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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 20: Brown 288
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 90
“I guess it’s time to go earn our dollar,” Derek said. They had agreed to eat after they played, as it was more difficult to play wind instruments with scraps of food in your teeth, and anyway he thought they should earn their lunch before they ate it. They had worked up to half a dozen songs, including Saints and the trio from Stars and Stripes, and hoped that would be enough. They picked up their instrument cases and headed up the road. Miss (or was it Missus? Derek wasn’t sure what “Miz” meant around here, and anyway now that he thought about it she hadn’t used the word) Johnson had told them it was straight up the road less than a mile, and if they reached a railroad crossing they had gone too far.
“A dollar,” Vashti repeated. “Is that a lot?”
“I wish I knew. I’m not even sure who I could ask, or how to phrase the question.”
“Isn’t this world like yours?”
“Like it, yes,” he said, “but like it was a hundred years ago. In my world, money has been losing its value--that’s the way the people who study economics put it. What it means is that everything has been getting more expensive. Inflation is what they call it.”
“Like breathing?”
“I guess kind of. Anyway, I gather that when my parents were kids they could buy something called penny candy, because it cost a penny--one cent. By the time I could buy candy, the best you could do was a nickel--five times as much. But a dollar is better than nothing at all, and we get lunch out of it--although I have absolutely no idea what ‘on dwee’ sausage is, Miss Johnson seemed to think it was something good.”
They arrived and stepped inside, and were greeted by a reasonably well-dressed man holding what Derek took to be a menu. “May I help you?” he asked in that same southern drawl Hannah Johnson had used.
“Um--Miss Johnson--”
Before he got further, she came bustling across the room. “There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Well, ma’am, we decided it would be better to eat after we played. Where do you want us?”
“Henri,” she said to the man who was apparently the maitre’d, “these are our new musicians for lunch. After the lunch crowd goes, we feed them, on the house. Set them up over there, in the nook in the corner.”
“Very good, ma’am. Right this way,” and he walked in the direction indicated. Derek introduced them.
“I’m Derek, Derek Brown, and this is my wife Vashti. You’re Henri?”
“Actually, I’m Henry, but Hannah thinks that it gives the place more class if she calls me by the French name, so around here you should probably do so. I’m getting used to it.”
Derek nodded. “We’ll need a couple chairs--and if you have a small side table, that would be great.”
“Certainly, sir.” Henry had them set up in perhaps a minute; Vashti opened her ney case atop the table, and Derek removed his trumpet from its case, worked the valves which he had remembered to oil that morning, and blew a bit of air through it.
“Start with Saints?” he suggested, and she nodded, and he sounded the first notes. She followed with an echo. They had worked up an arrangement that had them speed up for the second verse, and they played three verses with an elaborately slowed but climactic ending.
There was polite applause. The diners were more interested in eating, which made sense. Hopefully he wasn’t spoiling anyone’s mealtime. They sat silently for almost a minute, and then played their second song. It took them almost half an hour to get through all six, and then they started over from the top and did them all again, and finished where they started with a third rendition of Saints. They had been playing for over an hour, and the crowd had thinned significantly.
I hope, he thought, that this is normal, and not our fault, but Miss Johnson came over and thanked them, handed each of them five dimes, and said, “Let’s get some food into you; put some meat on those bones. Henri? Find our guests a table.”
As they settled at a table near the door, one of the other guests walked by, a black man in laborers’ clothes, and said, “Pretty good, kid, but keep practicing.” He placed a penny on the table. “A lagniappe.”
“Thank you,” Derek answered, with Vashti echoing, not sure whether he was more grateful for the compliment or the tip.
Food was delivered. The plate had a lip around the edge, more like a wide bowl, and it contained a healthy serving of a mix of rice, beans, and chopped meat which must be the andouille sausage. It was accompanied by reasonably fresh bread, water, and Henry asked if they would like something to drink.
“What do you have?” Derek asked.
“Well, beer and ale and a couple kinds of wine,” he began.
“I’m not sure we want anything alcoholic. Is there anything else?
“Hannah keeps a couple kegs each of root beer and dry ginger ale.”
“Oh, those would be marvelous. Could you bring us one glass of each? I don’t think Vashti has ever tried them, but I’ll drink either, and she can see which she prefers.”
“Very good, sir.”
Derek took a hefty bite of the mash in his plate, and suddenly stopped. A very quick drink of water only made it worse, so he stuffed some bread in his mouth. He could feel his face reddening.
“What’s wrong?” Vashti asked, a look of concern on her face.
“H-h-hot,” he gasped out. She tasted it.
“It is a bit spicy. I wonder what the hot sauce is like?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, only a little. I’ve had spicier food. This is pretty good, actually.”
He raised his eyebrows, beginning to recover. “Well, I haven’t. I’m not sure I can eat this; I have no idea what it’s going to do to my digestive tract.”
“Well, go slowly, eat a lot of bread, you’ll be alright
Henry delivered the soda. “Is everything all right, Derek?”
A bit embarrassed, he explained. “I’m afraid we don’t have food like this where I’m from, and man, it’s a lot hotter than I expected.”
Henry smiled. “You get used to it,” he said. “Just stay away from the hot sauce.”
“Is it good?” Vashti asked.
Henry lowered his voice and his posture conspiratorially, and said, “It’s not the best around, but it’s decent, and for what Hannah pays she certainly gets her money’s worth. Anyway, if you like hot food, you should at least try it.”
“Thank you. I think I will.”
Derek had by now finished almost half the glass of root beer and part of the ginger ale.
“I’d better get you more of those,” Henry said, and left the table.
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #501: Characters Orienting. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
