Juke Joint (Part Two: The Big Misunderstanding)
Walking into a party where you don't know anyone is pretty hard. You look around for some sort of familiar face or at least a place to hang out and look comfortable. Susan and I did this after walking into the Tamiko Lounge, but that awkwardness was amplified tenfold upon seeing the looks we were getting from the people inside. As I mentioned in Part One, we were the only white people there at the time and we got visually scrutinized with accompanying sneers and whispers. If you've ever been looked up and down by a 65 year old black woman tipping the scales at somewhere around 3 bills, I know you've never forgotten it. I haven't.
We walked the guantlet until we could find a place on a wall to lean against and wait for the 11:00 show. A big screen monitor was off to one side and had a live feed from the early show. The area we were waiting in was pretty small and dimly lighted. I did see a bar off in a corner and decided to get us a couple of drinks. Sensing the stares from around the restaurant as I walked across the room, I suddenly forgot how to walk. The brain sent the signals to the legs, but they checked out halfway to the bar. I felt like I was treading waist deep through the Everglades and probably looked like a caveman taking his first steps without knuckle assistance.
I made it to the bar and got the beer and Zima from a surly bartender. He never looked at me the whole time he took my order and I thought he put the bottles down on the bar with a little extra authority. I fished around in my wallet and paid the man. Intimidated, I think I tipped him $35.00. I walked back to Susan, retracing my steps through the place. I handed her the Zima and we both exhaled a little. We looked around and took inventory; beautiful ladies of all ages in evening gowns and nattily attired men in fancy suits with many sporting fedoras or other chapeaus . We then turned our attention to each other. Susan was wearing what she considered her dressy black shorts with a nice top and I was wearing Levis, a short sleeved button down casual shirt and tennis shoes. We didn't exactly look like white trash, but we stuck out a bit in this crowd (and not just because of our skin color).
The early show ended and that crowd was let out. Soon, we made our way downstairs into the nightclub. It was a very long, rectangular room with one wall completely mirrored. At one end was the small stage and on the other end was the bar. We came off the last steps and onto the floor of the club and scouted for a table. All of the tables seemed to be occupied, so we took up a couple of barstools along the mirrored wall, halfway between the bar and the stage. Susan commented that it looked like those walls in dance studios with the ballet bar. The interesting thing about having seats in that spot was that we could survey the crowd very easily. More than once, I caught a woman giving us the eye and when she realized that I had seen her, she would pretend that she was fixing her hair in the mirror behind us.
The crowd was filing in and I decided I'd better get us a round of drinks before it got too busy up at the bar. I bellied up to the practically empty bar, smiled and nodded to the barkeep. He looked beyond me and I turned around to see what he was looking at. Nothing there. I turned back and he was way down at the other end of the bar wiping the tap handles. Man, did I get dinked! So I politely wave to get his attention and I know he sees me out of the corner of his eye but won't acknowledge me. A couple of guys (black guys again--everyone's black here--I'll let you know when white folks pop up in this tale just for continuity purposes) sidle up next to me and just stand there. What do you know? Here comes the bartender in record time with a smile and cocktail napkins. Now, I've been in plenty of bars (I know that will shock all of you) and when you've come up to order and the bartender happens to catch your eye before the person that's been waiting for a while, you do the gentlemanly thing and point to that person, letting the bartender know that he should serve them first. This usually gets you a "thank you" raise of the glass or bottle when they get their drink. It's common courtesy among the bobbing and weaving class. But not at the Tamiko Lounge that night. No sir. These guys order up, pay the man, look at me, laugh and walk away. I figure, no big deal, I'm next. I raise my hand and say, "Yeah, hi, uh, can I get...." as the bartender's walking right past me to take the order of three more folks that walked up behind me. It took me about 20 minutes to get two drinks when I was pretty much first in line.
I knew this wasn't just bad service. This was racism. Maybe the people there that night thought it was cute or funny to hassle a white boy, but it got old pretty quick. But what can you do when you're in that spot. Raise a ruckus? I think not. Susan experienced a similar situation while waiting in line for the ladies room. Time after time, ladies would cut in front of her, thinking nothing of it. They probably knew that she wouldn't say anything and took advantage, maybe even having a jolly old laugh about it later. Pretty sad if that's what gets you off.
I took the drinks back to where Susan and I were sitting and we continued to watch the people file in. A table of three white people caught my eye and I realized that I knew one of them as a local blues promoter that I'd had on my radio show. I went over to talk to him for a little while. They'd seen the early show and classified it as a "shack run". I asked him what he meant by that and he told me it's a show by the numbers with the artist (this night being Little Milton of course) pandering to the audience by playing hits, covers and standards. He was disappointed in the early show and had hopes that the late show would be different.
After talking to the promoter for a while, I went back to Susan and we both agreed that we needed another round. I walked over and leaned on the bar, fully expecting to be ignored. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, so I waited patiently for him to make his way towards me. I happened to look over my right shoulder and met the eyes of a rare species; another white guy. He smiled and gave me an enthusiastic, "Hi there!". I nodded with, "How's it goin' man".
After another few minutes of watching the bartender find new ways to ignore me, I finally got our drinks. This time I got a gin and tonic for myself, something I could sip on for the show. I gave the drinks to my sister and headed to the bathroom. I then ran into a listener of mine (for the record: female, white--possibly actual white trash). She was mopping up a huge flood coming from one of the bathrooms. For some reason, she had pitched in to help clean up the place. I hoped this wasn't how she'd paid her way in. I trodded through the half inch of water (God, I hope it was just water) into the bathroom. There I got more of the "what the hell is he doing here" stares. Pretty hard to do your business when you feel like 6 guys that look like the defensive line of the Oakland Raiders are staring at the back of your head.
I walked back over to Susan at our barstools on the wall and she handed me my gin and tonic. We talked for a while and the white guy I saw at the bar earlier came over and took up a barstool next to us. He had two drinks.
Huh, double fisted drinker, I thought.
But then he sidled over past Susan to me and asked, "Do you drink gin?", his voice a little sing-song.
I told him, "Uh, well, yeah. This is a gin and tonic right here", pointing at my glass.
"Oh, well because the bartender must have misunderstood me and gave me this gin drink as well as my own", he replied. "If you want it, you can have it". This time I thought I detected a little lisp.
"Umm, okay. Yeah, sure", I said. I took the glass from him (hey, free booze!) and he gave me a really big smile. Everything went into slow motion as my brain screamed at me, "YOU DUMBASS! HE'S HITTING ON YOU!" I put the glass on the bar rail behind me and looked at Susan, a little numb and with a shocked half-smile. I looked back at the guy and mumbled, "uh, thanks".
Susan then leaned over to me with a huge grin and whispered, "Do you want me to pretend I'm your girlfriend and get rid of him?"
Damn.
She got me good. Here I thought I was doing a "big brother" thing earlier in the night at Club Fred and she was able to turn it around on me. Pretty humiliating for me, but then again, how was she supposed to feel when this guy hit on me with her sitting right there between us? Or wait a minute; does that mean that I just looked so gay that he didn't even think for a second that Susan and I could be a couple?
Damn.
I guess I should be flattered, but that was the wierdest damn place I've ever been hit on by either sex. At least I got a free drink out of the deal.
As for the show, it was another "shack run". To me, it sounded more like a '70s R&B show than a true blues show. Little Milton's backup band looked absolutely bored out of their skulls the whole night. And for someone known for guitar playing, he only busted out the instrument once, late in the show and ran through some scales as if he'd invented them. The audience loved it, of course and I smiled as the women in the crowd swooned upon hearing these most basic notes.
At the end of the show, we said good-bye to my new friend but I stayed real close to Susan on the way out.
I'm such a tease.
We walked the guantlet until we could find a place on a wall to lean against and wait for the 11:00 show. A big screen monitor was off to one side and had a live feed from the early show. The area we were waiting in was pretty small and dimly lighted. I did see a bar off in a corner and decided to get us a couple of drinks. Sensing the stares from around the restaurant as I walked across the room, I suddenly forgot how to walk. The brain sent the signals to the legs, but they checked out halfway to the bar. I felt like I was treading waist deep through the Everglades and probably looked like a caveman taking his first steps without knuckle assistance.
I made it to the bar and got the beer and Zima from a surly bartender. He never looked at me the whole time he took my order and I thought he put the bottles down on the bar with a little extra authority. I fished around in my wallet and paid the man. Intimidated, I think I tipped him $35.00. I walked back to Susan, retracing my steps through the place. I handed her the Zima and we both exhaled a little. We looked around and took inventory; beautiful ladies of all ages in evening gowns and nattily attired men in fancy suits with many sporting fedoras or other chapeaus . We then turned our attention to each other. Susan was wearing what she considered her dressy black shorts with a nice top and I was wearing Levis, a short sleeved button down casual shirt and tennis shoes. We didn't exactly look like white trash, but we stuck out a bit in this crowd (and not just because of our skin color).
The early show ended and that crowd was let out. Soon, we made our way downstairs into the nightclub. It was a very long, rectangular room with one wall completely mirrored. At one end was the small stage and on the other end was the bar. We came off the last steps and onto the floor of the club and scouted for a table. All of the tables seemed to be occupied, so we took up a couple of barstools along the mirrored wall, halfway between the bar and the stage. Susan commented that it looked like those walls in dance studios with the ballet bar. The interesting thing about having seats in that spot was that we could survey the crowd very easily. More than once, I caught a woman giving us the eye and when she realized that I had seen her, she would pretend that she was fixing her hair in the mirror behind us.
The crowd was filing in and I decided I'd better get us a round of drinks before it got too busy up at the bar. I bellied up to the practically empty bar, smiled and nodded to the barkeep. He looked beyond me and I turned around to see what he was looking at. Nothing there. I turned back and he was way down at the other end of the bar wiping the tap handles. Man, did I get dinked! So I politely wave to get his attention and I know he sees me out of the corner of his eye but won't acknowledge me. A couple of guys (black guys again--everyone's black here--I'll let you know when white folks pop up in this tale just for continuity purposes) sidle up next to me and just stand there. What do you know? Here comes the bartender in record time with a smile and cocktail napkins. Now, I've been in plenty of bars (I know that will shock all of you) and when you've come up to order and the bartender happens to catch your eye before the person that's been waiting for a while, you do the gentlemanly thing and point to that person, letting the bartender know that he should serve them first. This usually gets you a "thank you" raise of the glass or bottle when they get their drink. It's common courtesy among the bobbing and weaving class. But not at the Tamiko Lounge that night. No sir. These guys order up, pay the man, look at me, laugh and walk away. I figure, no big deal, I'm next. I raise my hand and say, "Yeah, hi, uh, can I get...." as the bartender's walking right past me to take the order of three more folks that walked up behind me. It took me about 20 minutes to get two drinks when I was pretty much first in line.
I knew this wasn't just bad service. This was racism. Maybe the people there that night thought it was cute or funny to hassle a white boy, but it got old pretty quick. But what can you do when you're in that spot. Raise a ruckus? I think not. Susan experienced a similar situation while waiting in line for the ladies room. Time after time, ladies would cut in front of her, thinking nothing of it. They probably knew that she wouldn't say anything and took advantage, maybe even having a jolly old laugh about it later. Pretty sad if that's what gets you off.
I took the drinks back to where Susan and I were sitting and we continued to watch the people file in. A table of three white people caught my eye and I realized that I knew one of them as a local blues promoter that I'd had on my radio show. I went over to talk to him for a little while. They'd seen the early show and classified it as a "shack run". I asked him what he meant by that and he told me it's a show by the numbers with the artist (this night being Little Milton of course) pandering to the audience by playing hits, covers and standards. He was disappointed in the early show and had hopes that the late show would be different.
After talking to the promoter for a while, I went back to Susan and we both agreed that we needed another round. I walked over and leaned on the bar, fully expecting to be ignored. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, so I waited patiently for him to make his way towards me. I happened to look over my right shoulder and met the eyes of a rare species; another white guy. He smiled and gave me an enthusiastic, "Hi there!". I nodded with, "How's it goin' man".
After another few minutes of watching the bartender find new ways to ignore me, I finally got our drinks. This time I got a gin and tonic for myself, something I could sip on for the show. I gave the drinks to my sister and headed to the bathroom. I then ran into a listener of mine (for the record: female, white--possibly actual white trash). She was mopping up a huge flood coming from one of the bathrooms. For some reason, she had pitched in to help clean up the place. I hoped this wasn't how she'd paid her way in. I trodded through the half inch of water (God, I hope it was just water) into the bathroom. There I got more of the "what the hell is he doing here" stares. Pretty hard to do your business when you feel like 6 guys that look like the defensive line of the Oakland Raiders are staring at the back of your head.
I walked back over to Susan at our barstools on the wall and she handed me my gin and tonic. We talked for a while and the white guy I saw at the bar earlier came over and took up a barstool next to us. He had two drinks.
Huh, double fisted drinker, I thought.
But then he sidled over past Susan to me and asked, "Do you drink gin?", his voice a little sing-song.
I told him, "Uh, well, yeah. This is a gin and tonic right here", pointing at my glass.
"Oh, well because the bartender must have misunderstood me and gave me this gin drink as well as my own", he replied. "If you want it, you can have it". This time I thought I detected a little lisp.
"Umm, okay. Yeah, sure", I said. I took the glass from him (hey, free booze!) and he gave me a really big smile. Everything went into slow motion as my brain screamed at me, "YOU DUMBASS! HE'S HITTING ON YOU!" I put the glass on the bar rail behind me and looked at Susan, a little numb and with a shocked half-smile. I looked back at the guy and mumbled, "uh, thanks".
Susan then leaned over to me with a huge grin and whispered, "Do you want me to pretend I'm your girlfriend and get rid of him?"
Damn.
She got me good. Here I thought I was doing a "big brother" thing earlier in the night at Club Fred and she was able to turn it around on me. Pretty humiliating for me, but then again, how was she supposed to feel when this guy hit on me with her sitting right there between us? Or wait a minute; does that mean that I just looked so gay that he didn't even think for a second that Susan and I could be a couple?
Damn.
I guess I should be flattered, but that was the wierdest damn place I've ever been hit on by either sex. At least I got a free drink out of the deal.
As for the show, it was another "shack run". To me, it sounded more like a '70s R&B show than a true blues show. Little Milton's backup band looked absolutely bored out of their skulls the whole night. And for someone known for guitar playing, he only busted out the instrument once, late in the show and ran through some scales as if he'd invented them. The audience loved it, of course and I smiled as the women in the crowd swooned upon hearing these most basic notes.
At the end of the show, we said good-bye to my new friend but I stayed real close to Susan on the way out.
I'm such a tease.
posted by Tony at 7:28 PM
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