My name’s Walter. You probably don’t know me, but you may have heard me playing the guitar. You wouldn’t know it, though. I’m a studio musician, mostly playing at Modern Recording on Chicago’s South Side. When they want someone who can do that old Motown stuff, sometimes I get the call.
I play live two nights a week in a four-piece band at the Moonlight Lounge in the Pilsen neighborhood too. That’s just north of China Town. You can buy one of our CDs from the bartender.
I’ve been known to drive a shift or two for Yellow Cab as well. A man’s got to eat. Days like this cause me to wonder why. A cold gray November day in Chicago with the wind swirling around, more people than normal were ill-tempered and surly. I’d had a man curse me out when he missed his flight out of O’Hare Airport like I was personally responsible for the traffic. Naturally he didn’t tip me; I had to argue with him just to collect my fare.
I’d had a woman get sick in the back seat. I’m just glad she remembered where she lived. I was pulled to the curb along Seventy-Sixth Street in Auburn Park, cleaning up the mess.
That’s what I was doing when I was dispatched to an address on Cottage Grove Avenue for a pickup. Single passenger to 1035 East 67th Street, I knew that address. It’s Oak Woods Cemetery, which has been a Chicago landmark since 1853. It’s a big place. It turned out I was familiar with the pickup point as well, although I hadn’t recognized the address. It was Cotton Pickin’ Records, an aged building on the far South Side of Chicago in a bad neighborhood off Cottage Grove Avenue. I’ve played there.
A woman stood just inside the glass door, peering out and watching for me. That’s always a good start. No-shows don’t pay fares or leave tips. She had a startlingly large Afro and held a bouquet of flowers. She stepped out and locked the door behind her. I wondered if I knew her; she looked familiar with her hair fixed like that, dressed stylishly and her nails done.
We confirmed the address she wanted to go to. “Actually, I just want to stop there for a few minutes; if you’d wait, I’d appreciate it, with this rain.” That sent up some signal flags for me. People have tried to duck out on fares using that ploy then they disappear out the back door or whatever. Looking at her in the mirror, I didn’t think that would be the case this time.
I finally had to ask. I told her, “I’ve played at Cotton Pickin’ Records. Do I know you?”
She leaned forward and looked at my cab card. “Maybe you do. I’m Chantel. I run the front desk, been there a long time.”
“Cool,” I told her. “Waiting is no problem. I’ll be glad to do it. I’ll even stop the meter for you.” I doubted she would take much time outdoors with the cold drizzle coming down, dressed the way she was. There’s only one entrance to Oak Woods Cemetery although it’s a big place – 183 acres. You can drive around to the various sections once you’re inside. Chantel directed me.
“This is good right here,” she finally told me. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Take your time,” I assured her as she climbed out of the cab with her flowers. She walked a few hundred feet to one of the markers where she placed the bouquet. She had some difficulty with her heels in the wet turf. I flipped my status to “out of service” and watched her idly. She was obviously talking aloud; I could see her lips moving but couldn’t hear what she was saying.
Then she stood up straight and raised her voice in song, “Precious memories, unseen angels – Sent from somewhere to my soul.”
I felt as if I was intruding on a very private moment as I listened. She sang it all the way through, all six verses, never faltering once.
She raised her voice louder as she sang the last stanza, ending with, “Precious memories fill my soul.” When she returned to my cab, not all of the moisture on her face was rain. We were both silent with our own thoughts until I almost had her home.
“I couldn’t help but listen,” I told her. “Thanks for letting me share that with you.” I had enjoyed her beautiful singing, and I really liked the idea of her doing that. For a few minutes, she had made the sun shine in Oak Woods Cemetery. Maybe today wasn’t such a bad day after all.
She smiled. “Audience of two, today. I just didn’t want him to be alone.”
As she left my cab, I wondered who the other one was – father, brother, husband? Someone else? I didn’t know, but whoever he was, he was still remembered and loved, and he wasn’t alone.
About the Author:
Author lives in the Midwest USA. Many of his crime, music and speculative fiction stories are set in Chicago.
