cwilleford.cockfighter-第13部分

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　when　they　write。〃
　　I　winked；　clapped　him　on　the　shoulder；　and　we　shook　hands　again。　I　started　down　the　hallway　toward　the　stairwell　and　Doc　watched　me　all　the　way。　When　I　reached　the　stairs；　he　called　good…bye　to　me　again。　I　waved　an　arm　and　descended　the　stairs。　At　the　drugstore　on　the　corner　I　had　a　cup　of　coffee　at　the　counter　and　then　returned　to　my　room　at　the　Jeff　Davis　Hotel。　Fortunately；　I　had　kept　my　morning　newspaper。
　　I　turned　to　the　classified　ads　and　looked　under　the　Help　Wanted；　Male　section　to　see　what　I　could　do　about　getting　a　job。
　　
　　
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　　It　is　a　funny　thing。　A　man　can　make　a　promise　to　his　God；　break　it　five　minutes　later　and　never　think　anything　about　it。　With　an　idle　shrug　of　his　shoulders；　a　man　can　also　break　solemn　promises　to　his　mother；　wife　or　sweetheart；　and；　except　for　a　slight；　momentary　twinge　of　conscience；　he　still　won't　be　bothered　very　much。　But　if　a　man　ever　breaks　a　promise　he　has　made　to　himself　he　disintegrates。　His　entire　personality　and　character　crumble　into　tiny　pieces；　and　he　is　never　the　same　man　again。
　　I　remember　very　well　a　sergeant　I　knew　in　the　army。　Before　a　group　of　five　men　he　swore　off　smoking　forever。　An　hour　later　he　sheepishly　lit　a　cigarette　and　broke　his　vow　to　the　five　of　us　and　to　himself。　He　was　never　quite　the　same　man　again；　not　to　me；　and　not　to　himself。
　　My　vow　of　silence　was　much　harder　to　maintain　than　a　vow　to　quit　smoking。　It　was　a　definite　handicap　in　everything　I　did。　I　read　through　the　want　ads　three　times；　studying　them　carefully；　and　there　wasn't　a　single　thing　I　could　find　to　do。　A　man　who　can't；　or　won't；　talk　is　in　a　difficult　situation　when　it　es　to　finding　a　job　in　the　city。　Besides；　I　had　never　had　a　job　in　my　life…except　for　my　two　years　in　the　service。
　　Of　course；　during　my　year　of　college　at　Valdosta　State　I　had　waited　tables　in　the　co…op　for　my　meals；　but　I　didn't　consider　that　as　a　job。　Growing　up　in　Georgia；　I　had　done　farm　work　for　my　father　when　I　couldn't　get　out　of　it；　such　things　as　chopping　cotton；　milking　a　cow；　and　simple　carpentry　repair　jobs　around　the　farm。　There　were　a　good　many　things　I　was　capable　of　doing　around　a　farm　without　having　to　talk。　But　the　want　ads　in　the　newspaper　were　no　help　to　me　at　all。　Unwffling　to　use　my　voice；　I　couldn't　even　ask　for　a　job　unless　I　wrote　it　down。　The　majority　of　the　situations　that　were　open　in　the　agate　columns　were　for　salesmen。　And　a　man　who　can't　talk　can't　sell　anything。　I　wadded　the　newspaper　into　a　ball；　and　tossed　it　into　the　wastebasket。
　　One　thing　I　could　always　do　was　walk　and　condition　cocks　for　another　breeder。　There　were　plenty　of　chicken　men　in　the　South　who　would　have　jumped　at　the　chance　to　pay　me　five　dollars　apiece　for　every　game　fowl　I　conditioned　for　them。　But　for　a　man　who　was　still　considered　a　big…time　cockfighter　throughout　the　South；　it　would　be　too　much　of　a　edown　to　work　for　another　cock　breeder。　I　had　never　worked　for　anybody　else　in　my　thirty…two　years　on　this　earth；　and　it　was　too　late　to　start　now。　By　God；　I　wasn't　that　desperate！
　　Sitting　in　that　hotel　room；　with　only　a　few　loose　dollars　in　my　pccket；　I　was　beginning　to　feel　sorry　for　myself。　My　eyes　rested　on　my　guitar　case。
　　My　guitar　was　an　old　friend。　During　the　first　few　months　of　my　self…enforced　silence；　the　days　and　nights　had　almost　doubled　in　length。　It　is　surprising　how　much　time　is　killed　everyday　in　idle　conversation。　Just　to　have　something　to　fill　in　time　I　had　purchased　a　secondhand　Gibson　guitar　for　thirty　dollars　in　a　Miami　pawnshop。　The　case　wasn't　so　hot…cheap　brown　cardboard　stamped　to　resemble　alligator　leather…but　the　guitar　was　a　good　one；　and　it　had　a　strong；　wonderful　tone。　The　guitar　served　as　a　substitute　for　my　lost　voice；　and　I　don't　know　what　I　would　have　done　without　it。
　　I　opened　the　guitar　case；　removed　the　instrument　and　ran　through　a　few　exercises　to　limber　my　fingers。　I　hadn't　played　the　guitar　for　five　or　six　days；　but　the　calluses　on　my　fingers　were　still　hard　and　tough。　The　Uncle　who　sold　me　the　Gibson　had　also　thrown　in　a　free　instruction　booklet；　but　I　had　never　learned　how　to　play　any　regular　songs。　After　learning　most　of　the　chords　and　how　to　tune　and　pick　the　strings；　I　had　tossed　the　booklet　away。
　　I　only　knew　three　songs；　and　they　were　tunes　I　had　made　up　myself；　sitting　around；　picking　them　out　until　they　sounded　like　the　mental　images　I　wanted　them　to　resemble。　One　was　〃Georgia　Girl。〃　This　was　a　portrait　in　sound　of　Mary　Elizabeth；　my　fiancée。　The　second　tune　I　had　posed　I　called　〃Empty　Pockets〃　My　pockets　had　been　empty　many　times　in　my　life；　and　in　making　up　this　song　I　had　discovered　a　way　of　getting　a　hollow　sound　effect　by　banging　the　box　near　the　hole　and　playing　a　succession　of　fast　triplets　on　the　lower　three　strings　at　the　same　time。　Despite　the　hollow　sounds；　this　was　a　gay；　fast　tune　and　I　was　rather　fond　of　it。　The　remaining　song　was　merely　my　impression　of　an　old　patchwork　quilt　Grandma　had　made　many　years　ago；　and　that's　what　I　called　it…〃Grandma's　Quilt。〃　I　had　tried　to　duplicate　the　colors　and　designs　of　that　old　patchwork；　faded　quilt　in　chord　patterns；　and　I　had　been　fairly　successful。
　　My　repertoire；　then；　consisted　of　three　highly　personal　songs。　If　it　was　music；　it　was　reflective　music　made　up　for　my　own　personal　enjoyment；　and　not　for　the　general　public。　But　I　had　to　get　a　few　dollars　together；　and　soon；　and　maybe　my　guitar　was　the　way？　I　could　have　pawned　the　Gibson　for　twenty　dollars　or　so；　and　this　sum　would　pay　a　week's　rent；　but　if　I　pawned　the　guitar；　where　would　I　be　then？
　　I　decided　to　take　a　chance　and　temporarily　invade　the　world　of　music。　As　a　last　resort；　when　push　came　to　shove；　I　could　pawn　the　instrument。　I　removed　my　wristwatch；　waited　until　the　sweep　hand　hit　twelve；　picked　up　my　guitar　and　played　my　three　songs　in　succession　all　the　way　through。　Time　elapsed：　seventeen　minutes；　fourteen　seconds。　Not　a　lot　of　time　for　a　guitar　concert；　but　I　had　nothing　to　lose　by　trying；　and　the　songs　were　all　different。　Perhaps　some　bar　owner　would　put　me　on　for　a　few　dollars　in　the　evening。
　　I　shucked　out　of　my　black　cowboy　shirt；　which　was　getting　dirty　around　the　collar；　even　though　it　didn't　show　very　much；　and　changed　into　a　clean　white　shirt。　I　retied　my　red　silk　neckerchief；　slipped　into　my　corduroy　suit　and　looked　at　myself　in　the　dresser　mirror。　I　looked　clean　and　presentable。　The　red　kerchief　looked　good　with　a　white　shirt　and　my　gray…green　corduroy　suit。　The　cheap　straw　cowboy　hat　pushed　back　from　my　forehead　was　just　the　right　touch　for　a　would…be　guitar　player。　I　had　burned　my　name　into　the　yellow　box　of　my　guitar　with　a　hot　wire　two　years　before；　so　all　I　had　to　do　was　write　something　simple　on　a　piece　of　paper　and　get　going。
　　I　took　a　fresh　sheet　of　paper　out　of　my　notebook；　sat　down　at　the　desk　and　looked　at　it；　trying　to　figure　out　a　strong　selling　point　for　my　slender　abilities。　At　last　it　came　to　me；　a　simple　straightforward　statement　of　fact。　In　large　capital　letters　I　wrote　JOB　on　the　page；　and　put　the　slip　of　paper　in　my　shirt　pccket。　If　a　prospective　owner　was　interested　in　the　word　JOB　he　would　give　me　an　audition。　If　I　got　an　audition；　my　guitar　would　have　to　talk　for　me。
　　I　checked　the　little　square　felt…covered　box　inside　the　case；　and　there　were　plenty　of　extra　plastic　picks　and　two　new　strings　wrapped　in　wax　paper。　As　I　started　toward　the　door；　carrying　my　guitar；　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　my　grim；　determined　expression　in　the　mirror。　I　almost　laughed。　I　made　an　obscene　gesture　with　my　thumb　at　my　grinning　reflection　and　left　the　room。
　　
　　
　　The　time　was　only　ten　thirty。　There　were　dozens　of　bars；　cabarets　and　beer…and…wine　joints　in　Jacksonville；　and　I　decided　to　cover　them　all；　one　by　one；　until　I　found　a　job。
　　I　entered　the　first　bar　I　came　to　down　the　street　and　handed　the　slip　of　paper　to　the　bartender。　He　glanced　at　it；　gave　it　back　and　pointed　to　the　door。
　　At　the　bar　on　the　next　corner　I　tried　a　different　tactic。　I　had　learned　a　lesson　in　the　first　bar。　Before　presenting　my　slip　of　paper　to　the　man　in　the　white　jacket；　I　made　the　sign　of　the　tall　one；　and　put　change　on　the　bar　to　pay　for　the　beer。　Beer　is　the　easiest　drink　there　is　to　order；　whether　you　can　talk　or　not。　No　matter　how　noisy　a　place　is　you　can　always　get　a　bartender's　attention　by　holding　stiff　hands　out　straight；　the　right　hand　approximately　one　foot　above　the　left。　This　gesture　will　always　produce　a　beer；　draft　if　they　have　it；　or　a　can　of　some　brand　if　they　do　not。
　　〃Sorry；　buddy；〃　the　bartender　returned　my　slip　of　paper；　〃but　I　don't　have　a　music　and　dancing　license。　I　couldn't　hire　you　if　I　wanted　to。〃
　　I　finished　my　glass　of　beer　and　returned　to　the　sidewalk。　A　license　for　music　and　dancing　had　never　occurred　to　me；　but　that　simple　requirement　narrowed　my　search。　I　decided　to　bee　more　selective。　After　bypassing　several　unlikely　bars；　and　walking　a　half…dozen　blocks；　I　came　to　a　fairly　nice…looking　cabaret。　There　was　a　small　blue　winking　neon　sign　in　the　window　that　stated　Chez　Vernon。　The　entranceway　was　between　a　men's　haberdashery　and　a　dosed　movie　theater。　To　the　left　of　the　bar　entrance　another　door　opened　into　the　package　store；　which　was　also　a　part　of　the　nightclub；　and　there　was　a　sandwich　board　on　the　sidewalk　announcing　that　the　James　Boys　were　featured　inside　every　night　except　Sunday。
　　There　were　four　eight…by…ten　photos　of　the　James　Boys　mounted　on　the　board；　and　I　studied　them　for　a　moment　before　I　went　inside。　They　wore　their　hair　long；　almost　to　the　shoulder；　but　they　had　on　Western…style　clothes。　They　were　evidently　a　country　music　group。　In　the　smiling　photos　two　of　them　had　Spanish　guitars　like　mine；　one　held　an　electric　guitar　and　the　remaining　member　peeped　out　from　behind　a　bass。　I　entered　the　bat
　　The　bar　was　in　a　fairly　narrow　corridor…most　of　the　space　it　should　have　had　was　crowded　out　by　the　partitioning　for　the　package　store…but　there　were　approximately　twentyfive　stools；　and　a　short　service　bar　at　the　far　end。　Only　one　bartender　was　on　duty；　and　there　was　only　one　customer　sitting　at　the　first　stool。　The　customer　sat　with　his　arms　locked　behind　his　back　glaring　down　distastefully　at　a　double　shot　of　whiske