Half of Paradise Read Free Page A

rainwater.

J.P. WINFIELD

    He was twenty-seven years old and he had a seventh-grade education, and he had never been more than sixty miles from his home. J.P. sat in the corridor outside the audition room and smoked cigarettes. The fans were off and he was sweating through his clothes. The Sears, Roebuck suit he wore was light brown, almost the color of canvas, and the sleeves and trousers were thread-worn and too short for him. Some people went by and he put his shoes under the chair so they wouldn’t be noticed. They were unshined and the stitches were broken at the seams. His polka dot clip-on bow tie was at an angle to his shirt collar. He took his guitar out of its case and tuned it again to pass the time. It was the only thing he owned of value. He had paid forty dollars for it in a pawnshop. It had twelve strings, and he kept the dark wood shined with wax. His fingertips were callused from practice.
    He looked at the secretary behind the desk. She had on high heels and hose and a white blouse. She held her back very straight and her breasts stood out against the blouse. He thought how he would like to sleep with her. She went inside the audition room and came back out again.
    “Mr. Hunnicut will see you now,” she said.
    J.P. put out his hand-rolled cigarette under his shoe and placed the guitar back in its case. From the corner of his eye he watched the secretary sit down in her chair. Her skirt creased across the top of her thighs. He went into the audition room and saw a fat sweating man dressed in a white linen suit and candy-striped necktie sitting in a folding chair with a pitcher of ice water by his side. There were some other men standing around whom J.P. didn’t look at. The man in the linen suit filled his glass from the pitcher and swallowed two salt tablets.
    “What do you do?” the man said.
    “Play twelve-string guitar and sing,” J.P. answered. “I seen your ad in the paper about the talent show.”
    “You know there’s an entrance fee of five dollars.”
    “I give it to the secretary.”
    “All right, go ahead. Sing.”
    J.P. felt nervous. The other men were watching him. He thought they were smiling. He put the leather strap around his neck and began. He hit the wrong chords and his voice cracked. One of the men laughed.
    “Shut up, Troy,” said Hunnicut, the sweating man in the white linen suit.
    “I reckon I’m nervous,” J.P. said.
    “Try it again,” Hunnicut said, bored.
Good morning, blues
Blues, how do you do?
I’m doing all right
Good morning, how are you?
When I got up this morning
Blues was walking round my bed
Yes, the blues walking round my bed
I went to eat my breakfast
The blues was all in my bread
I sent for you yesterday see me baby
Here you come a walking today
Yes, here you come a walking today
Got your mouth wide open
You don’t know what to say.
    Hunnicut leaned his weight back in the wood chair and looked at him. He spit on the floor and took a drink of water.
Good morning, blues
Blues, how do you do?
I’m doing all right
Good morning, how are you?
    J.P. finished and put his guitar back in its case.
    “Do you write your own music?” Hunnicut said.
    “That’s one of Leadbelly’s songs. I heard him once when he first got out of the pen.”
    “Who’s Leadbelly?”
    “He was in Angola. He’s the man that made a twelve-string guitar.”
    “Here’s a card. It will get you in the door tonight,” Hunnicut said.
    “Do I get my five dollars back?”
    “No, you don’t get it back. Do you want to use one of the electric guitars tonight?”
    “I don’t play on no electric guitar,” J.P. said. “It ruins the tone.”
    “You got another suit besides that one?”
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Nothing. It looks fine.”
    “Let him wear a pair of overalls,” one of the other men said.
    “Don’t mind Troy,” Hunnicut said. “He’s got a mouth disease. It don’t know when to stay shut.”
    Troy was a member of Hunnicut’s show. He was from