand over his chest and his right hand on the youngster's shoulder. "'Scuse me. I meant to say, this here Delta Slim an' he 'bout the finest piano and harmonica player you ever gon' hear, atcho service."
         Slim rolled his eyes. "Mornin' ma'am."
         Sara nodded, pointing to the side of the house. "There's water and soap for y'all to wash up. Take me a couple'a minutes to get y'all sorted out in the kitchen." She looked at Slim. "After that Mister Delta Slim, maybe we'll find out if you as good as Q say you is."
         Slim ducked his head, smiling. "Yes ma'am. Wouldn't mind if I do."