Perk Noir

By Chris Garson

What do jazz, coffee, football and ninja girls have in common? Me, that’s who, Mason Ezekiel Barnes. I’m a retired NFL tackle turned author, a big-headed man (as in large, not proud) living in a world dominated by small-headed people. Pinhead insults wear thin, especially when they come from Conrad Bancroft, whose head isn’t much bigger than a light bulb. That twerpy little gnome thinks he can write better than me and he writes about buffalo for God’s sake. Which would you rather read, a treatise on furry four legged beasts or the saga of Mia Killjoy, my naughty Bond girl, taking on evil Dr. Cockadoodle? I know, it’s crazy. I don’t get the critics’ infatuation with him either, but I will beat him. I will win my Pulitzer someday and then I’ll watch the gnome weep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Garson
• Release date: Feb 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311772206

Chris Garson

Officially, I was laid off and have a severance package to prove it, but really, it was an early retirement. Very early, I was just shy of fifty. When the time came to make the cut, I gladly volunteered. I’d had enough. Now, after three years of writing, rewriting and rewriting, I’m dipping my toe in commercial waters. I haven’t sold a word, not yet, but then again, I haven’t tried until now. Don't worry, I’m no starving artist. I provided twenty-five years of leadership as an IT executive with a Fortune 200 company. That’s a quarter century of corporate moments, some of which have already found homes in short stories. I was nationally known, in insurance technology circles, which is to say entirely unknown, led an organization commanding a nine figure budget not counting pennies, and spoke to thousands at industry events.THE CURSE OF ARVYL’S FOLLY is my first full length work seeking an audience since my fourth grade classmates were subjected to “Augusta the Dragon” forty-two years ago. After leaving Mrs. Hamilton’s classroom, I attended Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut, where I devoured fantasy and science fiction classics and became an avid gamer on my way to graduating with degrees in psychology and sociology and a minor in King Arthur. Now, I live in Cleveland Heights, Ohio and my seven year old son Neil lives on the east coast. I named my cats, China and Rider, from a Grateful Dead set list, and I still like dragons. My collection is large, Neil ran out of fingers and toes just counting the winged ornaments dangling from my mantel, and very cheesy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

From the shower, I heard my tiny Yorkie barking, which was definitely out of the ordinary. Snippy knew better. Our morning routine never changed: alarm, tongue bath, shower, dress, and breakfast. Then we walked to our spot, Perk Noir, the neighborhood coffee house where he was treated like an A-list celeb.

I was more curious than worried. Snip’s yip said that he didn’t consider our visitor dangerous. As my best friend in the world, we could almost finish each other’s sentences, though that was harder on the pooch given his limited vocabulary. Even so, talking with the Snipster was infinitely preferable to hearing Mom drone on about my failures. She never took my side and Snippy always did. Easy, boy, I yelled out. I’ll be down in a minute.

I toweled off, threw on my jeans and an old Browns jersey, and headed downstairs where Snippy was hopping around on his hind legs like a kangaroo. I tossed my notes and laptop into my backpack, stuffed a handful of Milk Bones into my jacket pocket, and snapped the leash onto his collar, not that he needed it. Snippy could make the walk to the Perk in his sleep. The little guy was pretty damned smart and the Perk was his favorite place.

Why wouldn’t it be? Perkheads (Perk Noir regulars) and Perkmeisters (employees) slipped him biscotti and other treats all the time. The Perk was good for his love life too. He had a crush on HVAC Hal’s Black Labrador, Aretha. He tried, Lord he tried, but was too old and too short for the romance to work.

I pulled the curtain aside and inhaled sharply. A small-headed, gnomish figure holding a cane in one hand and a leash attached to a Golden Retriever in the other stood on my front walk. I cracked the door open. What the hell are you doing here? Bancroft was so far down my list of favorite people that I was shocked he knew where I lived.

Great news, old chap, simply marvelous news. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather share it with first, he said in a faux British accent cultivated in Youngstown, Ohio. Who did the pretentious snot think he was fooling? No one from England said warsh. He thought he was better than me because of that doctorate hanging on the wall of his office at Case Western Reserve University. Big deal, it was a doctorate in history, not a real one. The schmuck even sucked on a Sherlock Holmes pipe, just for effect. He didn’t even light the damned thing.

Like I care. I was every bit as smart as he was, whether I looked it or not. People need to stop making assumptions based upon looks. It’s not fair to us giants and it’s even worse for us big-headed giants. I was born with an over-sized head and I’ve always been sensitive about it. I mean, it’s not Elephant Man big, think more Danny Glover or Merlin Olsen, but still, it’s a bigger noggin than anyone ought to have. Do you know how hard it is for me to find a hat that fits?

Bancroft fingered his salt and pepper goatee. Oh, I imagine you’ll care a great deal about this, Barnes. Let’s take a jaunt to the Perk. I’ll tell you all about my latest literary triumph on the way over.

Perk Noir was where I and, unfortunately, Bancroft did our writing. It was my second home. Hell, it was my first home. I spent more time there than my bungalow on Milford. I shouldn’t let the little gnome get under my skin so much, but he did. Latest literary triumph, my ass. Bancroft knew exactly how to push my buttons.

He and I were as different as two men could be. Ali vs. Frazier, but we made the Thrilla in Manilla look like Rockem Sockem Robots duking it out. Bancroft was my opposite in every way, a clear-cut winner of the most unlike Mason Barnes contest. At six foot ten, a solid three fifty, and a head too big for even my large body, I was a giant next to the small-headed gnome. The hunchbacked professor stood a hair over five feet and even if you stretched him out on a rack, I doubted he’d hit five six. With my mop of red hair and freckles, I was most often mistaken for a giant Ronald McDonald. Bancroft wore his thin wreath like a Caesar’s laurel. I dressed in jeans and a jersey or a t-shirt. The snob wore English hounds tooth jackets and pince-nez glasses, as if anyone would believe he came from London. He was an academic, lording his diploma like a club and me. I was an ex-jock with an NFL pedigree.

Bancroft and I had one thing in common – our love of the written word. After that, our similarities ended. Bancroft wrote historical fiction and I wrote spy novels, some called them trashy, starring my naughty Bond girl, Mia Killjoy. She’s a half-Asian, half-native American assassin trained by Yeti-worshipping Tibetan monks and employed by ANW, the licensed to kill, secret arm of the CIA. Her claim to fame was her preternaturally strong vagina, which could rip off a man’s pride. That tagline, by the way, was meant strictly in the comedic sense. If you’re imagining something vulgar then … cut it out! Seriously, don’t try to picture it. I don’t. I’ve written nineteen penile separations and have yet to think about, let alone visualize, the gory particulars. As they say, some things are best left to the imagination, except in Japan where they make anime porn flicks – they call it hentai – covering Mia’s sordid tales of emasculation in wayyyy more detail than I ever intended.

Hurry up old, chap. I’m bursting to tell you the news. Bancroft smiled like Heisenberg cooking a new batch of blue meth.

A terrible thought made me shudder. What if the whole professor gig was an act, a sham to cover shady business affairs? Did Bancroft have a secret, underground meth lab too? My thoughts drifted …

Fearing nothing so small, I stooped low and followed the gnome into the burrow beneath the garden. A hundred candles burned in the dank chamber, illuminating moss covered walls and a kettle suspended over a fire, from which a terrible odor issued.

"Breathe in the vapors," the gnome commanded.

I did. My chest tightened and my eyes started to swim. Within seconds, my legs were too weak to stand and I started to topple. Damn, the little fur ball double crossed me! I hoped I fell on him and squashed him like a pixie …

Snippy’s bark brought me back to a waking state. Proudly, I daydreamed often. It was the hallmark of a great writer.

Hold your horses, you little gnome. We’re coming. Snippy ran ahead to Rhonda as I closed the door behind me. Unlike Bancroft and me, our dogs got along well. I tossed each a Milk Bone, but Snippy jumped in front and stole Rhonda’s.

Bancroft, the dogs and I headed to the Perk, which lay just across the traffic circle at the end of the street. So, what’s this great news? I growled.

I say, had I mentioned submitting my recent book for the NWHF? The gnome leaned on his cane.

I scowled. It was just like Bancroft to rub his literary prowess in my face. You ever hear of the NWHF, Snip?

Two quick, low snarls from Snippy made his opinion clear.

I’d never heard of it either. Nope. Neither of us has.

Rhonda cocked her head, as if admonishing Snip and me for our uncultured ignorance.

Well, tis not unexpected. Bancroft twisted. His crooked arm lurched up to pat my shoulder. To a casual observer, it might appear an act of consolation, but I knew a setup when I saw one. The New World Historical Fiction award is a rather sophisticated one, well beyond the reach of someone with your … large head.

There it was. Knowing how self-conscious I was about my big head, Bancroft could never resist taking a jab. Small headed people always thought big headed people slow on the uptake. I’d been putting up with their jibes ever since I could remember. In school, the other kids came up with gems like ‘Hey Barnes, do you use a mattress for a pillow?’ or ‘Yo, Barnes, does your head have its own zip code?’ Bancroft’s head wasn’t big enough to fill out a baseball cap. At least I have one. What’s that on your shoulders, little gnome, a door knob?

Bancroft’s dirty look told me I’d gotten to him. Good, he deserved every bit of it. The light turned green and we crossed the street. I strode briskly, not caring that the hunchback had difficulty keeping up. By the time we reached the other side, he was puffing. As I was saying, before your poor attempt at humor, the NWHF is a very prestigious award and you’re looking at the 2012 winner, Barnes. They considered my work a ‘delectable literary treat’.

His accent was off. More proof my doorknob comment unsettled him. "What’s the matter, Bancroft? John Goodman sounded more British in King Ralph than you just did. I picked on him one, because he deserved it and two, because I was jealous of the gnome’s success. I’ve had some commercially, but literary acclaim, which I coveted most in the world, escaped me. I wanted to win a Pulitzer so bad I could taste it. I already had a spot reserved on my mantle for the trophy. Besides, who cares about that award? No one’s ever heard of the NHFZ."

Bancroft slammed his cane against the ground. That’s the NWHF, you big headed lout.

Whatever. I wanted to wipe the smirk off the little gnome and plant him in a garden. Which book are we talking about, anyways?

The buffalo book. He brushed off his sleeves, as if mere proximity to me had sullied him.

Are you kidding? They gave you an award for that? Shit, if that piece of trash could win, why weren’t Mia’s adventures required high school reading?

Bancroft’s laugh was shrill and tinny. They were practically tripping over themselves to give it to me. If you stop writing gutter trash, maybe you’ll win an award someday.

That bastard. So smug, so cocky, a goddamned picture of professorial perfection. I read I Herd a Stampede, Bancroft’s book set in the pioneer days about the declining buffalo population in the Ohio River Valley. Apparently the critics loved it, but I didn’t get all the fuss. What was so touching about a deaf girl raised in the wilderness by hairy four-legged beasts? It must be the diplomas on his wall. Obviously, they impressed the literary crowd more than the cleats hanging from mine, and his small head didn’t hurt either. Critics believed that good things did indeed come in small packages. Me, I’d been fighting the dumb giant stereotype my entire life and had the bruises to prove it. Did anyone ever question Bancroft’s authenticity? Perish the thought!

Congratulations, Bancroft. Thanks for sharing, I cracked. It’s not like I was a complete failure as an author. I’d written five novels and was working on my sixth. The first book, Mia Killjoy, was barely noticed upon its release by TOR in March of 2006. The one critic that did take notice described me as the Tim Tebow of pulp fiction. Screw him! As if anyone cared what the NY Times said? Now, if it had been the New Yorker or The Atlantic, I might have gone home and cried. That’s my dream, to have my work, my serious work, published someplace … you know, serious.

Mia Killjoy didn’t do well here in the States, but it was a surprise hit in Japan. The anime children’s series didn’t work out, but like I hinted before, Mia scored big in hentai. Now Japanese manga porn wasn’t the future I had in mind while taking Professor Coopers-Clarke’s lit classes at Iowa State, but the checks were gold as the NFL’s, so I cashed them, every last one.

After Mia Killjoy, I wrote Such a Killjoy and You’re a Killjoy? So am I! The hentai fans went nuts over the third yarn in the series. Twins. Gets them every time. I was working on my sixth Mia Killjoy book. Mia had a huge following. Horny teenage fanboys from 42 countries texted, sexted and messaged her at handles advertised on MiaKilljoyVaginalPride.com – my agent, Myron Wolshevski, picked the URL, not me. Cosplayers – those crazy people dressing up at Comic-con – loved her to death. Lionsgate was talking about making a real movie. I’d been down that road before, with New Line Cinema, Eon Productions and Paramount and been let down. Nothing ever materialized, despite many promises, so I didn’t get my hopes. I just kept my fingers crossed knowing all the while that movie deals, forays into hentai and Cosplayers didn’t impress the literary critics. Even after five moderately successful Mia books, they still slaughtered me while praising Bancroft at every chance.

Think nothing of it, Barnes old chap. Like I said, I wanted you to hear it first. His lips curved up in a cruel smile.

God, I can’t stand the little gnome! You’re so thoughtful, Bancroft.

We reached the intersection of North Park, Shelburne, and Chesterton, which is where you run smack into Perk Noir. You can’t miss it. It’s a big building, the only one on the large corner lot. Built back in 1918, it was named Hunt Manor after the building’s original owner, Trevor Hunt III. During Prohibition, the Treasury Department seized the property and then turned it over to the city of Shaker Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio.

Perk Noir was a great example of the Tudor Revival style so popular in the teens and twenties, when Shaker was booming. The ground floor exterior was brick and cottage stones pilfered from the English countryside. The upper floors, one plus an attic, were half-timbered with stucco and featured dormer windows overgrown with ivy. They angled to a steeply pitched grey slate roof. I’d never been to the attic, but I had visited the basement, which was a huge, sprawling place like Buffalo Bill’s basement in Silence of the Lambs. Mullioned windows sat to either side of the front door, which was painted burnt red and shiny from many coats of varnish. A cottage stone chimney climbed up the left side of the Perk and a round brick tower rose on the right. Viewed from the sidewalk, the asymmetry struck you like a dissonant chord.

See you inside? Bancroft asked while turning up the walk.

Doubt it. I headed around to the back, like I always did with Snippy, which was pretty much all the time. The little pup didn’t like the red front door. He didn’t like fire engines either.

Chapter 2

Out back I ran into Candy Korn, the latest in a long string of managers. Brett hired good people, mostly, but in the coffee biz, customers lasted longer than employees did. A loyal Perkhead since 2002, I’d outlasted twelve managers, forty-seven baristas, and two thousand four hundred and eighty four pieces of cobalt blue glassware.

Candy wore her hair in namesake yellow, orange, and white conical layers that made her head look smaller than it really is. She was transgender, very vocal in her opinions, and no, that wasn’t her real name, which is as much a secret as her real hair color. Candy believed that everyone in the Tea Party is an alien, that pot should be legal everywhere and that it’s a mortal sin to keep your natural born hair color. She cracked me up.

Yo, Mason. Hold the door? Hey, Snip. Candy was carrying an empty trash can in each hand. Tall and thickset, she wore low slung jeans on her hips with all the confidence in the world, a faded grey T-shirt and a spattered apron. Her vintage glasses, purchased from a boutique in Chelsea, were black and pointed.

Sure. Snippy barked hello. He liked Candy because of her handouts. Between my Milk Bones and her biscotti, it’s a miracle Snip didn’t tip the scales at over ten pounds, which for a Yorkie is almost as big as … me. I over-indulged the little Snipster. I knew better, but couldn’t resist when he begged. I did draw the line at ribbons. Not a single lick ever touched my beloved Yorkie’s head.

I’d been around dogs all my life. Growing up, lots of pups roamed the farm with silly names like She-Ra, my sister’s puffy, little Japanese Chin, who never wore ribbons either. We just didn’t do that in farm country. You’d never catch us dressing up our pets in little doggie sweaters or cute little hats. My favorite dog, and my best friend growing up, was Red, a droopy-eared bloodhound with the disposition of a faerie, except on the hunt, when he was relentless. The Onawa PD borrowed him several times. Once Red had a scent, he could track through a Roland Emmerich disaster film. He made the papers when he found little Clara Mortenson hiding in that barn before the twister tore it apart.

Is Brett back from vacation? I asked Candy. My buddy, Brett Barlow, owned the Perk.

She shook her head. He got held up.

Damn. He’d been due back a couple of days ago. I wondered what was keeping him.

Thanks, Mason, she said while scooting past me. I’ll get your cup ‘o Perk. We have that Costa Rican you like. Candy knew my tastes. No lattes, mochas, or caramel swirls for this farm boy. I took it straight. Black, no sugar, just the way Lightning liked it. Snippy followed her into the Perk even though he’d eaten his and Rhonda’s Milk Bones not five minutes earlier. My Snippy was a hobbit dog, always wanting second breakfast.

I held the door for an in & outer dashing past me to the parking lot. In & outers were people ordering to go. Us folks who stayed, we called ourselves cats – see Perk’s Rule #5, names should be jazzy. Cats hung out, digging the jazz, conversation, and steel. Cats might or might not be Perkheads – those are regulars, remember?

This particular in & outer was a Perkhead, a Monday to Friday early morning regular who perpetually ran late. A man with an average size head, he worked at a big accounting firm and always dressed in dark suits and shoes with tips curled up like an Elf’s. That morning he was late even by his standards. I’d held the door for him before. He usually said thanks, but he was so far behind schedule that he just rushed by as if I wasn’t there, which wasn’t easy. Me and my big head were pretty hard to ignore.

He clutched his latte to keep froth from splashing out the little hole in the lid while he ran. The other held something red, a scarf maybe, or a hat …

The Christmas Elf headed towards the red Audi A8 with green and white striping. He donned his Santa cap and clicked his key fob, transforming the car into a 24th century sleigh powered by Roddenberry nacelles. Jolly old St. Nick’s bearded, holographic face appeared on the left side of the sleigh’s Google glass windshield. Numbers scrolled by on the right. The Christmas Elf pushed the ignition button. The sleigh glided up to the gigantic silver donut poking out from the morning clouds …

Bumping into the neatly trimmed hedges surrounding the Perk’s patio broke the spell of my daydream. I could just make out the Audi’s taillights turning right onto the main drag. The patio was a haven for smokers, which in a coffee shop, particularly one with jazz roots, were as common as fleas on a farm dog. Brett strictly abided Perk’s Rules, of which #6 was jazz goes with smoke like coffee, and therefore resisted any anti-smoking policy until the state made not doing so illegal, not simply unfashionable. I didn’t smoke, so the new law didn’t affect me, but it bothered me just the same. On principle, mine and Lightning’s.

Shame on me for not bringing up Lightning yet. Earl Lightning Perkins was a legendary African-American jazz pianist. He established Perk Noir in 1979 and laid down the law in the form of Perk’s Rules. Lightning’s presence still graced Perk Noir. Some of us Perkheads worshipped him like a saint. You can count me as one of them.

Every Perkhead knew the basics – Lightning lived, died, played the piano and gave us Perk Noir. A select few, including yours truly, Mason Ezekiel Barnes, found enlightenment in his life lessons. We called the collective body of knowledge concerning his life and times Perklore. His rules, his lessons, his music, his friends, his coffee, his story, all were Perklore. Those of us taking up the Lightning way had an insatiable thirst for more.

Most of my family humored me when it came to Lightning. They called it my strange fascination, except Grandma Betty Lou, who liked hearing my Lightning stories. My brother, Ted Jr., called it an obsession and recommended I get psychiatric help, but then again, Junior thought everyone ought to see a shrink. If I needed therapy, it wasn’t because of Lightning.

People often asked me why I admired him so much. The easy answer is that I loved his music. It taught me to appreciate jazz, no simple task for a farm bred country boy. But, I’m a huge Clapton fan too and Clapton never inspired me as Lightning had. I only knew what everyone else knew, that Eric hooked up with George Harrison’s ex and that he’d lost his son in a terrible tragedy. No sir, music alone couldn’t explain Lightning’s influence on me.

Another easy answer was that my environment rubbed off. If the Perk was my office, and it was, then I worked in a museum dedicated to Lightning. Treasures from his life adorned every square inch of the place and Brett curated the trove. Certainly, the Perk’s special ambience played into my Lightning attraction. I mean, if I worked at Yankee Stadium, I’d probably have a thing for the Babe too, but the Perk’s décor wasn’t why I considered Lightning a hero. It went deeper than that.

I think what inspired me most was Lightning learning how to not get angry. Each person follows a different path to grow up. In his case, that meant learning to be at peace, with himself and the world, instead of burying his anger. When he first came back from World War I, he was angry and had a right to be. He gave his youth and manhood to his country and all he got in return were accusatory stares, slammed doors, and even open hostility, much like I suffered whenever I poked my big head inside a publisher’s office. Those arrogant pricks in their glass skyscrapers always assumed someone with my prodigious noggin incapable of producing coherent sentences.

If you listen to Lightning’s early work, you can hear the outrage in his strident chords, like Valkyries crowing over battle. As he got older though, he learned to look past injustice and see hope. He came face to face with his anger and defeated it. His music changed. He sang for peace as part of the Civil Rights movement. As moving as I found the story of Lightning’s early years, my real hero was the older Lightning. He sang with true courage.

I wanted to know everything there was to know about Earl Lightning Perkins. We had a name for people achieving excellence in Perklore: Perklore kensai. In ancient Japan, kensai, was a term of respect and prestige bestowed upon the greatest warriors. It meant literally sword saint. Sword masters attaining this exalted rank possessed a greater degree of perfection, in both physical excellence and loftier moral purpose. When it came to Perklore, Brett Barlow, was the resident expert on all things Lightning. If the Perk was a village, then Brett Barlow was its Perklore kensai.

Not every Perkhead studied Perklore intently. Perkheads were a forgiving cult. The only membership requirement was returning day after day, that’s it. Not every day necessarily, just day after day. Since every day follows some day, it was an exceptionally low hurdle. Perkheads could define regular by time of day, day of week or more arcane criteria. Seasonality affected some Perkheads’ regularity too, like for snowbirds or teachers or students or even just people with a dog to walk. Some Perkheads regularly changed their own particular regular. Once you were a Perkhead, you knew it. A subtle nod gave the barista your order, the regular one. People started knowing your name. Your favorite seat was magically open more often.

For those few fully embracing the Lightning way, attaining Perklore kensai was the greatest imaginable glory. Brett was only the second living person ever to achieve that exalted designation. Me? I was a wannabe Perklore kensai, bound and determined to join him in Lightning nirvana. I’d have to work at it though, Brett wouldn’t hand out such an accolade lightly and he was the only one who could elevate another kensai. My chief rival in this endeavor was none other than Conrad Bancroft. The gnome thought his academic achievements gave him an edge, but Brett said kensai weren’t born, they were made in moments of inspiration and Bancroft had yet to inspire. If I couldn’t beat the gnome at writing, then I’d win the kensai race. Maybe then Brett would let me into the Perk’s attic.

My secret hope, and I don’t share secrets easily, was that I could kill two birds with one stone. My instinct told me that Lightning’s story was potentially Pulitzer-worthy, if I could only discover his secrets. If I could do that, Brett would gladly name me kensai. I viewed it as poetic justice, seeing as Bancroft was my rival in both writing and my kensai quest. Beating the gnome would be almost as satisfying as achieving my goals.

I had my work cut out for me. The world didn’t yet believe Lightning’s story worthy of mention. Mostly, when I told people what Lightning went through they said "Yeah, it’s sad. All those black musicians got screwed back then, but I’ve seen Ray. What’s so special about this Lightning guy?"

Chapter 3

Lightning came from Hough, where Cleveland’s white upper crust lived in the early 20th century. Some records suggest he entered the world in 1901, but I was in the 1899 camp. Without a birth certificate, the mystery may never be solved with certainty, but the more I looked into it, the more I believed him a product of the prior century. I told Bancroft my theory and he laughed it off, but I didn’t trust the little gnome for a second. If anyone had ulterior motives it was he, but his scoffing did convince me to dig more before sharing it with Brett.

We didn’t know much about Earl’s mother, Maybelline Perkins, and nothing about his father. Scoring more in either of those departments would earn me bonus kensai points. Maybelline was a beautiful woman dark as midnight and kept house for the Bigelows, who made their money in steel. Mr. Bigelow taught young Earl to play the piano and the boy was a natural, able to play Bach and Beethoven blindfolded by the age of five. Time has obscured the rest of Earl’s childhood, except for the curious fact that pancakes were his favorite breakfast.

Maybelline was a slight woman, but Earl grew tall and strong, a gift from his unknown father. People sometimes mistook him for the famous boxer Joe Louis, which Earl always took as a compliment. A black champion accepted by white America, Louis was a hero to Earl. I saw the resemblance, but Earl’s face was rounder and his head was in every way bigger than Joe’s, which was another reason I identified so strongly with him. Earl might have had the spot next to mine in the Big Head Hall of Fame. Despite his resemblance to Louis, Earl could never have been a boxer. Those long, spider leg like fingers of his, so useful for dancing across the ivories, would have been a liability in the ring.

He enlisted in the Army for the Great War and was assigned to the 92nd Division, the one in which all the black soldiers served. That’s when Earl realized the color of his skin always mattered, even when fighting for his country. I figured it out in junior high, when I needed my first football helmet. He fought in the September 1918 Meuse-Argonne offensive, where a bullet caught him the last place a man wants to be shot. After the injury, the piano was Earl’s wife, and songs were his children. Earl walked with a limp after France.

Earl thought people, white ones and black ones, might be thankful for the service he’d given his country. He learned that black success threatened white America. No medals, no kisses on the cheek came his way. Be thankful you were allowed to serve seemed the presiding sentiment, rewarding Earl with a clichéd bitter pill never fully dissolved. Earl had this lesson drilled home soon after returning to Cleveland, when young white punks accused him of stealing his Purple Heart and uniform. No colored man, they said, could have come by it honestly.

Over the years, little bits of resentment washed away in Mad Mustard, Cement Pillow, Interstate Blues and other splashes of jazz, but Earl never forgot how little white America appreciated his sacrifice. His songs were angry. The horns were bullets screeching overhead, the drums a march through the wet, French countryside, the cymbals exploding mortars. When I listened to his songs, Earl’s anger became mine.

I think Earl’s poor reception upon returning home was why he played Woodstock – they cut his set from the album to make room for Sly. Nothing against Sly or the Family Stone, but yeah, I was cheesed about it. The way people looked down on the vets returning from ‘Nam reminded Earl of the lousy treatment he’d received. He identified with them, and the make love, not war sentiment of the hippies.

Hough changed during Earl’s absence. Whites were leaving and heading east, including the Bigelows, and blacks were moving in. Even after neighbors told him Maybelline had passed away, Earl wanted to stay in Cleveland. He tried to buy a house, but no white banker would give him a mortgage and there weren’t any black bankers back then, or Jesse Jacksons or Al Sharptons to speak up for him. That’s when Earl started to drink. A year and half in France and a near fatal injury couldn’t drive him to the bottle. Racial intolerance did.

With nothing tying Earl to Cleveland, he left. For several years, he scratched out a living in smoky clubs and torch lounges along what is now Interstate 90 on his way to New York City. Those weren’t easy times for a black man travelling America. Jim Crow law prevailed in the south and in the north racism adopted a subtler stance. I’m white. I could never have understood the hatred Earl experienced hitchhiking, train hopping, and trail blazing his way to Harlem. I never fought for my life as he did in Oneida, or been beaten to a pulp outside the Blue Note Club, but I too had suffered insults from prejudiced men, albeit prejudice of a different, small-headed flavor.

In the city that never sleeps, Earl hoped for rest from the hard road. He befriended the great Duke Ellington in 1925 and learned the miracle of jazz. Music gave Earl the peace so elusive elsewhere in his life. Bigelow’s classical training provided structure and jazz gave him improvisational freedom. His music soared, granting respite from nightmares of mustard trenches, dreams shattered by a spray of bullets, and the cold shoulder of an ungrateful country. Ellington gave Earl the nickname Lightning because his fingers moved like lightning across the ivories, and introduced him to the jazz greats. Lightning jammed with Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, Count Basie and countless others.

His jazz moved thousands. It first tickled my ears during my first cup ’o Perk, back in 2001, when I’d just started seeing Amber. I’m a country boy raised on country music, but when I heard the first few bars of Back Alley, a live version from Harlem’s Kit-Kat Lounge, I was hooked. I felt Lightning’s anguish when the notes swooped low, like my big head was smashing into the concrete, not his. It’s still one of my favorites.

Lightning played a number of joints in Harlem. He’d have opened his own if every banker’s door hadn’t slammed shut when he came a knocking, just like they had in Cleveland. His medal, his service to his country, his music, none of them made a damn bit of difference to the folks controlling the purse strings. Instead, Lightning played for white folks in clubs owned by white folks and his music simmered with quiet anger and resentment.

After the Cotton Club closed in 1940, he took his talents to Chicago which was exploding with blues. Lightning incorporated this new sound into his music, marrying jazz’s intricate complexities with simple blues progressions. His genius spread, from Chicago’s south side to Paris’s Left Bank, but accolades didn’t pay bills. He toured the Midwest and Northeast, laying down chops in back rooms and cribbing in cheap hotels. Cleveland stopovers included the Ebony Lounge on Cedar and the Chatterbox.

In the 50’s something big, I’m talking Jumbotron big, happened to Lightning that changed how he looked at the world. No Perkhead ever discovered the nature of that blessed event, not even Brett or the other Perklore kensai. That’s where I came in. I needed to find out what changed Lightning’s life. That’s the secret that would transform Lightning’s story from pedestrian to Pulitzer worthy. It’s like Steve Rogers, before and after the super soldier serum. The hero inside Steve didn’t come out until Dr. Erskine zapped him into Captain America. Until the mysterious life changing event occurred, Lightning was an extraordinary musician and an average man. Afterwards, he was simply extraordinary. Maybe when I learned the truth, I’d undergo a similar transformation.

His music mellowed, sailing to a gentler place that sang of a kinder, more integrated future. He supported Linda Brown’s cause long before the Supreme Court ruled against the Board of Education. He became an advocate for peaceful change and a leader in the Civil Rights movement, not for fancy speeches but for heartfelt jazz and blues speaking to people of every color. At a rally in Minneapolis celebrating the Brown decision, Lightning premiered Reedin & Ridin, one of his best known songs. A young Robert Zimmerman – you know him as Bob Dylan – listened in the audience and Lightning’s influence on him speaks for itself. That’s when Earl Perkins became the Lightning I admired so much.

The struggle for racial equality weighed heavily on Lightning and he drank to forget. Maybe booze woke the muse or maybe it was just Lightning’s time. Whatever the reason, the 50s and 60s were his golden years as a musician. He recorded six albums for Chess Records, most notably 1957’s Cool Blue Jazz, and jammed on dozens more in the studio. Still, he still struggled to make ends meet. Lightning lived in an era when labels owned the musicians, more so the black ones, and took all the profits. If Lightning were alive today, he’d have made it big, with millions of YouTube views. Auto-tuned no talents scored huge hits in this crazy Internet age, so I had no doubt Lightning would have written his own ticket. Shit, I’d have fired up the Kickstarter campaign myself.

He met Delta bluesman Robert Lockwood Jr. at Chess’s Ter-Mar studio and the two became lifelong friends. Lockwood