Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty-seven

Twenty minutes later, Kate and I were in a cab heading southwest to what's affectionately know as the "Black South," or more commonly, the Fish Market.

Kabowski (a perfect name for a cabby, by the way) couldn't understand why we were headed in this direction, and frankly, he wanted nothing to do with it.

"You are sure with the direction?" he asked for the third time within the first five minutes of our ride.

"Positive."

"I won't wait," he warned.

"Don't worry, I won't ask you to."

"Did you say Kedzie and Jackson?" Kate asked with concern in her nighttime timbre.

"Not you too?"

Conventional wisdom tells one to stay away from the intersection of Kedzie and Jackson. Which is good.

There are no ads, no flyers, no tickets, and no cover charge, but every night on the corner of Kedzie and Jackson, there's a little place called the Fish Market, named for the Delta Fish Market, which is the landmark for this Mecca of blues.

No one is really sure how the Fish Market got started, and frankly, no one's asking, but if you're looking for a story or two, or three, Blind Willy Simms, who has been selling pig's ears, polish sausage, and his special blend of corn mash whiskey for forty years, is the only one who'll give you one.

The thing you have to know about Blind Willy is that he isn't really blind, but he won't tell you that. The big black glasses and cane that sit by him are only props for that matter. You either have to know he's not blind going in, or find out the hard way.

Ben told me the story of a young white guy (Ben always divided the world into black guys and white guys), who, thinking Blind Willy was actually blind, grabbed a polish sausage and made like he was putting money in the tin, but just sort of pushed the money around. Blind Willy let the guy think he got away with it for the five seconds it took him to grab his oak cane and whap the young white guy on the back of his neck so hard, the polish sausage, which was half in, flew out of his mouth about forty feet.

Blind Willy says the advantage of being blind is people tell him the truth. And even though most people know by now that he's not blind, the illusion disarms them.

"People don't bullshit a blind man," Blind Willy says. "There's something about the mystery of being anonymous. It's like being in confession, that kind of thing."

As we got closer to the Fish Market, I rolled down my window to let the gentle night air mixed with the sweet sounds of Horace Hayes waft into the cab.

"Ya hear that?" I said. "That's the church of Saturday night. My religion. Real life. Therapy. Spirituality. Enlightenment. Whatever your version of Elysium."

"My version of what?" Kate said.

With makeshift spotlights hanging from telephone polls and car headlights shining on the stage, which was made up of nothing more than used tires and plywood planks, Horace Hayes sang to about a dozen people about his daddy beatin' on his mamma until a kitchen knife found its way to putting an end to the conflict.

"You can pull up right here," I said.

"Sam, what if we just went back to your place and listened to some CDs?"

"Tempting thought, but we're already here."

Feeling guilty, I handed Kabowski twenty-five bucks for a fifteen-dollar fare. He took the money with no hesitation and unlocked the doors.

"How will we get back, Sam?"

"I guess this is the chickenshit side of you."

"Damn right it is."

Moments define life. And as I reached for her hand, which was cold from the night air, she took mine with an eager yet soft embrace. It was at that point I felt our relationship transform.

"So, really. How do we get back?"