Blind Rabbit Jackson – a short story for English reading comprehension

The taxi pulled up in front of the only store in town.

It served as the only post office, coffee joint, bank on occasion, and just a general place for people to hang out.

“That’s it, right there,” said the driver.

Craig looked out at the nondescript flat-pack front of the store and turned back to the driver. The driver shook his head and gave a small shrug. “That’s it.”

Craig took a breath and grabbed his shoulder bag. It had been a very long day. In fact, it had been a very long two weeks. His editor had run out of patience.

“I don’t care how close you think you are,” he had told Craig. “I need something from you very soon or don’t bother coming back.”

New York was a million miles away. Craig’s journey had taken him to New Orleans on a wild goose chase from bar to bar.

Everyone had a story to tell.

“Blind Rabbit Jackson? Yeah, I saw that cat play. Ain’t nobody played like him. Nobody.”

Bar owners, guitarists, promoters, singers. They all claimed to know Blind Rabbit Jackson and had seen him play a million times.

Guitarists told stories of playing duets with the man, ageing female singers told of love affairs, bar owners gazed into the distance and spoke with great reverence of the night the great Blind Rabbit Jackson had played in their bar, and how the place had never been so packed.

“I had everyone in here,” said one old guy. “Everyone. A who’s who of blues guitarists.”

One thing was certain. The man was a legend among other musicians. Other guitarists spoke of their love for Blind Rabbit Jackson as if he were a ghost that had just walked onto a stage and started playing.

“Y’all heard of that story of the crossroads,” said an elderly bluesman in the thousandth bar that Craig had visited.

“Robert Johnson, yes, of course,” said Craig.

The man grinned widely and let out a silent laugh. “Robert Johnson, yeah. Yeah, that’s right. You keep believing that.”

“But that’s the story,” said Craig. He leaned closer to the man. Craig had studied the history of great blues guitarists since his college days. He knew the music. He knew the men — and the women — who made the music.

“Let me tell you,” said the man, lifting a small glass filled with a dark brown liquor. It smelled of oak, old wood.

It smelled of the blues itself.

“Been all kinds of stories in this city over the years. But that story, the crossroads? That’s all Blind Rabbit Jackson.”

Craig had pushed for more details, but the people that lived the music, they clammed up as soon as he asked for more information. He suddenly became invisible.

Now outside the old storefront, Craig was at the end of his tether. It was too hot; he was exhausted. He wanted to be back in New York, back in his simple, easy life.

He reached over and paid the driver, telling him to keep the change.

“Good luck, man,” he said and nodded to Craig before driving away.

Outside, the heat wrapped itself around his neck and shoulders. Its thin tentacles crawled into his every pore and settled there.

He pushed the door open and a small bell rang out above his head. He half-expected a cool blast of air to hit him in the face, but the stifling heat only seemed to close in around him.

Behind the counter, a black woman sat fanning herself with a newspaper. A radio played in the background.

Craig had his customer act down pat now. Go in some place, buy something, make some pleasantries. Gentle inquiries only, no need to go in too heavy.

“Hey,” he said to the woman.

“Hey,” she said back to him. She stretched the vowel sound out in a long and lazy drawl.

Craig walked over to the large refrigerator and inside saw a row of soda bottles, their glass surfaces glistening with condensation.

He pulled one out, raised it to his face and ran the ice-cold bottle across his cheek.

“Drinks are for buying, son.”

Craig turned to the voice and saw an ancient man sitting in a chair in the corner of the store.

His head was completely hairless apart from two small tufts of white hair behind his ears. His face was deeply lined, and his skin shone in the light coming through the store window.

“I’m sorry,” said Craig. “It’s just so hot.”

“I hear Canada is real nice this time of year,” said the old man without looking at Craig. His eyes remained fixed somewhere near the door.

He then let out a deep cackling laugh at his own joke.

He had no teeth, which somehow made his grin seem even wider.

Craig moved towards the counter of the store. “Canada is not really my thing,” he said.

The woman behind the counter shifted in her seat and then pushed a button on the old cash register. It popped open with a loud ting.

“Dollar fifty,” said the woman.

Craig handed some coins over and watched her face for any sign of curiosity or suspicion.

Craig knew how to read people. Years of journalism had taught him that.

There was a small bottle opener attached to the cracked wooden counter with a piece of string. Craig used it to pop the cap off his bottle. He took a long draught of it, savouring the cold as it ran down his throat.

“Go right ahead,” came the voice from the back. “We don’t charge for sitting. Make yourself at home.”

Craig caught the woman’s eye, and she gave him the barest hint of a smile.

“Don’t mind him none,” she said, her voice as mellow as a plucked A string. “He sits there all day. Ain’t nobody here wants to listen to his nonsense.”

Craig turned to the old man. “How much is sitting down tax?”

“Depends how long you plan on sitting around for.”

The old man turned his face towards the door as if to tell Craig that he best be using it for leaving and getting out of there.

“What about talking tax?” said Craig. “There a tax for that?”

The old man grunted. Craig took that as a positive response and shifted a little closer to him.

“This town looks a lot more accommodating than New Orleans,” he said, testing the waters.

The man grunted again. “New Orleans. Nobody got no business going there.”

He let out a short hiss of contempt.

Craig took another sip of his soda. He was so tired. He had come so far. And not a single clue to show for it.

“I was down there looking for someone,” he said.

“Oh, make no mistake,” said the man. “You’ll find someone there. Plenty of people around. They all want paying, but you’ll find someone.”

“The man I was looking for was a bluesman,” said Craig.

The old man’s eyes shifted for a split second and Craig thought their eyes might meet. But he blinked and stared back at the door.

“I was looking for a man by the name of Blind Rabbit Jackson,” said Craig. He scrutinised the man’s face for any sign, maybe the smallest flicker, a twitch at the corner of his eye.

But nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

Finally, the old man spoke.

“All those bluesmen. They all got some name or another. And what kind of fool would call himself after a rabbit? Gotta be some kind of fool to do that.”

He grinned widely again and let out another cackle.

Craig breathed in and sighed deeply. “Yeah. But he was one of the best. One of the best-known blues guitarists—”

“And what do you know about it, son? They got the blues all the way up there in Canada?”

“I’m not from Canada—”

“Y’all come down here and think you know a thing about the blues just because you bought a couple of old 78s from — what do they call that damn thing? — eBay. Or whatever the hell that damn thing is.”

“I’m just asking,” said Craig. “I’m sorry if I —”

“You people don’t know nothing,” said the old man with a harsh finality.

Craig bristled. “You people?”

The old man pressed his lips together and let out another hiss.

“You news people,” he said quietly.

Craig finished his soda and returned to the counter.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” said the old man and cackled again.

Craig nodded to the woman behind the counter. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She nodded and gave him another faint smile.

Craig walked back out into the heat.

No need to write a story about the great Blind Rabbit Jackson after all.

Sometimes just meeting the man was enough.