Moanin’ Sam had the greatest hands Lizbeth had ever seen. She had always wanted to trace them on a placemat with a pencil or make a plaster cast of them or snap a photograph of them with her Poppa’s old Brownie. At the very least, she felt a hankering to touch them, to shake his hand and linger her fingers within his pale sandpaper palm and rubbery, stubby fingers. It was in Moanin’ Sam’s nature, however, not to let people touch the means of his income, just as a concert pianist takes every precaution to keep his porcelain fingers from harm. Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, when he played his Gibson electric on the small corner stage in Mac’s, Lizbeth felt her gaze creeping to the stage to steal a peek at his wonderful hands at work; often she found herself blushing, as though caught peeping at kissing couples, and had to busy herself with wiping the bar or scrubbing dirty glasses in the sink. She never knew if Moanin’ Sam was aware of her affection toward his hands, for he hid his knowledge behind a constant barrier of Ray Ban Wayfarers, an homage to his old friend Mississippi Bill McCrory, who wore them in the studio when he cut his first single and in the coffin when they lay him in his grave.
Outside, a midsummer's dusk bloomed as the sun balanced momentarily on the skyline, its brilliance penetrating the cracked transom over Mac's door, dyeing the four paying customers with a crisp orange hue. Lizbeth stood at the end of the bar, lethargic, and found her gaze again embracing the images made by Moanin’ Sam’s cracked hands as they plucked and strummed and tuned the six strings before cutting into his first set of the evening. Sam had never been a believer in expense and therefore insisted on playing solo, with only a duct-taped Fender amp, a dented microphone, and a hard-soled wingtip to tap out his rhythm on the rickety pine board stage.
By the end of his third set, the joint would be stuffed, raucous and smoky, but it was starting off just like every other Thursday. Gene and Susie had come in after their shifts ended at the Granery Inn and were working hard at getting squiffy enough to be asleep by midnight, and Pops Jessup had arrived to see Joe, the cook, before deciding to stay and catch the performance. Big Dave Wilkins delicately shredded his cocktail napkin into tiny pieces at his usual place at the bar.
As Lizbeth drew another beer for Gene, the wall leading to the front door was made rosy and warm as the door opened and Otis Bakeman’s eldest boy, Clyde, stepped in. Bud Davinger and Ernie White followed closely behind, leaving the flimsy door to bounce closed against its crooked frame. They trailed Clyde to the bar, where he stood a bit closer to Big Dave than etiquette suggested was acceptable, and grinned at Lizbeth the way that old drunks do.
“You know what tonight is, don’t you, Lizbeth?” Clyde’s smile prominently displayed the gap made after his old man had knocked the boy’s mouth with his elbow and sent one of his front teeth ricocheting down his gullet several years ago.
Ernie piped, “It’s Clyde’s birfday.” Together, the three were snickering like teenaged boys watching their first striptease. The odor of gin burned their breath and stung Lizbeth’s nose.
Her eyelids lowered defensively and she adopted the tone often utilized when speaking to her belligerent nephew. “I know, fellas. Everyone knows you’re twenty-one today, Clyde, you been wearing it like a billboard for weeks now. Can’t say I haven’t been expecting you. But you, Bud, you’ve still got a couple of months left, so why don’t you come back later this summer when it’s your turn to celebrate.”
Bud’s smile vanished. “Aww, c’mon, Lizzie, it’s only two months, for Chrissakes.”
Lizbeth loathed being addressed by impromptu monikers like "Lizzie," but she was smart enough not to give them ammunition by letting on. “Sorry, Bud. Can’t serve your friends here until you’re outside. I could lose my job.”
Clyde clamped Bud's shoulder and shoved him toward the door, then turned back and surveyed the display of hard liquor against the wall. “Think I’ll go bourbon for my first official. Make it a big one, warm.” He turned then to stare Bud out the front door. “We’ll catch up with you later, ‘ya pup!”
Lizbeth turned to Ernie, who stood like a disinterested soldier behind Clyde. He stared back with glassine eyes until Clyde’s palm slapped his belly. “Order up, buttercup.”
“Uh, gin.”
“Sure you don’t want to try something different?” she quipped, sniffing the gin already consumed. Ernie shook his head. “Alright, you want a particular kind?”
“Nope. Just lots of it.” Ernie laughed.
“You?” she asked Clyde.
“Yeah. I want the cheap kind,” Clyde said through his oafish grin.
Lizbeth turned to the back wall and picked out the bargain bottles. She poured three fingers-full of bourbon and slung another of gin and presented them to the boys. Clyde giggled, his mouth hanging open. “Can’t you make ‘em any fuller than that? It’s my birthday.”
Lizbeth wanted them out quickly and spoke to them accordingly. “You’re lucky to get anything at all from me, Clyde. You’re drunk already. I shouldn’t be serving you fellas, but it’s your birthday and you’re entitled to at least one.” She realized that she had been speaking up over the music, for Moanin’ Sam had begun his first set. His heel clicked the tempo as his pork link fingers hooked the strings to the tune of Baby, Please Don't Go. Lizbeth caught a quick glimpse of the hands at work and was comforted.
The boys quieted themselves with the liquor and Lizbeth filled another glass for Big Dave, who was intently working on the destruction of his second paper napkin. She placed a shot glass on the counter and filled it with tiny balls of paper that lay scattered about. She knew that if she didn't start cleaning his mess now, it would metastasize into something much greater by the end of the hour.
Four of her regulars entered and found a place at a side table. Jim Dauber winked at her and she filled two pitchers with beer and carried them over with four frosted mugs. Jim offered her a friendly peck on the cheek and she accepted endearingly before returning to the bar.
Clyde was leaning over the bar and spinning his empty glass on the countertop. He was a restless drunk. After a moment of dawdling, he finally stood and said loudly, “High and holy Lord, can’t you ever get any good music played in here?”
Everyone heard and ignored him save Lizbeth. She slapped the bar with her dishrag. “Lower your voice and keep your opinions to yourself, boy! If you don’t like what we’re offering, you can go. Don’t let the door knock you on your ass on the way out.”
Clyde would have none of it. “See here, Lizzie. Me an’ Ernie an’ Bud put together a act. We wrote some songs and wanna get in here sometime to play.”
Lizbeth was, at the very least, amused by his gall. “I didn’t know you played instruments. Where you been practicing?”
Clyde rolled his head around and watched Moanin’ Sam with disdain. “None of us play nothing, except Bud’s Dad’s got a keyboard we figured out how to play a beat. You know, like a drum beat. With the…whaddya call it…those Chinese hat-lookin' things…”
“Cymbals,” Ernie piped in. “Drum cymbals.”
“Yeah. Sounds real pro. And we rap with it. Wrote a couple’a songs, too.” Clyde erected his torso with pride and put his foot on the rail lining the base of the bar, stumbling slightly before his sole found the brass. “Give us a refill, uh?”
“No,” Lizbeth said sternly.
“Then let us sing in here sometime!” Clyde said boisterously as he whacked the bar with his palm.
“Hell no.” Lizbeth put her elbows on the counter and leaned in to them, then brought them closer by speaking softly. “First off, rapping isn’t singing, it’s rapping. Don’t play me that you can sing. Second, when you do get around to rapping in this place, I’ll be long dead and you’ll be Viagra junkies.” She rose and wiped down the bar with the rag. “Nope. No way. Not here. We got musicians in here. Real musicians. We play music. Don’t insult me with your rapping.” Incense choked her last word and she gulped it down.
Ernie stood and slapped Clyde’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Clyde,” he said. “Woman’s gettin’ riled. Don't got appreciation for local talent.”
Clyde shrugged him off and stared at Lizbeth. “You dirty old bitch, you don’t know what you’re saying.” The threat in his voice carried, and Jim Dauber surreptitiously rose from his seat and stood at the ready. Clyde continued, “All you got in here is washed-up old meat that plays nothin’ but songs from the goddamn nineteen-hundreds. Time you came outta this bar and saw what was going on outside of it.”
Clyde stood and pulled Ernie away, then remembered something and dug into Ernie’s back pocket. He withdrew a torn cardboard wallet and removed a handful of dollar bills. “Remember,” he said to Ernie, “you’re buying.” He threw the bills on the floor and pushed Ernie to the door. On their way out, Ernie shouted, “Bitch!”
Jim looked at Lizbeth with concern. She waved him down. “’S alright, Jim, sit down. Boy’s just drunk.” She was suddenly aware that the room was silent except for the usual ground loop humm seeping from Moanin’ Sam’s amplifier. “Go on and play, Sam, no cause to stop.”
Moanin’ Sam did not respond. He looked at the floor and cradled his Gibson. Still the Fender buzzed.
Lizbeth laughed. “C’mon now, Sam. Don’t make it like that. Play me a boogie, like John Lee.”
Moanin’ Sam sat, his head bowed. Lizbeth looked at him, then at Jim and his friends, then at Gene and Susie, and finally at Big Dave and Pops. All were silent.
She approached the stage and hesitated before stepping onto it, knowing well that Moanin’ Sam had never shared a stage with anyone. A slight step up and she was at his side, kneeling, grasping the Wayfarers from his lap and folding them shut. She saw the lines and crags of his face and the yellowed age in his eyes. Then, delicately, as though holding a newborn, she touched his hands and cried.
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