KING

         In 1997 my dad sold his house and moved to a retirement community. He did so reluctantly but by his own choice. A shuttle service provided transportation locally but he had to find a ride when it came to cross-town travel. More and more frequently his rides were to rub elbows with old friends who had come together to say goodbye to even another old friend whose days had run out. “It’s a hell of a thing,” he would say, “when the only thing you can do for your friends is to die, so they have a reason to get together.” He would smile and we would laugh but the grim reality was unavoidable. I don’t know how many times I heard him say, “The curse of long life is that you lose all of your friends.”

         When my radio woke me up this morning the first sound bite was that B.B. King had died. He had been in Hospice care for several weeks and so it was no surprise. I can’t say he was a friend but I have been smitten by his music for decades. Another Mississippi poor-boy to make a name for himself with his guitar and the blues, B.B. King was a legend in his own time. For a long weekend in 1990, K.C. Blues Fest drew thousands of fans to the Liberty Memorial with several tent venues and a main stage. On Saturday night the main stage belonged to B.B. King. I was with my son and a mutual friend. We thought we would be early and get a good spot for the 9:00 show. Everybody else was early as well and our ‘best spot’ was a couple of hundred feet out on the grass and off to one side. But the music was great as we stood, packed together so tightly you couldn’t walk, only worm your way if you could do that. 

         A woman nearby thought she had been groped, turned and started cursing, shoving the man behind her. Her companion, a very large man, got into the shouting-pushing fray. Somewhere in the exchange we heard something about a gun and, ”Blow your ass away.” It was like reversing poles on a magnet, everybody close enough to understand moved as if sparked by the same nerve. We pressed away from the source, putting the squeeze on everyone around us, leaving them alone on a stage of their own. Three contentious people suddenly decided they didn’t want to be the center of attention and the storm went away as quickly as it had blown up. B.B. kept on singing, playing his legendary guitar ‘Lucille.” All eyes back on the stage and I wondered, ‘How many other little shoving contests were interrupted by better judgement and good music?’ 

         I remember the helicopter crash that took the life of Stevie Ray Vaughn. He was too young to go; too much undone music left undone. I felt like I had lost something. Then Ray Charles died. He was old enough, accomplished enough you could accept that his time had come, but he had to compete with Ronald Reagan who died two days earlier. I felt cheated as the week played out in political rhetoric rather than soulful music. Someone else would take Reagan’s place but who would save us from the blues, with the blues? B.B. was 89. I remember sitting in his blues club in Memphis, eating BBQ ribs, watching the King on the big screen. I was there last November, thinking he will probably not make it back to Beale Street again. Still, I can listen to his music any time I like.

        I have lost a few friends over the years but generally, friends are well and I get from place to place without need of a ride. I don’t feel that old but I understand that it will sneak up on you, and tonight I will go into the city to rub elbows with friends, share wine and cheese over another friend whose days have run out.