When The World Stops Spinning: Poetry & Short Stories

The Sweet Tune

** I saw a black and white photo set in the 1970s-1980s of two black men-- one was playing the guitar while the other man sat behind the guitar player; this is based off of that photo.

The sky had a strange color to it on that Tuesday afternoon. Billy, a tall lopsided young man, was carrying his most valuable gift, his late father’s guitar, gently on his back. Billy’ s right hand man, Jal, was alongside Billy, babbling about his time at the nightclub in the main city.

Unlike Billy, Jal had a bounce in his step while Billy glided. Jal was lanky in his 6 feet height; Billy was more muscular because he was a butler in a white neighborhood about a mile from the black ghettos. Billy and Jal were walking through downtown, where the two segregated neighborhoods merged, looking for a good spot for Billy to make a few extra dollars. Jal slapped his palm onto Billy’s shoulder and pointed with his other hand towards a "BLACKS ONLY" park. Billy shook his pal’ s hand off and shook his head; Billy wanted to see the strange clouds from the "WHITES ONLY" park. Billy fixed the guitar on his shoulder and continued down the side of the road.

"Billy, man, you shur ’bout dis?" Jal questioned, Billy felt Jal’ s doubt.

Billy stopped walking, "Of course," then continued walking down to an empty bench on the corner of "WHITES ONLY" territory.

Billy pulled his guitar over his head and he tuned it as Jal looked around making sure the fedz weren’t near by. Jal jumped when Billy jabbed him in Jal’ s side.

Billy pulled a toothy grin across his face, "My brotha’...relax. Sit down."

Jal did as he was told. As Jal took a seat behind Billy, Jal’ s plain white button up shirt crunched up and tightened against Jal’ s chest. Feeling uncomfortable, he pulled his tucked in shirt out and unbuttoned a few buttons from the bottom, attempting to look cool and collected like his pal.

Billy took in a deep breath before he let out a sweet tune signmontaniacly as he began to strum a sweet tune.

"MMM...MMM...MMMM," Jal hummed to the tune Billy played.

One tune, two tunes, three tunes, but Billy only made two dollars, it wasn’t enough to by Tammy her birthday gift. A man and women walking by Billy’ s little show spoke silently to each other; the man thought it was pitiful that the negroes were begging for his hard earned money but his wife thought it was understandable since they weren’t paid much in the first place.

Billy cleared his throat and allowed his mind and soul to dance on the strings of his guitar-- he began to play Tammy’ s song. Jal bellowed when he saw a few white folks gathered in front of their little show. Couples and little kids walked up to Billy’ s hollow guitar case and dropped silver coins and paper bills into it. Billy simply grinned, he clearly knew that he had reached his goal.

"Get outa’ this park," a round police officer with his hitting stick in hand, ready to use force, "niggers ain’t allowed hera’."

The police officer and his partner began to push and yell at the gathered crowd to go on with their day. Jal was ready to bolt but he knew that he couldn’t leave his pal behind.

Billy stopped playing his sweet tune, "Com’on officsa’, we mean no harm."

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Billy and Jal stood holding their bruised ribs, rubbing their heads, and blinking back tears that threatened to fall.

"They got us good..." Jal said before letting out a cough.

"Man, I think hea’ broke ya rib, Jal," Billy released his side and tried to make Jal sit on the prison’s cold rock seats on the side. They both took a seat.