Hellhound 12: Kick 'Em On Down

NIGHT--INTERIOR HALLWAY OF APARTMENT BUILDING

The camera is jammed in amongst the men and women packed into this first-floor space (hall, stairwell, and open door to small apartment) where a house rent party is in full swing--shouts, laughter, and the resonant echoes from an Armstrong/Oliver New Orleans-styled jazz group arranged on the upper stairs. Johnson and Johnny are present, now in dapper suits and flashy hats, Johnny talking to chums, Robert roaming restlessly, his eyes alert for some attractive and available woman. Several in the crowd speak to him.

MAN: Hey, Bob, you rootin' groun' hog--you gonn' play t'night or me?

JOHNSON: Say, Bill. Mought's well us bof'.

WOMAN: When you comin' to see me, daddy?

Johnson smiles and points at her companion, who takes no offense at his remark.

JOHNSON: When you ditch him.

ANOTHER MAN (holding up rolled cigarettes): I got muggles here that is the mezz. Getcha high as Geo'gia pines, my man...

Johnson waves him off.

JOHNSON: Mebbe later, Blinky.

Now he stops and stares at someone across the crowded area.

O.S. JOHNSON--MOVING

Ahead of Johnson we see Louise, small, sexy, and a rich brown color, with carefully processed and coiffed hair. She is talking with some girlfirends. Robert moves towards her through the crowd; she notices as he draws near, coolly staring back at him.

JOHNSON: Hello, sweetmeat.

LOUISE (disdainful): Somethin' you want?

JOHNSON: You.

With no more introduction than that, he takes her arm and tugs her away with him. The girlfriends are surprised; Louise reacts angrily at first, trying to yank free. Then she shrugs and acquiesces, going along for the ride. She throws a not-to-worry smile back at her friends.

DAWN--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

The furnishings are merely adequate. Johnson is asleep in the bed; Louise is dressing, almost ready to depart. Johnson stirs on the bed and reaches over to where she should be sleeping beside him:

JOHNSON: Louise...

No body there, he opens his eyes and looks around.

JOHNSON: Louise? (seeing her) Hey, baby, what you doin'?

ANGLE ON MIRROR

Louis is straightening her dress in front of the mirror, Johnson reflected in the glass.

LOUISE (business-like): Leavin', Robert. I'm goin'.

JOHNSON (lazily): Ain' no rush. Wait up an' I go 'long witcha.

LOUISE: No! (turns to face him) No, daddy. You can't. Last night was good, but this is today. You ain't a part of my life, an' you can't be...

JOHNSON (sitting up): Wha'cha mean, woman. We got a passle o' nights headin' to us.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Louise has her make-up out now, but she pauses to walk over to the bed and put her arms on Robert's shoulders, keeping him on the bed.

LOUISE: No, Robert. I like you. A lot. But you are courtin' death around me. I got me a steady-rollin' man, a man of means. And he is mean enough to see you dead if he found out about this.

She looks into his eyes for a moment, then walks over to pick up her hat and purse, dropping the unused make-up inside the purse. Johnson rises from the bed, grabbing for his trousers, still bare-chested.

JOHNSON: What are you mumblin' on at?

LOUISE: Get back from me now. I'm tellin' you they's no way for us. Don't even look for me...

And with this parting warning she dashes to the door and hurries on out. Johnson is still trying to pull on the second leg of his pants. He hobbles over to the door after her, but she has already vanished.

DAY--INTERIOR CAFE

Robert and Johnny are sitting across from each other in the small restaurant seen earlier during their Southside jaunt. Johnny is wolfing down a plate of barbecued ribs and greens. Robert's similar plate is largely untouched; he is focussed instead on a another bottle.

JOHNNY (smacking his lips): Now these is ribs, nigger. Kin smell the Delta drippin' off'n 'em. Make me homesick. Say, what about that? You 'bout ready to head South agin? This big city ain't sit right...

JOHNSON: I like it fine.

CLOSER ANGLE

On each of them in turn as their dialogue proceeds.

JOHNNY (looks at him admiringly): You the tush-hog, ain'cha. Git-tar an' a gal, strum on 'em both, is all you wants. Where' you get to las' night, anyways?

Johnson simply shrugs, pours himself another drink.

JOHNNY (eating again): I trustin' you ain't go wi' that big-leg woman I see you talkin' at. That Nubian princess is somethin' fine--skin like coffee an' cream, um, um. But I axed about her an' she's a bad 'un. Lady frien' to the man wit all the action here-'bouts. He's the ba-ad mothe'fuyer, folks say...

JOHNSON: That so? Ain' no truck wid me.

He empties the glass, thrusts it aside, and upends the bottle instead, then:

JOHNSON: Got us a gig tomorr' evenin'. Uptown, John--an' no bucket o' blood neither. (grins evilly with the bottle poised) White folks time, for when they comes a-studyin' at the Nee-gros. Well, the coins what I studyin', an' white ones spen' fine too. Club suit you, I 'spect?

Johnny is indeed excited at the prospect, waving a rib around as he answers.

JOHNNY: Hell, yes, Bob--that's travelin' money. I never did see nobody for luck like you--you musta been conjuratin' that bag again.

Johnson touches his lucky bag.

JOHNSON: Big Bill set it, truly--took me in t' meet the man. But my luck done met a woman done hoodoo me some, I b'lieve...

Johnny stops eating to look at Robert curiously. But Johnson has his head tipped back, glugging the whiskey down.

NIGHT--INTERIOR CLUB

A bar, several tables, and a small bandstand; a few white couples seated waiting. The clock over the bar reads exactly 9:00, but the owner is already drumming his fingers on the bar impatiently. Robert swaggers in, followed somewhat cautiously by Johnny. Both have their guitars and Robert has a sack-wrapped bottle.

OWNER: Where the hell you been? I said nine o'clock, ready to play.

JOHNSON (grinning tipsily): Tha's what it is, an' tha's what I is. An' Johnny too, my ass-istant here. (laughs)

He upends the bottle to drink two last swallows, then shakes the remaining drops out sadly and sets the empty carefully on the bar. Meanwhile Johnny is looking around nervously.

JOHNSON: Keep the whiskey comin' , boss, an' we play ya a mess o' blues.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The two musicians walk to the bandstand and clamber up, Johnny still nervous, Robert too tipsy to care. As they tune up, Robert dons the same old lipstick top for his little finger, and starts talking to the audience.

JOHNSON: Good evenin', peoples. How you-all be gettin' on?

There is no answer, though one woman titters.

JOHNSON: Me an' John here gonn' see is you folks ready--see kin you kick 'em on down. (louder, to the owner) Say, Mist' Clark, where's 'at drink at you promise'? (to the audience) Mist' Clark, see, he the man in this be-yoo-tiful club we all be sittin' in, an' mos'ly drinkin' too.

The bartender arrives with two shot glasses. Johnny nods his thanks and sets his aside, but Johnson tosses his off and motions for a refill.

JOHNSON: Some ol' fool tol' me white folks was jes' black folks after they's ceased--he say y'all ain't got no soul a-tall 'lessin' it be sto'-bought...

Johnny is just as stunned as the audience at this effrontery. There are some mutterings, and Johnny reaches over to pull at Johnson's arm.

JOHNNY: Hush up, Bob. Le's be playin' now.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

But Robert goes blithely on.

JOHNSON: Oh, I tol' that fool he was a liar---yes sir. Lord have mercy, ain' none o' mine--we is jes' poor Ethiopian musicianers. I knows you white folks get the blues jes' like us...

Then he rolls his eyes in minstrel-show exaggeration and launches straight into an upbeat dance number, Johnny scrambling to catch up in the arrangement.

ANGLE ON SHOT GLASSES--ZOOM OUT

Three empty glasses beside Robert now on another chair. He looks drunker, Johnny tireder, and the crowd has dwindled some, except that a new couple is sitting close to the stage, the woman eyeing Johnson somewhat appreciatively. The two musicians are retuning and talking.

JOHNNY: Ain't found her yet. But I reckon we goin' to Memphis nex' t' look...

JOHNSON (staring now at the nearby woman): You know how lonesome it get sleepin' all by you'se'f... (laughing at his own recklessness) Well, you swing mine an' I swing yours, sweet chile.

Now he's laughing so hard he starts coughing too.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The woman looks more amused than offended, but the boyfriend is on his feet coming for Johnson. The owner quickly interposes himself and stops the angry man, murmuring soothing words. Meanwhile, Johnny has sized things up and he quickly moves over to Johnson (still coughing and laughing), steps in and clobbers him on the jaw, knocking Robert off his chair, guitar flying and crashing into the empty shot glasses. Robert tumbles to the floor and is too surprised or too drunk to move.

The owner points at Johnson's collapsed condition to mollify the boyfriend, then he escorts the couple to the door, motioning for others to leave too.

OWNER (calling out): Sorry, folks, closing early tonight...

Then he strides back to the stage area where Johnny is kneeling beside Robert.

ANGLE ON THE THREE

Robert actually looks peaceful.

OWNER: Get up, you bum. You're fired.

JOHNSON (laughing again): Cain't fire me--I jes' quit.

OWNER (to Johnny): Go on, get him out of here before I call the cops. I don't need no black bastard causin' trouble in my club, and I especially don't want his black ass bleedin' in here.

JOHNNY: Yes-suh...

But when Johnny tries to help him up, Robert knocks his hands away and rises slowly on his own. Johnny picks up both guitars and heads for the door.

ANGLE BACK TOWARD THE BANDSTAND

Johnson walks with drunken dignity to the door, the white owner still standing by the stage glaring after him. At the door, Johnson stops, turns around, and in a parody of Johnny's brand of charm, gives a foolish half-bow.

JOHNSON: Thank you all for a lovely evenin'.

Laughing again, he staggers on out.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR CLUB--MOVING

Outside the club, however, Johnson stops laughing. He stares at the nervous Johnny without saying anything at first--simply holds out his hand for his guitar and then staggers off, shrugging the strap up and over his head. Johnny follows along too.

JOHNNY: Why you haveta get unruly? You ain't jes' drunk, I know that. But you is gone crazy, mouthin' like that to a goddam room full o' crackers. You be whupped at leas', mebbe strung up, ifen I ain' knock y' upside the head...

Johnson refuses to look at his friend, instead talks as though to a third party.

JOHNSON: Lissen at the house nigger. Thinks he knows his way aroun' white folks. (slowly now, emphasizing each syllable) Ain't that jes' some-thin' now.

He stops short and addresses Johnny straight on.

JOHNSON: Son, you is shit t' those peckerwoods an' shit t' me. They walk all over you' head an' you be sayin' "Thankya, thankya," an' done lick the boots clean. Tell you what, John--you ain' tell me how t' live, an' I ain' tell you how t' play.

Then he walks on. Johnny draws back injured, but walks after him.

JOHNNY: Hell sakes, Bob. You ain't livin', you's dyin'... Ever since Betty Mae done lef', you got some kinda mean shit in you that's jes' got to git out!

JOHNSON (musing to himself sarcastically): Why I hole up in dis-yeah crappe' town wid a dumb spaginzy like you...

Johnny has had enough insults, and he asserts his dignity.

JOHNNY: I ain't so dumb. Huh. Think you kin smile an' sass yo' way through anything. Well, that ain't it. This world is white man's, Robert. Ifen you black, git on back! I knows it--an' I know where I be livin' better'n this ruckus. If you be smart, you git right an' ride wid me...

CLOSE ON THE TWO

Johnson looks at him scornfully.

JOHNSON: Tuck yo' tail 'tween yo' laigs, ol' monkey man. I'm set right here.

JOHNNY: That's it, then. Reckon I see you somewheres else, some other time.

He holds out his hand for a farewell handshake. But Johnson scorns the gesture and walks away.

JOHNSON: Not in this life, burrhead.

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Johnny shakes his head sadly, watching Robert go. Then he turns and heads the other way. Johnson keeps moving a distance further. Then he stops to look back. But Johnny has vanished, and Robert seems surprised--evidently expected him still to be following along.

JOHNSON: Johnny?

No answer. He shrugs and moves off into the darkness.

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.