The Lenox Rendezvous

Seventeen

Chapter One

Joyce Douglass was furious as she paced the lobby of Chicago’s legendary Lincoln Theatre. She had three good reasons: 1) her boyfriend, Little Willie Turner was onstage and she was missing his show; 2) her sister and brother-in-law were late, as usual, which was making her miss Willie’s show; and 3) she was due to be onstage in twenty minutes and still had to put on her performance outfit.

Joyce was also annoyed that she had to conceal her anger at her sister who hadn’t been on time for an appointment since her first day of school in 1955, because fans kept walking up and asking for her autograph. However, Joyce fervently believed that holding in your emotions led to a short life, so over the years her friends had grown to love her more for her honesty, than for her tact.

Yet to these strangers who loved her music and had actually come out to this overpriced "100% GOLDEN SOUL REVUE FEATURING LITTLE WILLIE TURNER" for which she was being pitifully underpaid, Joyce felt that she owed a decent attitude.

But upon seeing her sister grandly waltzing into the theater lobby after having her tickets torn at the door, Joyce rushed over to her shouting: Damn, Cheryl! Where the hell have you been? You’re making me miss Willie’s set! startling the elderly ticket taker into a near coronary.

Joyce’s sister, Cheryl, having spent over five decades triggering hostile responses in family, friends and business associates due to her pathological tardiness, had developed an effective response protocol of 1) warmly greeting the person she had kept waiting, and 2) never hearing anything that they had to say for the first five minutes prior to their achieving a mood of post-annoyance pleasantness.

Joyce, had discovered her sister’s karmic jiu jitsu trick many years before and being fully committed to the complete purging of the deadly unreleased anger germ, which she believed could lead to anything from ulcers to cancer, had developed a response to being kept waiting by Cheryl. She would maintain an extended virtual conversation with her sister until her anger had naturally faded. To which Cheryl would smile and was always blissfully, relentlessly and annoyingly pleasant while Joyce’s clouds slowly floated away.

Many of Joyce’s fans gathered in the lobby were surprised at the sight of Joyce, pulling a chicly-dressed middle-age woman by her arm, who in turn was pulling a tall, conservatively-dressed man, across the lobby towards the door of the auditorium.

Cheryl seemed not to notice Joyce’s strong-arm technique as she bubbled: Sister, this theater is just so beautiful! James, look at this elegant burgundy colored rug. And that beautiful mosaic on the wall…Joyce, you work in the loveliest places!

Pulling the auditorium doors open, Joyce responded: Yeah, backstage is a regular museum. She gently pushed her sister through the door and said to her brother-in-law: James! Your seats are in the fifth row center. If anybody is sitting there, call an usher to throw them out. After the show I’ll meet you two over there by the backstage door! She pointed at a door marked "EXIT" at the front of the theater on the right side.

Onstage, the orchestra was blasting and the audience in the auditorium was exuberantly screaming: Go Willie! Work it Willie!"

Following her husband down the theater aisle, into the noisy auditorium, Cheryl turned back to Joyce and yelled: Sister, that’s Willie up there, isn’t it?

Joyce responded: Yes, Cheryl. See you later. Cheryl waved and walked down the aisle. Joyce smiled and closed the auditorium door. As she rushed off to change for her show, she laughed at Cheryl’s question about Willie, since Joyce had been dating Willie for twenty years and Cheryl had only seen him perform about a hundred times. She could never stay mad at that crazy woman!

Ten minutes later, Joyce was backstage in her dressing room, dressed and touching up her makeup. In the cracked mirror she surveyed the small, dirty room behind her. A broken window had been replaced with cardboard. The paint on the walls and ceilings was cracked and peeling. Where the paint was intact, the space was covered with vulgar, graphic graffiti.

Joyce said to herself: Yeah, a real museum!

Minutes later, she was moving through the wings of the backstage area. Joyce stepped around a large, half-filled bucket of filthy water and walked over to a spot where she could watch Willie working the audience into a frenzy.

Standing next to her was a stocky, bald man in a blue tuxedo. The man watched Willie perform with a cold, almost hostile expression.

After all of the annoyances of her sister’s lateness, the short money for the job and the filthy theater, watching Willie as he swept across the stage singing and dancing to the screams of the Benetton-baby boomer audience, washed all of her tensions away.

Watching his face, Joyce could see the pure joy that he derived from performing. His music made her remember things that made him so special to her.

Joyce remembered the first time that she saw Willie perform. She was seventeen. She and a bunch of girlfriends had played hooky from Walton High School to catch the first show on Friday at the Apollo. Willie was the opening act on the bill of six acts with his first hit, Doing The Stroll. It was his first tour on the circuit and his clothes were very country, his dance moves weren’t great, yet there was something about Willie’s performance that grabbed Joyce and everyone else in that traditionally tough first show audience.

In moments, the Apollo audience started to believe in this Willie Turner. They got caught up in his wide open love for what he was doing. The entire audience began clapping their hands and rocking in their seats to Willie’s music.

Forty years later, after performing thousand concerts of her own, Joyce stood in the wings, dancing in place like she did as a high school girl.

The man standing next to Joyce looked at her askance.

Joyce shook her head in amazement, smiling and clapping. Willie always could drive the crowds crazy.

The man kept staring at the stage, snorted and said: He should. He stole my act to do it.

Having heard this man’s lament a thousand times, Joyce responded without looking at him or missing a beat.

Buster, please.

Buster brightened up at the opportunity to defend his theory that he was the sole originator of rock and roll.

Please what? Everybody knows Willie got over by imitating me.

Joyce kept right on clapping. Everybody must be those winos in your backup group.

Buster was shocked at how effortlessly Joyce had slapped him down. How did she know about Lee and Jimmy’s drinking problems? He sputtered, I don’t have any winos in my group.

Joyce turned and stared at Buster. Honey, those fools spill more wine than most winos drink.

Buster instantly regretted that he had forgotten the danger of messing with Joyce.

She suddenly became annoyed that she had let Buster draw her into this stupid argument, so she decided to wipe him out quickly and mercifully.

Besides that, I’ve been watching you work for twenty-five years and on your best day you couldn’t touch Little Willie with the flu!

Buster decided that he had better quit while he was ahead.

Out on the stage, Willie was at the peak of his number. He did a sliding step that carried him to the edge of the stage. Then he did a double spin upstage and fell into position to do a split. Next Willie looked out at the audience, slowly waved his finger No, jumped up and danced offstage to screams, applause and cheers.

The Master of Ceremonies raced across the stage, grabbed Willie by the wrist and pulled him back onto the stage. As the band continued to blast, Willie took a bow and exited the stage.

As Willie entered the wings where Joyce and Buster were standing, Joyce rushed up, handed him a towel and hugged him.

Willie, that was really something!

Hanging back, Buster shrugged. You did pretty good, Man.

Sweating profusely, Willie smiled. Thank you, Buster. Out of breath, he wiped his face with the towel and put his arm around Joyce.

Honey, you know I owe all that out there to Buster?

Astounded, she turned on Willie. And how is that?

Willie smiled warmly at her. Cause everybody knows that I’ve been stealing Buster’s moves for years.

With a sense of supreme validation, combined with a profound regret that no one was there to hear what Willie said other than big-mouth Joyce, Buster gave Joyce a slight nod, said, I told you! and rushed off before she could spoil the moment with one of her legendary quips. He felt ten years younger.

Willie and Joyce walked on smiling. Willie was still trying to catch his breath.

Joyce asked, Willie Turner, why do you humor that fool?

Willie chuckled. What’s it hurt? According to Buster he taught James Brown to dance, Wilson Pickett to scream and Sam Cooke to croon.

Suddenly Willie a felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. He stopped walking and steadied himself on Joyce.

What’s the matter, Willie?

Willie couldn’t get a grip on what was happening. The backstage area seemed to be moving under his feet. He wanted to sit down and catch his breath. He needed a chair. Then, looking at Joyce, she disappeared in a cloud of spots.

Joyce…I…I…can’t see. Willie felt his legs give out and then Joyce was gone.

As he began falling to the floor, Joyce grabbed at him screaming, Willie!

Performers and members of the stage crew rushed up from all over the backstage area.

As Willie lay unconscious in Joyce’s arms, she softly cried to him: Willie wake up! Willie, stay with me!

She heard voices yelling, Call 911! Somebody get a doctor!

Meanwhile onstage, the orchestra kept blasting HOLD ON, I’M COMING to the screams of the audience.

Chapter Two

Ron Franklin stood across the street from the Carver Hospital and looked up at the huge, grey monolithic medical center, which could have easily passed for an urban penal institution.

Crossing the Chicago street, he dodged the chaotic traffic, as honking horns and screaming sirens violated the quiet zone called for by street signs all over the area.

Entering the hospital doors, Ron was hit by the piercing stench of hospital disinfectant. Painful memories flooded his mind of childhood visits to dying relatives at Harlem Hospital.

His expensive business attire made him stand out from all the people moving around the crowded lobby. The huge lobby reeked of desperation and poverty. It had been a longtime since Ron had swum in these waters. He hated this feeling of outsider. Yet a sense of loneliness rose within him, from his gut into his throat, to the threshold of taste. Then Ron checked himself. He swallowed hard, saw the sign for the Information Desk and strode over.

Seated behind the information desk was a stern-looking matron who appeared unmoved by the chaotic world swirling around her. Unemotionally, she stared at him and asked, May I help you?

With a smile, Ron said, Good afternoon. I believe that a friend of mine is here and I’d like to see him. His name is Willie Turner.

She replied, Yes, your friend is here but no, you cannot see him.

Her cryptic style alarmed Ron. What happened? Did he have a relapse?

As if unaware of his concern, she calmly continued. "No. There are just too many people