DAY--EXTERIOR--STAIRS
Johnson is seated near the top of the ramshackle boarding-house stairs, idly picking bits of tunes on his guitar as he watches the neighborhood.
WIDER ANGLE
The black residential section of some small town. Two men stand on a distant corner, evidently arguing though their voices don't carry; in the weed-scraggly vacant lot near Johnson, black children are kicking a small rubber ball. Beyond them, a horse-drawn wagon heaped with coal stops in front of another house; the driver climbs down.
DRIVER (shouting): Hey, Miz Peters! Coal's here!
A black matron sticks her head out the door.
MRS. PETERS: Come back Satiddy, Mr. Jackson. We all right this mawnin'.
Johnson plays through all this.
ANGLE DOWN
As one boy comes chasing after the ball, to the foot of the stairs. Hearing the guitar, he stops and listens, looking up. The others yell for him to come back, then when he pays no attention, they come over to see too.
Johnson bows to his audience and plays them a sprightly tune. But the largest boy is antsy and drags the others off.
BOY: Aw, come on. Let's get that ol' coalman. I can play good's he can.
They charge off, the one curious boy taking a last look back. Johnson watches them go.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
He smiles and nods, looking thoughtful...
NIGHT--EXTERIOR JUKE JOINT
A rickety wooden porch leads up and into the dim, noisy "Hoskins Place." Boisterous laughter from within, but not disturbing the two men, Son and Willie, who lounge on this porch idly plunking their guitars.
SON: Ready, Willie?
WILLIE: Jest about.
Willie sets his guitar aide and stands up stretching; he swaggers to the end of the porch and stands there inhaling the night air. Then he notices an indistinct figure standing off in the darkness.
WILLIE: Who is that?
ANOTHER ANGLE
The figure moves forward into the half-light; it is Johnson--nervous, awkward, about the same age as in the opening nightmare sequence. Willie looks him over.
WILLIE: Well, well. Wha' chu doin' here again, boy?
JOHNSON: Lis'nen'.
WILLIE (dryly): Uh-hunh. You learned yourself to play gittar yet?
JOHNSON (more eagerly): I been practicin' a lot, and...
Willie nods his understanding. Son has stopped playing to observe.
WILLIE: And you think you is ready to play us some blues, huh. What say, Son, do we let this here country boy strut his stuff?
SON (shrugging): Make no nevermines to me.
WILLIE: All right. Step up here, boy.
Johnson moves to the porch steps. Willie passes him a guitar, then sticks his head inside the juke-joint doorway where the din of drinking and laughter continues.
WILLIE: Hey! Hey now! Step on out here if you want some funky music to go 'long with what chu's already doin'.
He stands aside then, and several other men and women emerge; they all look like country folk dressed up for a night out. They spread out on the porch with Johnson below them on the ground, guitar in hand.
MAN: My, my. What we got here?
WOMAN: Does yo' Mama know where you are?
OLDER MAN: Don't I know you, boy? Miz Johnson's son, from over Rob'sonville?
Johnson doesn't answer, unnerved or unsure.
THIRD MAN: Well, kin you play that git'box or not?
SECOND WOMAN (shaking her hips and pelvis): I got some special rider music you can play...
Stung into action at last, Johnson strikes a tentative chord, then launches full-tilt into a spirited but pathetic attempt at some blues number like "The Moon Is Rising." His listeners react raucously.
WILLIE (laughing and slapping his knee): Whee-ough!
SECOND WOMAN (hands over her ears): Don't shoot, I give up!
Son is silent, eyeing Johnson's "technique" and shaking his head sadly. Someone gives a loud hog-call.
THIRD MAN: You th' original Miss'ippi Moaner fo' sho!
Johnson's thrashing and caterwauling halts. He looks at his mockers stolidly.
LOW ANGLE UP
Willie steps down and reclaims his guitar.
WILLIE: You best get on back wid your Mama, boy. Put your fingers where they belongs--on them cottonbolls!
The "jukers" on the porch bust out laughing again, then all--Son and Willie too--saunter back inside. Johnson stands silent and unmoving.
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