FAST FINGERS

by

Ed Mixon

When he finally stopped playing, the skinny goateed banjo picker’s blue eyes stared silently at his audience like a king. Then he tipped his white cowboy hat to the crowd. They went wild, hooting and screaming for more. 

Bobby Lee clapped so hard his hands hurt. Tonight, he thought, I’m going to meet the best damn banjo picker alive. He considered himself very lucky. He had a front row seat and a private dinner with Fast Fingers Martin, all courtesy of the Martha White Flour Company and a close friend of the family who’d put in the fix for him. Bobby Lee had watched each subtle chord change Fast Fingers, the living legend made, his fingers a blur as they flew up and down the strings.

           For an encore Martin played ‘Brown Eyed Susans With Blue Eyes’ and the crowd fell silent, but when he burst into ‘Stump Jumpers Breakdown’ people began dancing in the aisles, hooting and hollering. Again Martin tipped his hat, and left the stage.

           The crowd began chanting ‘Fast Fingers! Fast Fingers!’ Finally the old man strode back onto the stage and stared into the audience. The house, already in an uproar, Martin exploded into ‘Revenuer’ with a frenzy. Bobby Lee joined in with the others singing along and stomping his feet..

           When the show ended, Bobby Lee fought his way through the crowd to the stage door.

           “What kin I do for you, son?” growled a burly stage hand stopping him at the door.

           “I’m looking for Fast Fingers Martin. I’m Bobby Lee Jones and. . .”

           “Oh yeah,” a grin came to his face, “you’re the kid what won that flour contest. Old man Martin’s behind the door with the star on it,” pointing a meaty finger and spitting a brown stream of tobacco juice. “Better warn you though, he’s a strange one.”

           Bobby Lee walked to the door, swallowed hard and knocked. No answer. Not a sound. Not even movement. He knocked again, harder this time and waited. Before long the door opened.

           Bobby Lee stared. Martin was tall. Taller than he looked on stage. His close set eyes twinkled under white caterpillar eyebrows. His face thin and drawn with a protruding adam’s apple, set on a chicken thin neck that disappeared into a double buttoned shirt. His thumbs were looped carelessly into the waist of white pants held up by suspenders, his long fingers drummed a silent tune on his belly.

           “You wanna pick up yer jaw up kid an tell me what the hell yer beatin’ on my door for,” snapped the old man.

           “I--I’m Bobby Lee Jones. The winner of the Martha White Flour contest and. . .”

           He scratched his goatee. “Ah shit! Another one?” He stepped back out of the door. “Well get yer ass in here an let’s get this over with.” He studied Bobby Lee, “You a picker, kid?”

           “Yes, sir. I play a bit. Not near as good as you but maybe. . .”

           “Shit, kid. Don’t nobody play good as me. I’m the best ever been or ever gonna be, thas a fact. Been playing since I was knee high, forget now where I even picked the dang fool thing up,” he rattled off. “My music can calm a raging bull or thrill a listener to unspeakable means.” He grinned, “You believe that, kid? Done it once, calmed a bull, back in ‘58 I think it was. I can play like a gawd. You wanna hear the story, boy?”

           “Yes, sir,” beamed Bobby Lee leaning forward in his chair

           “Me and my band, the Elbow Benders, were doing a county fair near Texarkana. It was a hot sticky day and we was about half way through our first set when the crowd started screaming. I naturally figured it was for us, but it wasn’t. Seems this brahma bull got a might pissed off bout some fool kid throwing fire crackers into his pen and decided to kick the sides down. He’d tore through a lemonade stand, cause when I first laid eyes on him he still had a lemon on one of his horns. Well, he waltzed right into the field we were playing in. We just kinda watched, feelin’ safe an all up on our stage. Hell, it was one of them steel flatbed trailers they hauled heavy equipment on. We knew he wasn’t going to knock that over. Anyways, here’s that ol’ bull, rippin’ around, kicking his heels in the air and rammin’ his head into this trailer. Jake Weyons, my steel guitar man, use to be a rodeo clown. Jake figured he’d hop down there and tire that ol’ bull out by getting him to chase him around till the cavalry came. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but it wasn’t. Soon as Jake’s feet hit the ground that ol’ bull sent him flying bout twenty feet in the air. Jake didn’t know much about flying. Knew even less about landing. He slammed into the dirt with a bone rattling thud. Well I was pretty young back in those days and none too bright some’d say. I jumped down, banjo still round my neck. That ol’ bull stopped dead in his tracks an looked at me real hard like, his head hanging low, seeing me through them wild eyes of his. Well, here we are just looking at one another for a spell, neither one right sure what to do, an’ all of a sudden, that bull starts stamping the ground and snorting. Now I didn’t have no wings back then, still don’t to this day. All I could see was me flying through the air like Jake’d done, so I started pickin’ my banjo. Some say music can calm an animal and I was about to find out the hard way. I picked that banjo like my life depended on it. At the same time, I was praying to the almighty above. That ol’ bull was eating up the ground between us and I was getting a might worried ‘cause he weren’t slowing down none. Suddenly, he lets out this strange, wild snort and hits me. Not hard, but down I went, still playing. I spun round to see if he was coming back just in time to see him keel over like some drunk on an all night binge. I watched his chest heaving. Then I got me a powerful mean streak. I kept playing and praying, faster and faster. . . well, that ol’ bull couldn’t take it I reckon. He just up and stopped breathin’ all together. I done that to him, boy.”

           Bobby Lee swallowed hard, “You sure about that Mr. Martin? I mean about how your music killed that bull?”

           “You doubtin’ my word, boy?” snapped Fast Fingers. “Them fellers what butchered that ol’ bull told me his heart just exploded in his chest.” Martin looked long and hard at Bobby Lee, after a bit he asked, “You suppose to get dinner, ain’t ya?”

           “Yes, but if it’s too much bother then you can. . .”

           “I can tell you to take a flyin’ leap? Well it is a bother! But you won that there contest and a deals a deal far as I can figure. You just sit on down.” He pointed to a worn overstuffed chair. “I’m gonna get us some grub sent in.” Martin swaggered out the door.

           Bobby Lee looked around the cramped musty dressing room. A counter and mirror covered one wall, above it, a dozen or so unshrouded light bulbs. On the counter lay a hair brush, scissors, mustache wax and a box of finger picks. He eyed the three wood and chrome banjos that leaned against the wall, one, a rare White Lady without frets. Bobby Lee picked up the White Lady. If I had this, he thought, I could play as good as that old man. He carefully set the banjo back down. On the dresser he could see a pile of sheet music. He thumbed through the music, noticed the timing, the notation and elaborate right hand riffs. How the hell does he move them skinny fingers of his like that, he wondered. He found one tune he’d never heard of before and quickly shoved it into his pants pocket. Outside the door he could hear Martin yell at a stagehand. Bobby Lee picked up another banjo and began to play.

           Fast Fingers ambled in. “Boy, who told you to go an mess with my banjos?”

           Bobby Lee carefully set the banjo down. “Sorry,” he felt his face flush and sat back down in the chair.

           “Shit kid, you ain’t half bad. How long you been pickin’”

           Bobby Lee told Fast Fingers about the time he’d seen him play a bluegrass festival ten years ago. He told how he’d gone right out the same day and got a banjo of his own after that concert and had practiced and listened to all of Fast Fingers music.

           They talked as they ate and when Fast Fingers was finished he stood and stretched, “Bobby Lee, it’s bout time you get yer ass on down the highway. I gotta be in Mobile tonight and that’s a ways down the road.”

           Bobby Lee got up, put his hand in his pants pocket. The music was still there. He headed towards the door, “Thanks for your time, Mr. Martin, I ain’t never going to forget this night, never!”

           “Yea, yea, right kid. Just get yer ass in gear, it’s getting late.”

*  *  *

           “This is Ray, your DJ here at H.I.K.K. radio in downtown Tupelo, playing yer requests. This next one, “Pig Skinner” by Bobby Lee Jones, goes out to Betty Sue from Calvin. For you folks just tuned in, Bobby Lee is the kid we discovered by accident about four months ago. Fast Fingers Martin, move over! I think we’ll be hearing a lot from this boy. Our lines are open so keep them requests coming.”

*  *  *

           Crickets chirped in the tall grass alongside Bobby Lee’s front porch. Slumped in the porch swing, he held his banjo and watched clouds drift like spirits past the full harvest moon. The air was sticky, tiny beads of moisture clung to the outside of his Budweiser can and rolled onto the porch as he sipped. A light breeze caressed the wind chimes as the tinkled odd tunes. He listened, eyes closed, and tried to play to their irregular tinkling. He got a lot of his music by mimicking the chimes.

           Down the road he could see headlights. He watched them jiggle through the trees and turn down his drive, the gravel crackling under the weight of the unfamiliar car as it rolled slowly to a standstill. The door opened and a familiar man unfolded himself.

           “What you doing way out here, old man?” He edged towards the screen door.

           “Shit kid, you knowed I get round to ya’ sooner or later.” Fast Fingers walked up the porch steps carrying a box and his banjo case. He settled in a chair, “You got another brew, boy?” He grinned, “I ain’t pissed, kid. Ya’ know, you’re one sneaky little bastard, that’s for damn sure. An you ain’t the first ever stole a tune from me. Shit son, we all gotta start somewheres.”

           Bobby Lee handed Martin a beer, spilling some on the porch in his haste and watched it drip through the cracks. “So,” he tried not to look into Martin’s eyes. “What you want from me, old man?”

           The wooden chair creaked as Martin settled in. “Relax kid, I brung you some music.” He opened the box and pulled out a pile of sheet music and handed it to Bobby Lee. “Here kid, try an’ pick some of this.”

           Bobby Lee’s brown eyes narrowed, “I don’t get it, old man? I mean, I stole that music from you. Now you want to give me more?”

           “Ain’t playin’ no game, boy, thas for damn sure. I brought you this music cause I thought you might be able to play it. Others tried but couldn’t.” 

           Bobby Lee took the sheet of music with shaky hands, looked them over and picked up his banjo. At first he just picked a few notes to get the feel of the tune, then he started picking, gaining speed as he went. The music made him feel as if he were floating. Each tinny note fit perfectly with the next. He grabbed another sheet and another. Each melody more alluring than the last. Harder to play, but flowing smoothly into tricky chord changes and right hand patterns. Bobby Lee stopped picking, sat the banjo down and looked questioningly at Martin. “This is good stuff!”

           “I know it’s good. I wrote it.” Fast Fingers opened his banjo case and pulled out the White Lady. “My daddy gave me this,” he grinned. “It’s kinda special.” He pulled three dog eared yellowed sheets of music out. “How’s bout we play one together, boy? It looks easy enough but it gets to rollin’ like a big freight train goin’ down the side of the Smokies. Let’s give it a try.”

           Picking up his banjo again, Bobby Lee started to play and the music surged to life, Martin joined in.

           Bobby Lee’s fingers moved easily along the wooden neck, right hand playing various licks. “This isn’t bad,” Bobby Lee grinned feeling confident, fingers moving briskly. His arched digits worked the slender neck as if they had a mind of their own. He was mesmerized by the gradual increase in tempo and his own ability to control and play it. He felt the excitement of the tune surge through his hands and fingers. Each note he played flashed through his mind blindingly fast. 

           Then his grin began to fade. His whole body now felt as if it were speeding along with the music. His fingers on fire as they bent steel strings into chords. He could feel the weight of the banjo around his neck like a chain.  It had felt good at first, but then, the twinges of pain began. “Mr. Martin, I can’t stop!” His heart hammered in his chest like a locomotive behind his ribs, silk shirt soaked with perspiration. Hands and fingers moving faster, growing numb, eyes wide with disbelief. Bobby Lee stuttered, “What’s going on, old man!”

           Martin grinned a yellow grin and picked. “Shit kid, yer doin’ one helluva job. Better’n most the other thievin’ little bastards.”

           The finger picks on Bobby Lee’s right hand broke. Fingers still worked the strings. He played faster and faster. Blood trickled down the banjo’s neck, staining the mother of pearl inlays then dripped onto the banjo’s skin as he played. He could hear Martin play, and the music echoed in his head as it started to pound in his temples. Each tinny note burned itself into his brain. Bobby Lee closed his eyes, hoping to somehow ease the agony. All he could see were musical notes, spinning and swirling, combining into chords, over and over again. Eyes surged and pounded behind clenched eyelids. Tongue pressed tight against white teeth. He gagged, played faster, biting off the end of his tongue as his fingers danced along the strings. Fragments of flesh and bone clung to the strings in clumps then dropped. The music grew louder still. Made his head feel like it would split apart. Dark shadowy shapes drifted into the music in his mind. Blurry at first, then becoming sharper, clearer. It was a bull, dark and ominous, with fiery red eyes, bucking madly across a background of sheet music. Bobby Lee could smell the hot musky odor of the animal as it mingled with his own sweat. Then the bull’s image broke up and faded into a million fragments. Bobby Lee’s eyes jerked open. He knew why Martin had come back.

           The windows began to rattle. Chimes clanged together from the sheer energy of the music. Bobby Lee heard banjo strings twang and break. He threw back his head as the tightness in his chest increased, finger stubs still working the strings. Through bulged eyes he saw Martin lean back into the wooden chair and pick up the White Lady.

           “Shit boy, you sure can play that thing. Too bad ain’t nobody ever gonna hear just how good you really are.” Martin laughed wildly and kept pickin’. “You know, I’ve always been partial to ‘Brahma Bull Breakdown’ myself, course ain’t found nobody else who can pick it for long. Sneaky little bastards like you try. None of you can ever do it though.”