Thud!
Her head hit the table. Shortly after, the bartender called for her a cab and, with a swift flick of the wrist, locked up shop.
It was mid-November along the Mississippi and the town was experiencing a deluge, both figuratively and literally. Clarksdale, Mississippi is usually considered to be one of the drier towns in the U.S.; however, this year of 1939, a strong, wet front had been bombarding the area from the north without abandon. This, of course, was feeding the crops abundantly, which led to high production of good ole’ Mississippi bourbon, which led to high consumption of good ole’ Mississippi bourbon.
As the bartender, Oscar, turned the key, he noticed the young girl waiting, half asleep, on the corner for a cab that was, in a town as small as Clarksdale, obviously not coming.
“Can I walk you home, darling?” He asked
“What?”
“I said, it’s mighty wet out here for such a beautiful young girl to be exposed to for so long. Can I walk you home?”
“Well, aren’t you quite the Romeo?” She slurred. “You just git! I don’t need no one to walk me home. My cab will be here in just a minute.”
“Suit yourself, ma’am.”
Before he turned to walk home, he looked up at the last relic of his mother and father. He eyed it up and down, finally closing his eyes, saying a little prayer, and saying good night to the Tango Inn for the final time.
The Inn, as it had been called among the town folk, was an institution in Clarksdale for the last fifty years. It once played a major role in putting Clarksdale on the map, being the only hotel in a thirty seven mile radius. It was most famous for its dance contests. Folks came from all over the Mississippi to jitterbug, foxtrot, and lindy hop their way to local fame, not to mention all the bourbon they could drink in a weekend. Oscar, or Romeo, as, ironically, he had come to be known in these parts, partly due to his Casanovesque reputation with women, and partly because of his love for literature, particularly Shakespeare, lifted his head, said “Goodnight Tango,” and walked briskly home.
He decided he would take the long way home that night, not because it was scenic, he just felt like walking. He passed 10th Street, 8th Street, 4th Street, 1st Street, and finally met back up with the main route at 18th Avenue. It was particularly dark that night, dark, cloudy, and silent.
“Isn’t it especially creepy when you can hear nothing, and see nothing either, not even a star at night?” He thought.
As he approached his home, he saw a figure lurking about his stoop. The figure appeared to be human, but he was thrown off by what appeared to be two, glowing eyes, deep red, ogling idly in his direction.
“What’s this?” he uttered to himself.
He stopped, staring back, as if playing a childish game of “who will blink first.” He stood there, still staring, until his eyes were dry. He couldn’t help it any longer. He fought the urge to blink in fear of losing sight of the beastly figure. He put his fingers up to his eyes to keep them open, but in a fit of involuntary reaction, his eyes closed. In the instant upon reopening, a sudden chill came over him, a chill he had never felt before. The burning, ogling eyes were gone.
“I really need to stop drinking at work,” he thought.
The next morning was cold, considerably colder than is normal for an autumn morning in Mississippi. He opened his front door to see the horrible thing sitting right on his stoop. He picked it up, “1936-1939: Will They Ever Lose?”
He took the paper, tore it up, and used it as kindling to start a hearty fire.
“If I have to hear about those damn Yankees one more time, I swear!” He said to himself. “It’s bad enough we don’t have a team down here in the delta, but do those low-lifes have to win every year? My God!”
His voiced echoed through the neighborhood.
Today was Sunday, the one day a week he had the course all to himself. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer like virtually all of the town, so he chose this day to take advantage of the incredible golf Mississippi had to offer. He wasn’t much the duffer, but at least he had time to himself.
This Sunday was especially cold, so he expected an especially quiet morning on the course, but that was not the case. Upon arrival to the first tee, there was a man standing there. He was dressed in the garb of a northerner, and standing as if waiting for someone.
“You going to shoot or can I play through?” He asked, snidely.
“Actually, Romeo, do you mind if we pair up today? I was hoping you would show up.”
He stood there for a moment, staring into the man’s red, ominous eyes.
“I was actually hoping to have the course to myself, sir.”
“Sir?” he echoed. “Please, call me Seth.”
“Okay, I was actually hoping to have the course to myself, Seth.”
“Yourself?” he echoed. “Don’t you realize there is no such thing? Please, I insist, join me in a round.”
“Sir, uh, Seth, I’m sure you are a kind fellow, but I must insist on either shooting or allowing me to play through. I have much to think about and would like very much to think about it alone. How do you know my name, anyway?”
“Sierra, my daughter. Does that ring a bell?”
“Sierra?” He echoed. “No. You must have me mistaken for someone else. I know no one with that name.”
“She was in your bar last night. Her husband, Victor, found her this morning, lying on the corner, dead.”
“Dead?” He echoed. “I do remember a young woman…”
“Stop! She is dead! She was but three days from her birthday, November 19th. She was my little girl! I was her Papa!”
“Sir, Seth…”
“Stop, Oscar! Don’t say another word! You will play these eighteen holes with me or you will be ended where we stand!”
Not only did he know his nick name, but he knew his given name. He thought about running, but he looked behind him, only to see four men, large in stature, standing by the clubhouse, holding Louisville Sluggers. He had no choice, really. He had to see the match through. No matter the outcome, he was in for sure death, unless he could somehow find the right words to convince the man of his innocence.
“Okay, Seth, we shall play, but I must assure you, I have done no wrong.”
“Yes, you are wise, and I look forward to hearing you explain yourself.”
For a brief moment, before teeing off, he had one of those moments you read about in books. His life flashed before his eyes. He relived his first steps in his mind. He saw himself playing tag, Cowboys and Indians, checkers with his grandfather, and yet, all he could think about on this cold November day was the fact that he would no longer set foot in his parents dead legacy again, the Tango Inn. He may never even see someone dance the beautiful foxtrot ever again.
Finally, he teed off, shooting a modest, but straight, shot three ninths down the fairway. Shortly thereafter, the girl’s father, a menacingly strong brute, put the ball just over halfway to the hole.
“You know, they don’t have much of this sport in India.” The man pointed out.
“I don’t know much about places outside Mississippi, sir, uh, Seth, but from what I’ve read, yes, it is a place free of grass.”
“Grass? There is an abundance of grass there! Victor can attest to that!”
Out came the girl’s husband, as if appearing from thin air. He echoed and attested to the sentiments of the girl’s father. “Yes, there is plenty of grass, if you know where to look. Sierra and I spent the better part of three years in India. It’s also very easy to find quick sand.”
He saw right through the innuendo as if he had x-ray vision. He was trembling now, but he took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and took his next shot.
Even with all that was going on, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Tango. He knew he would never step foot in it again, but would he ever set eyes on it again? The answer was quite simple. If this Yankee had anything to do with it, the answer was a swift and solid “No,” but perhaps he could keep the game going long enough to talk his way out of it.
“That Sierra, she had been coming to the bar a few nights a week. She was a sweet girl. Never did get to talkin’ to her too much though. She was always too busy talking to my regulars. Now that I think about it, I did hear her mention living in India for a time. It sounded beautiful, the way she described it.”
“And who are these ‘regulars?’ What are you insinuating?”
X-ray vision.
“No, no sir! Please don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything. Your wife was a sweet girl and my ‘regulars’ are kind folks, they would never…”
“Take your shot.”
“You know, I’m not much into playing today. What do you say we go back to my bar and talk over a few glasses of homemade whiskey?”
“Take your shot.”
“Yes, take your shot.” Echoed Sierra’s father. “Besides, the Tango is in flames as we speak.”
“You can’t be serious! I’ve done nothing wrong! Why are…”
“Take your shot.”
It was clear. There was no getting through to these oafs. He gulped, took a breath, leaned over, and putted short of the hole. He couldn’t stop thinking of that girl. Sierra’s voice echoed in his head. “I don’t need no one to walk me home.” If Victor had only been there, he would know he did what he could to help her. He wasn’t going to be pushy. Now he couldn’t stop hearing the echo of her head hitting the table on that wet November night at the Tango.
“You’re away. Take your shot.”
“Huh? Oh.”
He sank the shot, picked up his ball, and waited for the two others to finish. It was astonishing how nonchalantly the men were going about themselves. Meanwhile he was trembling, breathing irregularly, and seeing flashbacks. He even overheard them talking about what the Yankees were doing in the offseason. This enraged him, but he was in no position to start fights over baseball.
It went on this way for the next nine holes, periods of absentmindedness interrupted by the goons’ impatience. His dread was growing as the game progressed. He was on the brink of tears, when he heard, “That Inn of yours, that used to be a popular venue for dance competitions a few years back right? I read about it in The Times. There were all types of categories too, like jitterbug and lindy hop, even foxtrot! Did you know that was made popular by a man named Oscar Duryea. Is that why your parents named you that?”
“No sir. I was named after my great grandfather, one of the most decorated soldiers to ever wear a Confederate uniform.
“Oh, so you’re named after a loser?”
“My great grandfather was a man among men. He sacrificed his life so that his brothers may live on.”
“Alright, Romeo. Take your shot.”
He couldn’t hold back. He suddenly found himself sobbing. The thought of never seeing the delta again echoed throughout his whole self.
“Quit you’re crying and golf, Romeo. Actually, no, keep crying. It is making this that much more satisfying.”
His fear grew so much that he began to go in and out of consciousness. He struggled to open his eyes. He took one big breath, felt a rush of ice run through his veins, and collapsed on the fairway.
In his state of unconsciousness, he began to dream. Images echoed and rippled in and out. He started dreaming of his great grandfather whom he had never met. He could even see his face. He was blinking in an unusual manner, until, yes, he was sending him a message. It read:
.. / . -.-. .... --- / - --- / -.-- --- ..- / - .... . ... . / ... . -. - .. -- . -. - ... .-.-.- / - .... . / --. .. .-. .-.. --..-- / ... .. . .-. .-. .- / .. ... / -. --- - / -.. . .- -.. .-.-.- / ... .... . / .. ... / .- .-.. .. ...- . / .- -. -.. / .-- . .-.. .-.. .-.-.- / - .... . ... . / -- . -. / .- .-. . / --- ..-. / -. --- / .-. . .-.. .- - .. --- -. / - --- / .... . .-. .-.-.- / - .... . -.-- / .... .- ...- . / -... . . -. / ... . -. - / ..-. .-. --- -- / ... .- - .- -. / .... .. -- ... . .-.. ..-. / - --- / - --- .-. -- . -. - / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- / .. - / .-- .- ... -. - / -.-- --- ..- .-. / ..-. .- ..- .-.. - .-.-.- / --. --- / - --- / - .... . / .. -. -. .-.-.- / - .... . .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / ..-. .. -. -.. / .... . .-. / ..-. --- -..- -....- - .-. --- - - .. -. --. / .-- .. - .... / ..- - -- --- ... - / ...- .. --. --- .-. .-.-.- / --- ... -.-. .- .-. --..-- / .-. --- -- . --- --..-- / -.-- --- ..- / -- ..- ... - -. - / -.-. .-.. --- ... . / - .... . / - .- -. --. --- .-.-.- / - .... . ... . / -.-- .- -. -.- . . ... / .- .-. . / -- . .-. . .-.. -.-- / .... . .-. . / ..-. --- .-. / - .... . / ... --- .-.. . / .--. ..- .-. .--. --- ... . / --- ..-.
The image faded away in a fantastic echo of silence. He awoke in his own house, in his own bed. He looked outside. The morning paper was just being delivered. In a flash, he rose out of bed, ran down to the front door, opened it up, looked down, and there it was. He picked it up and read aloud, “1936-1939: Will They Ever Lose?”
He stood frozen for a moment, not knowing whether to be happy or terrified. He started babbling to himself.
“What about those two goons? What about India? What about the golf? The hotel, the Tango, the girl’s papa? Okay Oscar, calm down. There was no India. There were no goons. It was a dream.”
He let out a huge sigh of relief, ripped up the paper, and started a nice hearty fire. After eating breakfast, he made his way toward the Inn. He was very attached to it. Letting go was going to be difficult. It was an unusually cold day, very below average for November in Mississippi. As he approached, he couldn’t help notice a peculiar aroma in the air. It was coming from the west and grew more intense as he neared the Tango.
“My God! Is that? It couldn’t be!”
But it was. This day, the 16th of November, he watched the most important relic of his family’s legacy burn to the ground in a black, noxious, fiery display of nature. He spent the next few minutes sitting on the corner watching the building, with all his memories along with it, die. This all sounded quite familiar.
“India!”
His blood curdled.
“November 19th.”
His blood boiled. He kept hearing the date in his head, echoing over and over again. It was the voice of the girl. He looked about, but everyone was at church. There was no one.
“Have I gone mad? I don’t understand! What is happening to me?”
Something came over him, and he rushed to the links. He crossed 74th Street, 60th Street, passed the Clarksdale Hotel. He was running now. He passed 34th Street, 14th Street, and finally made it to the course. There, he was met by four men, in the same uniforms he saw in his dreams. They did not appear to notice him however. They were too fixed on some figures way off yon.
He started sweating.
“It sure is hot for a November day in the delta!” He thought.
“Romeo!”
He looked up at the men. They weren’t looking in his direction.
“Where did that come from?”
He heard it echoed again, this time in surround sound. He started spinning, trying to find the sound. He was spinning and running. His mind was spinning and running. The voices grew louder and louder, when all of the sudden, he heard nothing.
This both pleased and terrified him. He started walking toward the figures. They looked fuzzy at his distance. The delta has a way of doing that. There is something in the air down there.
He made his way closer, hiding behind a tree. That’s when his jaw dropped.
“Is that? It couldn’t be. Is that…me?
He started sweating again.
He stood, behind the tree, staring in awe. He overheard ramblings of Sierra and India. He saw himself collapse to the ground, and just at the same moment, the two men looked in his direction. They were fixating on the tree he was hiding behind, as if they had x-ray vision, and without taking their glowing eyes off of his tree, he saw the girl’s husband pull something out of his pocket, point it down toward his other self’s collapsed body, and
