Hellhound 6: Big 6 Barber

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET--MOVING

A year or two have passed. We see Johnny and Robert looking sharp and comfortable in their city clothes, moving along a street in the black section of Memphis, Tennessee. Robert's guitar is strapped across his back. The two men are happy and laughing; they nod at some men and tip their hats to a couple of black matrons, who react as though somehow insulted. Johnny then mimics their high-falutin' walk, to Robert's further amusement. Soon they reach their actual destination: a mid-block, hole-in-the-wall, dusty-window barber shop complete with painted barber pole outside. The hand-lettered notice across the glass reads:"'BIG 6 BARBER SHOP." Peering in through the clouded front window they see a couple of indistinct figures within, then pull the screen door open and enter.

INTERIOR BARBER SHOP

Clean but cramped quarters--wall mirrors, two barber chairs, other metal chairs along one wall, and a host of black barbering paraphernalia of that era: skin creams, hair straighteners, process gear, and so on. The men inside are Lucky, the barber (an older man) minus his white jacket, and customer Eddie, whose process job is almost finished. They look up at Robert and Johnny enter.

JOHNNY: Howdy, Lucky. Eddie.

EDDIE: Hey, Johnny. How you, Robert?

Lucky comes forward to shake their hands, Johnny first.

LUCKY: Ain't that somethin'! (now Robert) Damn, you sons, lemme eyeball ya. Where you been raisin' sand all this time?

JOHNSON: Hoboin' up the country an' all.

LUCKY (gesturing at chairs): Siddown, siddown. Line it on out.

Robert takes a metal chair, laying his guitar aside, while Johnny flops in the empty barber chair. Lucky resumes work on Eddie's head.

JOHNNY: Tell ya what we ain't done... ain' no richer. No wiser neither, i 'spect. Jes' ramblin' roun' from town t' town. How 'bout y'all? Where's the rest of you badass scoundrels allus in here?

LUCKY: Be 'long direckly, 'ceptin' Jimmy Joe and George Wilkens. Jimmy Joe passed some months back, and George, po-lice haul him in las' week. Bastuds take my grease money an' still bus' my runners.

JOHNSON: White man don' think like black--never play straight wi' the peoples.

LUCKY: Now, that is a fack.

A momentary pause as all examine that truth.

JOHNNY: Hell, Lucky, you still runnin' policy?

LUCKY: 'Course I is. Who else gonn' do it, I axe you. You got a number?

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He speaks, clutching that lucky neck-bag; seems introspective, possibly a bit nervous.

JOHNSON: I dreamp' one, sun-up this mornin'. Houn'dogs was soundin' way off, an' whole town was burnin', and dam' if the high sheriff wasn't comin' fast... His eyes bug out, an' his big ol' .38... Then all them change to three big O's... I woke up smilin', feelin' fine.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Lucky has paused to listen to Johnson. Now he resumes his barbering, sounding thoughtful.

LUCKY: That's bad luck number, Robert, that triple-O. 'Sides, po-lice an' dogs signifyin' somethin' else. I look it up in the Rajah book in a minute.

JOHNSON: Nossir. Three-O I dream, three-O I play.

LUCKY (shrugging): You the boss. Write y'up a ticket soon's I gets this ol' nigger (whacks Eddie's head) done right. Give your nappy head a treat too, on the house.

JOHNSON: Oh no--that fried an' dried ain' none o' mine. (tugs at his hair) These kinks ain't much, but they's the nach'ral Robert. (half-singing) The men don' know, but the li'l gals, they understan'...

The guys laugh long at that; Johnny reaches over to slap hands with Eddie.

EDDIE: Where y'all roostin' at, anyway?

Robert and Johnny exchange a look, then Johnny shrugs and answers.

JOHNNY: Nowheres yet. But if I know my man here, we be sleepin' right, hugging' all kines o' sof' things by tonight. (and winks broadly)

ANOTHER ANGLE

More laughter as the front door opens and another young man, Booker T. Long, saunters in. At the sight of Johnny, he dances over and punches him lightly on the arm.

BOOKER: Hell, you still Geechie-ugly, ain' cha.

JOHNNY (shakes his head in mock disgust): Booker T. Long. Ain't yo' Mama learnt ya no manners yet?

Then Johnny springs up and grabs Booker, and the two of them wrestle around the front area of the shop, bumping chairs, walls, knocking each other's snappy hats off, etc. Johnson watches these antics with amusement; Lucky ignores them completely, finishing up with Eddie. He removes the process gear and yanks the white sheet off Eddie with a flourish. Meanwhile, the wrestling is over, and Johnny introduces Booker and Johnson.

JOHNNY: This here's Booker T. (the two shake hands) An' that's the funky, flyin' fingers of Mr. Robert "Blues Boy" Johnson you's touchin', Book. He play till the cows come home--or the womens.

Eddie comes forward, pulling a basic harmonica from his pocket.

EDDIE: How 'bout a little get-right music this mawnin'?

LUCKY: Now you sayin' somepin'.

Robert takes up his guitar.

JOHNSON: Le's do it, then.

Booker and Johnny take seats, Johnny with a metal container as a drum, Booker ready to pound the chair back. Robert shifts to a barber chair, guitar ready; Eddie moves to the front area so he can dance while he blows harp; and Lucky opens a straight razor and holds up the strop to whomp it on. Johnny and Booker talk during all this set-up activity.

JOHNNY: What chu doin' these days, Book.

BOOKER: Well, you know--little this, little that. Dealin' some. You?

JOHNNY: A 'prentice musicianer, you could say. (nodding at Johnson) Doggin' him 'round, keepin' him hones'. Say, we come across Ben Green, yestiddy it was, over'n Wes' Memphis.

BOOKER (disbelief): G'on, you did.

JOHNNY: Yeah we did.

LUCKY: Nemmine that--where the music?

JOHNSON: You got it...

And he launches into a lively guitar instrumental, the others following along as best they can--raggedly at first, then with rhythmic unity--harp, strop, container, chair back, dancing feet, guitar and all. Short and sweet, the tune ends in some confusion and laughter. Sound of applause on track takes us to:

NIGHT--INTERIOR BLACK CLUB--PAN

The place is dark and smoky and packed with people, mostly couples, all dressed in urban Thirties finery. Three young and seductively lovely women are lingering beside the tiny bandstand, where the applause we heard has greeted the end of a number played by Robert and Johnny on dual guitars. Johnson has Betty Mae's lipstick cap in place of a bottleneck on his little finger.

ANGLE ON BANDSTAND

The two men nod their thanks, then Johnny stands to stretch while Robert bends down to pick up a whiskey bottle and take a swig. Both men are aware of their nearby feminine audience, with Johnny ready to rib his friend.

JOHNNY (pointing at the lipstick cap): You still carryin' Betty Mae in your heart as well's on you' finger, ain' cha.

Robert shrugs, then speaks:

JOHNSON: We get right some day.

JOHNNY (eyeing the nearby ladies): Oh I know you will. You sholy been savin' up all you' money with juicy bankers everywhere, tha's a fack...

Before Johnson can retort, one of the waiting women steps forward; she wears a tasseled blouse.

FIRST WOMAN: Ain't y'all gonn' play no mo'?

JOHNNY: Well now, peaches, that depen's. You got some branches I ain' mind pickin'. You do for me an' I sho' nuff do for you.

Then he steps forward and offers his usual charming bow to the three.

JOHNNY (slight mockery in his voice): Le's do this right, introducin's an' all. That's Robert--he the shy one. I be Johnny. We jes' po' lonely musicianers. You gals know any place to fin' us some companionship an' so-lass?

He has charmed them as quickly as that.

SECOND WOMAN: Um, um, um. How you do go on. If you's lookin' to party, Mistuh Johnny, I could be persuaded.

JOHNNY: I jus' bet you could. Well, Bob, what say?

THIRD WOMAN (turning like a model): See anythin' you like?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson examines the first and third women, carefully and speculatively.

JOHNSON: No call here for any bad feelin'--room enuff for two in my ol' raggedy heart... (and smiles)

The two women look at each other and then smile right back at him.

JOHNNY (laughing): Reckon that takes care o' that. (to Johnson) Now, why ain' chu play somethin' else for all these good folks?

Robert nods, takes one more swig from the bottle, winks at his ladies, and settles back to play. Johnny jumps down to stand beside his new companion. The club noise is quite loud as Johnson begins his mournful and moving song "Come On in My Kitchen":

The woman I love, took from my bes' friend',
That joker got lucky, stole her back again...
Woman gettin' in trouble, ever'body throws her down,
Lookin' for a good frien', an' he can't be found,
You better come on in my kitchen,
'Cause it's gonn' to be rainin' outdoors...

ANGLE ON CROWD

Intercut these audience shots with close-ups of Johnson's fingers playing and his face hidden in shadow. The people pay no attention at first, lost in their particular worlds of the moment--cuddling, telling a joke, fending off a drunk, and so on. But as the song progresses, slowly and inexorably, the piercing guitar and sad tone of Johnson's voice begin to penetrate. More and more clubgoers fall silent, turning to watch Johnson on the half-lit bandstand.

ANOTHER ANGLE--PAN

Slow pan across the crowded room, culminating finally on Johnson (after he has ended the song). The club is completely still as he finishes. Some women are swaying and even crying; one or two men brush at their eyes as well. A sigh and a shudder--almost sexual--seem to pass through the silent onlookers when he stops. No applause, no sound at all. Johnson sits there as still as everyone else. Johnny looks at Robert and then the crowd, slowly shaking his head back and forth.