TumbleDweeeb

“Fugg that asshole,  I can give 2 rats asses if he likes me or not. I’ll still record my music… Rockabilly music was bred into my blood, Mugsy.” Billy Bones mumbled as he reared back and whipped his fishing pole forward. The fishing line and bobber popped out and up with a slow drop, like a baseball flying towards center field. A faint *Bloop* was the sound the bobber made as it hit the surface of the water about 15 yards of the bank.

Billy was born in 1935 and raised in a small town known as Buzzard Roost. A swampy area off the banks of the Tennessee river, in North West Alabama. Billy was raised with his best friend, Mugsy. They lived just one street over, on the edge of the train tracks which was also called the Bottoms, but in whole truth… both sides was ghetto. Billys Irish decent showed through by his auburn orange hair, the same color as a glowing fire pit, and his blood was as fierce as a hungry pittbull willing to fight the wolf for some meat. Talk about fighting Irish, nobody wanted to fuck with Billy Bones.

“Now, dont let that man jive you like that Billy, I know you didnt steal them songs words. There is many of songs about that same topic. Lesta’s jus jealous cause you’re good at it, can write y’r songs on the same level as he can and write n’ produce them more abundantly than e’can.” Said Mugsy, as he was kneeling down baiting his fish hook.

Mugsy, Billy’s best friend since toddler age. His mother passed of pneumonia back in ’39. You know what folks say when tragedy strikes… it strikes unexpectedly, leaving abrupt chaos, sadness and dispare in its path. Billy’s mother put up room & board to take care of him and they’ve not been apart since the age of 4 years old, she raised him as her own.

Billy & Mugsys mothers was very close, they both worked for Koty Smith, the owner of the plantation farm outside of Buzzard Roost. The Buzzard Roost community didn’t mind or pay attention much to the segregation laws, they just knew what to say when authorities or the white gowns came marching through town, for each protected each other… protect and protect alike.

Musgsy, a tall skinny black man, early 20s and around 7 feet tall, was born in the swamps off the Bottoms out side of Buzzard Roost. Mugsy had been the best baseball player in the county from 1948 to 1954 and at age 15, Mugsy topped all of north Alabamas baseball leagues. Im talking racial chart topping, best in both leagues & just as good as Jackie Robinson but, We all know that there are those who are better than the pros but never get the chance to get out of what they was born in. Mugsy… he was one of those people, and Billy too.

“I heard Lyster on WM.W.O.P. yesterday Billy, I guess it was a live broadcast of a show or sumpthin.” Mugsy said as he reeled in his fishing line. “Damned fish stole my worm again, this the third time in a row. Damn bish dodgin, the hook” Mugsy said as he reached for the cardboard box that contained the massive nightcrawlers, so that he could place another on his hook.

“Oh yea? What was ‘bad news’ Lyster saying on the radio or was he just singing live?” Billy asked as he pulled his pole up swiftly, hooking the fish and began tugging and reeling it towards the bank. “I believe I got the culprit, he ain’t stealing no more of y’r worms Mugs, not no mo.”

“Its quite odd Billy.” “What he done on the radio.” Mugsy said as he casted his line towards the cat tails on his left. “He started singing Pretty Cadillac, got about 2 sentences in to it and then there was clatter, like the microphone fell over, banged a couple of times and then there was a commotion like arguing. Right after that it sounded like the microphone hit a wall and then there was some crying.” Mugsy said as he slightly tugged on his line.

“Maybe he got an asskicking for talking shit. Maybe an asskicking fo’stealin’ somebody’s song.” Billy laughed as he placed the pan sized catfish he caught in the bucket on the bank. “I dont like that man at’tall, I dont know what it is about him but, something tells me to steer clear of em, bad news from head to toe.”

“I dont know Billy.” Mugsy said “After the commotion he went on to talking about moonlighters like it’s a bad thing to work and do a song. Like a musicians money gotta come straight out the blues bars & honky tong taverns… an it was offensive material… even offended me and probably more than half of his listeners. Some shit about being stuck in mud. I know if I ever come across someone stuck in mud, I’d try to help them out but, he talked shit about it. Then he mentioned Johnny Gramo and said he was tired of local boys recycling their works and stealing lyrics?” Mugsy said as he reached over to the sleeve of his shirt pulling out a pack of Luckies “And then Billy… he began saying some shit like Muddy Waters was going to be at WMW.O.P. radio, and get this… Chess Records was going to be in town looking for new talent. Selling tickets to a record of gold for only 10 dollars each, I’mma guess’n he’s getting messages like Bobby Day … hearing all the little birdies tweetin in a rundown ol’ shithouse … What would Muddy be doing way out here in these swamps when he could find true talent near West Memphis, Chicago an New Orleans? In the delta, not the edge of the delta?” Mugsy said as he placed the lucky to his lips, licking the tip, placing it in his mouth and striking his match on the book. “Just, double-talking jive shit man. Like he’s done did it, and done did it all.” He mumbled as he inhaled the filter-less cigarette.

Billy laughed loudly for a minute or so and responded back with “Gaslighters… they throw water because they truely love to put others flames out, narcissists fan their own fires and only fan those flames that fan them back. Most of ’em only think one way and the company they keep are all like minded and all think the same way. A whole group of bad news if you ask me. I dont know anyone that even owns one of Lesta’s records, an’ I have a lot of friends and know a lot of people. Fame includes outside of the local area. In my opinion …he’s just a local celebrity, and anybody can be a local celebrity. He’s not done nothing that nobody else hasn’t done.” “Just a double talkin’ jive… stuck in the mud… moonlightin’… stereotypin’… fuggin’narcissistic ass gaslighter! Stay clear of the big hole under the shithouse, manure lurks below, if ya fall in… might as well say you gettin’ mixed in the shit pot.” Billy said as he sat up from the bank of the river.

“Billy” Mugsy said “Stay committed to your personal growth, no matter how many motherfucka’s are kicking your shins wanting to watch you crawl… let’em make they wishes and pray for y’r downfall! The way I see it is; go on, keep moving and let’em try to unravel you. But there’s not much to unravel specially when it’s all original. The more shit they talkin’ ..is on them about showin’ everybody they true selves, and the deceit they made of. A hata’s goin’a hate & manipulate, while the truest of talent falls straight out the crack of your ass space, day to day… minute by minute.” Mugsy then gave a tremendous jerk on his fishing pole pulling the line, bobber and all straight out of the water, landing in the cottonwood tree about 10 feet behind him. “Well… son… of a.. warted witch” he said with a slight hint of anger & disappointment as he looked back at the line tangled around the hollowed out, branch that sprawled above him.