Hey Joe

[Steven Hunley]

Hey Joe
by

Steven Hunley


The thing about Maggie you have to understand was this: Maggie was a slut. Joe loved her and although he was intelligent, Maggie’s nature was something Joe never seemed to figure out or admit. Not until it was too late.

Maggie and Joe lived at the Reese Hotel downtown on fourth street. People uptown call it the whore hotel. You can’t blame them. When Joe was making his runs to Germany for hits of pharmaceutical acid, Maggie was free to indulge in her own devices, or be up to her old tricks, however you’d like to put it. That’s just how she was. One time she rolled over to score some weed. I saw a stranger waiting in the car outside by the curb. That always gets the neighbor’s attention, always brings the heat and I mentioned it.

“Never let strangers sit in the car.You know it draws the heat.”

“Well, you don’t know him, so I thought it would be better.”

“Where’s Joe, anyway?”

“In Munich about now, but he’ll be home tomorrow.”

I gave her a look. It was a look of non-approval.

“While the cat is away, the mice will play,” she quipped.

That’s what she told me, and she knew I wouldn’t say anything. I keep out of everybody’s business the same way I expect them to keep out of mine.

A week later I saw Joe. After he copped and was turning to leave I noticed the handle of a pistol sticking out of his pocket. He’d been sitting in my easy-chair, the leather one the cat scratched to sh*t, and the gun nearly fell out. We always take time for a beer or a smoke. It doesn’t look good to have people run in and out of your house in a hurry. Like you’re selling dope or somethin’. Besides, I liked talking to Joe. He was well-mannered, and could keep up his end of an intelligent conversation. He shoved it back in.

“Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?

He ignored me, as if he hadn’t heard. We were playing the Beatles A Day in the Life pretty loud at the time. But I knew he had, so I insisted,

“Hey Joe,” I said, “where you going with that gun in your hand?”

This time he answered.

“I’m going down to shoot my old lady, you know I caught her messin round with another man.”

“Oh,” is all I said. What more could I say?

An hour later he was back. His shirt was torn, his hair disheveled, and the gun wasn’t there. He scored some speeders and more weed, and acted like he was in a hurry.

“A rack of black-beauties, and some smoke, and make it snappy.”

I served them up.

“Hey Joe, where you gonna run to now?”

He ate half the rack and washed them down with a Budweiser.

“Hey Joe, where you gonna run to now, where you gonna go?

“I'm goin' way down south, way down where I can be free. Ain't no one gonna find me.”

I knew what that meant. Mexico. We were in San Diego you see, and only twenty minutes from the border. You could commit a crime and be over the border before they even found out, much less began searching for you.

“Ain’t no hangman, gonna, gonna put a rope around me.”

“I’m gonna miss you,” I told him, all sincere-like.

“The only thing about me you’re gonna miss is my business.”

Like a flash he was gone. I lived on a hill in East San Diego and you could catch a glance of the freeway from the upstairs window, from between the palm trees. It was the first house I lived in alone. It was on Chamoune street. At night, you could see the the lights of Tijuana clearly, sparkling as only the lights of Mexico do.

On warm summer nights when it’s too hot to sleep I climb out on the roof sometimes to smoke a joint. It’s a fine way to end the day. I can see Mexico gleaming through the rippling waves of heat, like a tortilla curling up on a hot griddle.

I often think of Maggie and Joe and have fond memories of them both. She was the sluttiest slut I ever knew as much as he was a prince. What was it Proust said about women?

“People who are not in love fail to understand how an intelligent man can suffer because of a very ordinary woman. This is like being surprised that anyone should be stricken with cholera because of a creature so insignificant as the comma bacillus.”

Maybe it was that way with them. Love and death are strangers to nobody.


My respects to Billy Roberts and Jimi for the inspiration, among others.

[DocHeart]

Thank you, my dear Steven, for continuing to share your excellent work.

[Delta40]

Interesting study of a life at the grass roots level, where love flourishes like bacteria...!

[TheBearJew]

Dude, I've read a few of your stories over the past while, and you're awesome.

Interesting, fun, easy-to-read style, and while not heavy with meaning or message, it's far from empty. I'm not the best writer, but I read a ton, and I find it rare to find a guy who can consistently write well on the internet. Well done.

[Igor, Froderick]

I enjoyed the story's connection with the song and the times. Thanks for posting.

[Steven Hunley]

https://youtu.be/8NShOQnlNEw Otis Taylor Hey Joe I've been sick for over a week. It's the season. That bacillus bit really rings true.

[kiz_paws]

Get well, Steven!

And loved, absolutely loved this short short! Hey Joe is my 2nd favorite Jimi tune. (Littlewing is my primary love for ol' Jimi)

[Steven Hunley]

I saw Jimi in person at the Sports Arena in San Diego. I'd followed him as far back as the Curtis Knight album Get That Feeling. There had been something about his music, the bi-polar aspect, the play, the poetry, the tenderness and raw sex in his songs that spoke to me, even though he was black and I was white. And the sound! We thought it was all studio effects and over-dubs. In person you found out otherwise. Lots of sound for a three-man band.

And his personality, sad, sensitive, playful, sexy.

He had on a sort of matching top and pants, but there were two different designs on the fabric. As the colored lights overhead changed colors, so did the design on his clothes. And his ability to play effortlessly, was awe-inspiring.

No more of this. I'm gushing too much on the past.

However, I did write another story concerning his song Hey Joe. And all you other folks out there, enjoy! In my twenties I had the odd notion that music ruled my world. I was only in my twenties. Let only the saints judge me.

Circus Boy

When Kristina got her divorce and moved out she needed a place. She found it in Hillcrest. It was upstairs in back, with nine steps up, a landing with a left turn, and twelve more to the top. There the stairway ended, with her door on the right, the neighbors’ on the left, who were Tim and his wife Chris. It was cozy, which was a nice way of saying it was small.

I’d stop by after work or school. Sometimes I’d sleep over. That was an accomplishment for me, and I felt rather risqué, not sleeping at home. She had a Murphy bed, a marvelous contraption that folded down from the wall. It creaked and cracked if you gave it much action, which we did whenever we could. Kristina smoked cigarettes, Marlboro Reds. After doing it, she’d smoke one. We were young and eager, and she’d hardly finished, (with the cigarette) and placed the still-glowing butt in an ashtray ‘cause I wanted more. The second time the bed was moving so much, rocking and rolling as it were, that the ashtray with the still-glowing-butt fell from where it was balanced, turned over in midair, the glowing cherry falling on the small of my back. This increased my thrusts by a good number of foot-pounds of torque, driving her wild. I don’t know why she referred to them as foot-pounds, I wasn’t using my feet. Perhaps because her father was a mechanic.

I was calling her one afternoon to see if I could come over but no answer.

“That’s funny, where could she be?”

So, impetuous youth that I was, I went over anyway.

I climbed up the nine, turned, climbed up the twelve, and knocked. She opened the door.

“This is Sean,” she said with a flourish, “he works for the circus.”

I knew Ringling Brothers was in town, but didn’t expect to see the circus in our love-nest.

“Hi,” he said, and we shook hands.

He was tall, taller than me. He was good-looking, and his jeans were skin-tight. He was tan and tattooed. In other words, he was definitely not me. He looked like the lead singer from Nickleback, a handsome guy if ever there was one. To top it off, and I mean top it off, there was on his shoulder a falcon. This circus idiot had a falcon on his shoulder! What could I say? He oozed charisma.

“Whadda you do for the circus?”

“I sell tickets.”

It was more than tickets he was selling, I just knew it.

But I had to go to work. I didn’t want to go, believe me, but reluctantly took my leave. When I left, Kristina didn’t give me a good-bye kiss as usual. That wasn’t a good sign. I worked until ten o’clock selling books in La Jolla. When I got off I gave her a call.

No answer. That wasn’t a good sign either.

So, impetuous youth I still was, I drove over.

I bounded up the stairs. I knocked, no answer. I ran down the stairs and out to the back to take a peek. The lights were on, but low. Bad sign number three. I bounded up again. She answered this time.

“Whadda you want?” she said, not removing the chain.

I could see inside, though the door was only open a crack. I saw the low lights, I saw him, his shirt off, tats prominent, sitting on the Murphy bed. I saw no bird. Bad sign number four.

“I want in,” I said lamely.

“Not now,” she said, and closed it in my face.

I was hurt, dejected, and rejected. I drove home.

Moms and Pops weren’t home. That was good as I needed to smoke a joint and think. I rolled downstairs, rolled a joint, and put on some tunes. If there’s anything that can change your emotional outlook it’s smoking a joint and listening to music. So I did. Let me tell you about the room. My parents didn’t use it so it was all mine. There were the paintings I’d done, (they sucked) and posters all around. There was the bookcase I made in high school, all filled up with the books I’d stolen at work from the book store in La Jolla. Now I was kicked back, letting the music create my mood. I looked up and saw the poster of Jimi. He was so damned cool.

“Look at Jimi,” I said to myself, the joint half gone, “He’s freezin’ cool.” But then the tune was over. I figured I needed another, so as homage to Jimi, I put on the original Jimi Hendrix Experience CD, and took a hit.

My eyes were drifting over the wall. There was the kukri I stole from Cost less Imports. It was a huge knife from India used by the Gurkas. It was shiny and large, somewhere between a machete and a Bowie knife, an evil looking blade. I took another hit.

“Yeah,” I thought while exhaling slowly, “It’s a mean motor scooter.”

But then something happened I didn’t quite plan. My thoughts drifted back to him and her.

Just then, of all things, Hey Joe came on.

I had feelings for this song. It had been done a thousand times in a million ways by others. Only Jimi had the sense to slow it down, to give it drama. He gave you time to think, time to let the words sink in.

“Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”

I looked at the shiny thing on the wall.

“Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”

I took the kukri off the wall, feeling its weight in my hand. Right then, it felt good.

“I’m going to shoot my old lady, she’s been messin’ round with another man.”

I knew, as the joint was smoked far down now, exactly what I had to do.

I turned off the stereo, hopped in the car, drove across town, the kukri in my lap. I was ready to go. I knew real and ready equaled ready and real.

I’m up the stairs again. I know I have to go through with this fast, before the mood is lost, before my nerve is lost, before the weed wears off.

“They’ll blame it all on the marijuana,” I told myself, “the evil weed whose roots grow in Hell.”

I’m up on the landing in seconds, then to the top. I knock on the door. She opens it up.

Here’s what happens in a nutshell.

I break through the one sixteenth-inch chain holding the door like a real man. That’s pretty impressive. I flash the blade of the kukri. Circus Boy sees the flash of steel, and his eyes turn the size of saucers. Pretty impressive too. Then everything gets a bit foggy, and the rest is only an impression, but here it is:

He hits me up the side of the head. I lose possession of the knife. Then somehow I’m out the door. Then I’m down the stairs, starting with my butt hitting stair number twelve, then my shoulder hitting stairs numbered ten and nine, my right hip careening down stairs numbered seven and six, plummeting my worthless *** onto stairs numbered four, three, and two, eventually landing it on the landing, where else? The stairs not numbered are not numbered because they weren’t contacted by my body, it being in the air at the time. So I come to rest on the landing, a crumpled, forlorn, and defeated man. Not so impressive. Then I limp down the remaining nine steps. I think that’s how it was.

A day later I’m nursing my bruises realizing I’m out one hell of an exotic knife. I figure it’s all over between us. I’ll never see her again. But as usual, I’m wrong.
A week later she’s taking my calls. A week after that we go out. The week after that we’re rockin’ and rollin with Murphy, and the performance is so good we do a few encores minus the ashtray. I never talked to her about it, never asked her why she took me back. Maybe I didn’t want to know. But someone else did.

Chris, Tim’s wife asked her one day,

“Tina,” she said, “Why did you take him back?”

“Because he’s so sweet and because he’s still here.”

They were having coffee and cigarettes, and she was tapping the ash from her precious Marlboro with the tip of her forefinger, flicking it into the ashtray in magnificent poetic arcs.

“Besides,” she said thoughtfully, “the circus left town.”

©Steven Hunley2017


https://youtu.be/a9prXnAGyTc Hey Joe - Wilson Pickett


You know, now that I look back on it, having your *ss kicked in public is a humiliating experience. Nothing like being humiliated in public to sear a memory into your brain. This strange relationship with songs has got to stop.


Well you complain and criticize,
I feel I'm nothing in your eyes,
It makes me feel like giving up,
Because my best just ain't good enough.

Eddie had one of those strange connections to music and the notion it guided his life. This was the example, his lesson for today. He was nothing, he was nobody, and could never hope to please his woman. If Eddie wasn't exactly blue, he was azure to the extreme. The weed only magnified his problems and fed his exaggerated inner insecurities. Poor stoner Eddie had, in his own way, too much imagination for his own good. Inevitably, it would lead both of them across the Atlantic, far from things they knew, on a dangerous risk-filled scam, behind an Iron Curtain where nothing and no one is allowed to slip through.

And not on a search for the Holy Grail, but on a quest for the Root of all Evil.

https://youtu.be/CAjv3tP6P_o The Animals (with Eric Burdon) DON'T BRING ME DOWN hq