Tim Perlich, Senior Music Writer
The cornfields of Germantown are filled with strong educated types who took me for an easy mark. If their dogs could talk they'd say, "don't even think about crossin' him, bub." They know.
My dad always had the idea that I was gonna take over his fry truck business soon as I was old enough to see over the dashboard. But as much as I loved those tasty hogs ears he'd sizzle up - especially with that special hot sauce of his... mmm buddy - I couldn't see myself spending the rest of my days knee deep in beef fat. And in those days, you couldn't tell me nothin'. Ain't much changed.
Now there are some members of the Memphis police force who will swear up and down that I had something to do with Koller's Drug Mart being robbed. They had the wrong man and I wanted to clear my name but that's not the way things worked out.
You see, on that particular night, Bobbie Joe James and me had snuck into the back window of the Woolworth and we spent the night huffin' lighter fluid in plastic baggies. That's the truth but it's not an alibi you can use to stay of lock-up. I've never been one to overstay my welcome so I packed my bag and headed North.
Pegleg Richards was the one who told me that a decent picker could make a good honest living playing the blues in Chicago. The way I figured, if all the best bluesmen from Mississippi, Memphis and parts of Arkansas were there already, there'd be lots of openings for a country and western players.
Soon as I arrived in the Windy City, everybody told me they were looking for musicians over at Lonnie's Skyway on 69th at Wentworth. So I went to see Mr. Lonnie Lee at his liquor store . across the street and, man, it was my lucky day. It turned out that Lonnie Lee was the next door neighbor of my second cousin's godfather. Imagine that, we were practically family!
At least that's what I tried to tell him when he hauled out his sawed off Remmington and asked me, real politely like, to "kindly remove my country ass" from his premises. I could tell that the buckshot I caught in my right shoulder was gonna make it difficult to throw a bottle of gasoline any great distance but after a week of recuperation I was up for the challenge.
The music business was a little rougher than I anticipated so I started looking for other kinda jobs. While hanging out at Florence's on 54th and Shields, I ran into a fella they called Righthand Russell - don't ask - who got some hours on Thursday's at a Southside meat packing plant.
Man, you could've bought me for a penny when Righthand told me that the packers were just throwing the hog's ears in the garbage. "Let me at 'em," I told him straight off, "there's gold in them there ears!"
Freddy Green who hung out at the Hi-Lo Lounge on Madison had a brother with van he tried to sell me cheap when I first hit town. Never had use for it then but I thought, with a little fixing, it would make a fine fry truck. And sure enough it did. Every Thrusday and Friday night, I'd park my truck outside the Seely Club and sell those yummy ears as fast I could cook 'em. At a buck a back, or $1.75 for two, I clearing more dough in a night than my daddy could sock away in six months including his handy work.
It was all going smooth as cod liver oil until Righthand got a truck of his own and started cashing on pig snoots. I knew once folks got a taste of those pickled snoots, my ear fryin' days were numbered. You can't really blame the Chicago Police for trying to stick me with an arson rap after both Righthand's Snoots trucks mysteriously caught fire in the parking lot behind Levonna's at 51st and Wabash. Of course I was the natural suspect but I know who really did it.
To be honest, if I hadn't got the offer to be what they call a "Senior Music Writer" for Now Magazine in Toronto, I'd be helping with the investigation at this very minute. But I'll tell you what, I'm just happy to be paid good Canadian dollars to pick up soggy dance club flyers off the sidewalks - at least until the heat blows over.
