From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [263]
“Man,” Slade, the Air Corps boy, said. “Man, thats reet. You talk about blues, man, thats really blues.”
Andy shrugged. “Gimme a drink.” Prew handed him the bottle.
“Thats blues,” Friday said. “You cant beat blues.”
“Thats right,” Prew said. “We got an idea for our own blues,” he told Slade. “An Army blues called The Re-enlistment Blues. Theres Truckdriver’s Blues, Sharecropper’s Blues, Bricklayer’s Blues. We’ll make ours a soljer’s blues.”
“Hey,” Slade said excitedly. “That sounds fine. Thats a swell idea. You ought to call it Infantry Blues. Christ, I envy you guys.”
“Well, we aint done it yet,” Prew said.
“But we’re going to,” Friday said.
“Hey, listen,” Slade said eagerly. “Why dont you use what Andy just played for your blues? Thats what you ought to do. That would make a great theme for a blues.”
“I dont know,” Prew said. “We aint quite worked it all out yet.”
“No, but listen,” Slade said enthusiastically. “Could you do that?” he asked Andy eagerly. “You could make a blues out of that, couldnt you?”
“Oh, I reckon,” Andy said. “I reckon I could do it.”
“Here,” Slade said excitedly, “have a drink.” He handed him the bottle. “Make a blues out of it. Finish it up. Repeat the first line with a little variation and then bring it all down to a third line major ending. You know, regular twelve bar blues.”
“Okay,” Andy yawned. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and handed the bottle back and picked up the guitar and went back into the private sealed communion with the strings.
They listened while he fiddled with it. Then he played it for them. It was the same mock-haunting minors, only this time set into the twelve bar blues framework.
“You mean like that?” Andy said modestly. He laid the box down again.
“Thats it,” Slade said excitedly. “Thats a terrific blues. I bet I got five hundred records back home, and over half of them are blues. But there aint a blues I ever heard could touch that blues. And that includes Saint Louis.”
“Oh, now,” Andy said demurely. “It aint that good.”
“No, I mean it,” Slade said. “Hell, man, I’m a blues collector.”
“You are?” Andy said. “Say, listen,” he said, forgetting to be bored, “have you ever heard of a guy named Dajango? Dajango Something.”
“Sure,” Slade said expansively. “Django Reinhardt. The French guitarman. You pronounce it Jango. The D is silent. He’s the best.”
“There!” Andy said to Prew. “You see? You thought I was lyin. You thought I was makin it up.” He turned back to Slade excitedly. “You got any of this Django’s records?”
“No,” Slade said. “They’re hard to get. All made in France. And very expensive. I’ve heard a lot of them though. Well what do you know,” he said. “So you know old Django?”
“Not personally,” Andy said. “I know his music. Theres nothing like it in the world.” He turned to Prew. “Thought I was kiddin you, dint you?” he said accusingly. “Thought I was ony makin it all up. What do you think now?”
Prew had another drink and shrugged defeat. Andy did not even see it. He had already turned back to Slade and launched into his story.
Andy only had one story. It was as if it was the only thing in his whole life that had ever happened to him, the only experience that had impressed him strongly enough to provide a story. Prew and Friday had both heard it a thousand times but they listened now as intently as Slade while Andy told it, because it was a good story and they never got tired of hearing it.
It was a story of Frisco and low hanging drifts of fog, the kind of fog a Middle-Westerner or Southerner half expected a Chinese hatchet man to step out of in front of you as you walked up and down the steep rain-water-running rough-brick-cobbled streets. It was a story of Angel Island, big sister of Alcatraz, the Casual Station in Frisco Bay where you waited for the transport that would ship you over.
Andy’s story brought Angel Island back to all of them: The President Pierce, the little launch that would take you over and deposit you at the foot of Market Street to go on pass; it brought back the Rock wit