was dead, but Henry wasn’t going to tell Eddie about what the
sheriff had said in that regard. Henry
reckoned Eddie’d been hurt enough.
Across the room, Carl’s wife was offering her condolences to
Mrs. Teasdale. Carl had finally stopped
crying but he was clinging like a vine to the fear that he would be exposed at
any minute. He stood at his wife’s side
with puffy red eyes and a nervous twitch.
Eddie looked at the floor, then at his father-in-law. “Mr. Teasdale, I’ve been giving it some
thought and I decided I can’t stay here.” Henry looked like he might have expected this. “I appreciate your job offer but you know
I’ve been wanting to get my music career going and, well, maybe this is God’s
way of telling me it’s time to move to Nashville and get serious about it.”
Mr. Teasdale nodded. “Maybe you’re right, son. Maybe
you’re right.”
11.
Blacks were to Nashville
what Charley Pride and Stoney Edwards were to country music — rare, but there
was no sense denying they existed. The
geographic center for Nashville’s
relatively modest black population revolved around a series of presidentially
named roads — Van Buren, Garfield, Monroe, and Harrison. And, as was the case in many southern cities,
one of Nashville’s favorite
restaurants was located in this area, on a rough cut of asphalt just off
Jefferson
Street .
The sign out front said ‘Estella’s Shrimp Joint’ but to hear
the locals say it, you’d have thought it was ‘Estella’s Swimp Jernt.’ Estella’s had been open for thirty years,
serving the best fried shrimp plate in the state of Tennessee,
mostly after midnight . Estella’s was the place to go in Nashville
when everybody else stopped serving. It
was a beacon in the darkness for the city’s night crawlers — black and white
alike — and for everybody who worked the late shift and who wanted a drink
after the statutes said it was illegal to get one. In fact, after hours on any given night of
the week you were likely to find at least one state legislator washing down his
fried shrimp with a pint of bourbon.
Estella’s was two deluxe mobile homes pushed together side
by side on a raised foundation. The
dimly lit interior was worn and friendly with red Naugahyde booths, four-top
tables, and a long service counter with soda-shop seats. The floor was tired tan linoleum flecked with
red. Pale blue shag carpet covered the
lower half of the walls. Above that was
a sort of brown fabric-corded wallpaper which gave the place terrific
acoustics. In the corner by the door was
a jukebox with an old hand-lettered sign reading, ‘three selections for fity
cent.’ Estella’s was the only place in
town where you were liable to hear the likes of La Vern Baker, Ivory Joe
Hunter, Solomon Burke, or King Curtis. The place was an R&B clearing in a pedal steel jungle.
Otis and Estella Frazier were the sole proprietors. Estella was somewhere in her sixties; she
wouldn’t say exactly where. She had
mostly gray hair and was a little short for her hundred and eighty pounds. A few years ago Estella had a heart attack,
“but it was jes a small one,” she said. They ran her through a battery of tests. When it was all over her doctor told her she had to stop smoking, stop
eating fried food three times a day, and start getting some sort of
exercise. Estella swore she would change
her ways, but soon decided the doctor was overreacting.
Estella had long known she’d never be rich, so she decided she’d
be comfortable instead. She wore loose
fitting blue jeans and a baggy old pullover shirt with long sleeves, always
topped with a knee-length white apron. A
pair of reading glasses dangled from a string around her neck, but she used
them only while at the cash register. Estella took orders, ran the register, and went table-to-table chatting
up the clientele no matter if they wore corn-rows
sheriff had said in that regard. Henry
reckoned Eddie’d been hurt enough.
Across the room, Carl’s wife was offering her condolences to
Mrs. Teasdale. Carl had finally stopped
crying but he was clinging like a vine to the fear that he would be exposed at
any minute. He stood at his wife’s side
with puffy red eyes and a nervous twitch.
Eddie looked at the floor, then at his father-in-law. “Mr. Teasdale, I’ve been giving it some
thought and I decided I can’t stay here.” Henry looked like he might have expected this. “I appreciate your job offer but you know
I’ve been wanting to get my music career going and, well, maybe this is God’s
way of telling me it’s time to move to Nashville and get serious about it.”
Mr. Teasdale nodded. “Maybe you’re right, son. Maybe
you’re right.”
11.
Blacks were to Nashville
what Charley Pride and Stoney Edwards were to country music — rare, but there
was no sense denying they existed. The
geographic center for Nashville’s
relatively modest black population revolved around a series of presidentially
named roads — Van Buren, Garfield, Monroe, and Harrison. And, as was the case in many southern cities,
one of Nashville’s favorite
restaurants was located in this area, on a rough cut of asphalt just off
Jefferson
Street .
The sign out front said ‘Estella’s Shrimp Joint’ but to hear
the locals say it, you’d have thought it was ‘Estella’s Swimp Jernt.’ Estella’s had been open for thirty years,
serving the best fried shrimp plate in the state of Tennessee,
mostly after midnight . Estella’s was the place to go in Nashville
when everybody else stopped serving. It
was a beacon in the darkness for the city’s night crawlers — black and white
alike — and for everybody who worked the late shift and who wanted a drink
after the statutes said it was illegal to get one. In fact, after hours on any given night of
the week you were likely to find at least one state legislator washing down his
fried shrimp with a pint of bourbon.
Estella’s was two deluxe mobile homes pushed together side
by side on a raised foundation. The
dimly lit interior was worn and friendly with red Naugahyde booths, four-top
tables, and a long service counter with soda-shop seats. The floor was tired tan linoleum flecked with
red. Pale blue shag carpet covered the
lower half of the walls. Above that was
a sort of brown fabric-corded wallpaper which gave the place terrific
acoustics. In the corner by the door was
a jukebox with an old hand-lettered sign reading, ‘three selections for fity
cent.’ Estella’s was the only place in
town where you were liable to hear the likes of La Vern Baker, Ivory Joe
Hunter, Solomon Burke, or King Curtis. The place was an R&B clearing in a pedal steel jungle.
Otis and Estella Frazier were the sole proprietors. Estella was somewhere in her sixties; she
wouldn’t say exactly where. She had
mostly gray hair and was a little short for her hundred and eighty pounds. A few years ago Estella had a heart attack,
“but it was jes a small one,” she said. They ran her through a battery of tests. When it was all over her doctor told her she had to stop smoking, stop
eating fried food three times a day, and start getting some sort of
exercise. Estella swore she would change
her ways, but soon decided the doctor was overreacting.
Estella had long known she’d never be rich, so she decided she’d
be comfortable instead. She wore loose
fitting blue jeans and a baggy old pullover shirt with long sleeves, always
topped with a knee-length white apron. A
pair of reading glasses dangled from a string around her neck, but she used
them only while at the cash register. Estella took orders, ran the register, and went table-to-table chatting
up the clientele no matter if they wore corn-rows
Similar Books
