west. And of course Ed had immediately flashed on his legs being splayed in just such directions by Elwood. The two Adonises he’d noticed in the row behind him—one dark-haired and the other blond—weren’t helping either. Shit, the place was crawling with porn stars.
Would Elwood’s set come next? Ed now wondered nervously how the crowd would respond to him. Ed himself didn’t know what to make of Elwood’s vigorous attacks on the kitchen piano after dinner, accompanied by shouted, off-the-wall lyrics, if you could call them that. The lyrics, he had noticed, often reflected some incident of the day.
“I ax for cash, but she say check ! Heck wit’ dat check! Check dat check! Check dat check!” he had growled into his music one night after dinner. This was on the day they had done old lady Simmons’s camellias. That raunchy old lady had sat herself down on her porch and openly devoured Elwood with her eyes as they worked. But at the end Rita had told Elwood she didn’t have the cash, would he please take a check.
The crowd cheered as the legs-in-the-east-west vocalist and her combo departed the “stage,” jury-rigged from—what? Ed wondered—pallets? Then suddenly Elwood leapt up on it. “Wailin’ Elwood! Whoo-hoo !” someone yelled, and the crowd took up the chant. “Wailin’ Elwood the Tree Man! El- wood ! El- wood ! El- wood !”
Ed flashed on Elwood’s morning wood, which he had glimpsed just yesterday. Then came a fifteen-minute rape of the keys, Elwood style. Ed listened critically, and he had to admit there was power and a strange beauty to his playing. He waited for the lyrics.
“You done slime my okra!” Elwood shouted.
Oh Mother Cabrini, he’s singing about me! Last night, in an effort to be helpful, Ed had boiled a batch of okra, a new vegetable to him, just like he used to boil green beans in Ohio. After five minutes, Ed had drained and salted them, splashed a little vinegar on them, and left them in a rectangular glass dish. Thirty minutes later, Ed noticed that they swam in a deep pool of what looked like saliva. He had forked one and watched in dismay as a trail of clear goo slid off the pod.
“You done slime my okra!” yelled the ragged voice again.
“ You done slime my okra !” Call-and-response from the crowd.
“You done slime my okra, an’ you don’t eben care.”
“ An’ you don’t eben care !”
Ed’s mind raced. From the raunchy laughs in the crowd, he knew this was sexual innuendo. What was Elwood’s okra? His prick? Okra was phallic in a way. And slime was spit? Was Elwood saying that he wanted Ed to suck his cock? No problem there.
“So I gonna slime your gumbo.”
From the row behind Ed: “Slime my jum -bo! Haw! Haw!” That certainly wasn’t helping.
Shit, thought Ed. What is my gumbo? And does Elwood really want to slime it?
“Gonna slime your gumbo!”
“ Gonna slime your gumbo !”
“Gonna slime your gumbo, by the light of the slimy moon!” Elwood pounded the piano.
“ By the light of the slimy moon !”
Ed tried to connect the dots. Moon, moon. As in mooning someone? Shit! What is he telling me?
Elwood left the stage to cheers.
“Honoria,” said Rita, in the row of folding chairs behind her Abbott boys. “Was that supposed to be good?”
“Well, Rita, it was powerful in its way.”
Rita sighed. “I think I’ve lived too long.”
“Amen, Miz Rita,” said Doodie, owner of Gretna Best Hardware. He sat between the two women. “Gimme Fats Waller any day.”
In the event, whatever gumbo slime meant, Elwood didn’t make gumbo that night. He made spaghetti with a sauce of reduced oyster liquor and green onions topped with fried oysters. Ed ate it with appreciation but nervously. Would his gumbo be slimed?
“I liked your set, Elwood,” said Ed after dinner.
Elwood grunted and headed for bed. “Night.”
Chapter 8
I N RETROSPECT , Flip realized his reservations about Dutch had been mostly groundless. Yes, Dutch
Would Elwood’s set come next? Ed now wondered nervously how the crowd would respond to him. Ed himself didn’t know what to make of Elwood’s vigorous attacks on the kitchen piano after dinner, accompanied by shouted, off-the-wall lyrics, if you could call them that. The lyrics, he had noticed, often reflected some incident of the day.
“I ax for cash, but she say check ! Heck wit’ dat check! Check dat check! Check dat check!” he had growled into his music one night after dinner. This was on the day they had done old lady Simmons’s camellias. That raunchy old lady had sat herself down on her porch and openly devoured Elwood with her eyes as they worked. But at the end Rita had told Elwood she didn’t have the cash, would he please take a check.
The crowd cheered as the legs-in-the-east-west vocalist and her combo departed the “stage,” jury-rigged from—what? Ed wondered—pallets? Then suddenly Elwood leapt up on it. “Wailin’ Elwood! Whoo-hoo !” someone yelled, and the crowd took up the chant. “Wailin’ Elwood the Tree Man! El- wood ! El- wood ! El- wood !”
Ed flashed on Elwood’s morning wood, which he had glimpsed just yesterday. Then came a fifteen-minute rape of the keys, Elwood style. Ed listened critically, and he had to admit there was power and a strange beauty to his playing. He waited for the lyrics.
“You done slime my okra!” Elwood shouted.
Oh Mother Cabrini, he’s singing about me! Last night, in an effort to be helpful, Ed had boiled a batch of okra, a new vegetable to him, just like he used to boil green beans in Ohio. After five minutes, Ed had drained and salted them, splashed a little vinegar on them, and left them in a rectangular glass dish. Thirty minutes later, Ed noticed that they swam in a deep pool of what looked like saliva. He had forked one and watched in dismay as a trail of clear goo slid off the pod.
“You done slime my okra!” yelled the ragged voice again.
“ You done slime my okra !” Call-and-response from the crowd.
“You done slime my okra, an’ you don’t eben care.”
“ An’ you don’t eben care !”
Ed’s mind raced. From the raunchy laughs in the crowd, he knew this was sexual innuendo. What was Elwood’s okra? His prick? Okra was phallic in a way. And slime was spit? Was Elwood saying that he wanted Ed to suck his cock? No problem there.
“So I gonna slime your gumbo.”
From the row behind Ed: “Slime my jum -bo! Haw! Haw!” That certainly wasn’t helping.
Shit, thought Ed. What is my gumbo? And does Elwood really want to slime it?
“Gonna slime your gumbo!”
“ Gonna slime your gumbo !”
“Gonna slime your gumbo, by the light of the slimy moon!” Elwood pounded the piano.
“ By the light of the slimy moon !”
Ed tried to connect the dots. Moon, moon. As in mooning someone? Shit! What is he telling me?
Elwood left the stage to cheers.
“Honoria,” said Rita, in the row of folding chairs behind her Abbott boys. “Was that supposed to be good?”
“Well, Rita, it was powerful in its way.”
Rita sighed. “I think I’ve lived too long.”
“Amen, Miz Rita,” said Doodie, owner of Gretna Best Hardware. He sat between the two women. “Gimme Fats Waller any day.”
In the event, whatever gumbo slime meant, Elwood didn’t make gumbo that night. He made spaghetti with a sauce of reduced oyster liquor and green onions topped with fried oysters. Ed ate it with appreciation but nervously. Would his gumbo be slimed?
“I liked your set, Elwood,” said Ed after dinner.
Elwood grunted and headed for bed. “Night.”
Chapter 8
I N RETROSPECT , Flip realized his reservations about Dutch had been mostly groundless. Yes, Dutch
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