Time didn't exist no more, the bus rolled in it's eternal fog, a day, a minute, nobody knew; then a sense of stopping. The doors opened at a railroad stop, a bench outside the office, a figure on the bench.
Beyond it was a single line and on that line was an essence of a train, that mystery train, that lonesome train. The carriages had no name, no identifiable style, the engine was nothing but Engine, you didn't know how many wheels, you didn't know nothin' but the the ole fireman was mean and the ole engineer was cruel and there was goin' to be two lights on behind and the smokestack lightnin' goin' on down the line. Figures made their way slowly to the steps, female figures, familiar to the point of pain in their coats, walks, wafts of perfume. Each one of the boys felt their hearts lurch, break, as they boarded.
Movement - the bus driver reached down by his feet, picked up a small bag that held something that clicked, rattled, threw it out to the figure on the bench. He reached down, red leather jacket faded with age, face hidden by the cheap baseball cap, put the bag in his shirt pocket as he sat back. Without it fading into view, no sudden appearance, he was now holding a battered cheap lefty acoustic with a cheap pickup wedged in the soundhole, and his hands started to make passes over it, chromefinger on his right hand.
As the doors of the bus shut, Grady, Rico, Bluesman heard stuff that wasn't anybody but everybody that ever played slide, all at the same time and in all different keys and all harmonious at the same time, it was Blind Willie, Houndog, Muddy, Elmore, JB Hutto, Lonnie Johnson, Son House, it was just a world and a wall of a sound, and the last notes as they drove away were the sound of a frightened, abandoned child howling in the dark for a mother that never came.
Last edited by maxx england
on Sat Mar 29, 2008 12:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.