Finga Fable #1

Between sets at a gig played 5 years ago, I overheard a strong throng bashing my blues song show.

I was behind them resting, sitting in a chair. But they talked bad about me like I wasn’t there coz they didn’t want me there, outside, “in da house,” on stage or anywhere. And I wanted to shout, “I don’t really care about y’all’s goddamn opinion.”

But I didn’t yell, I can’t lie. And I did too care. I wanted to cry. I wanted to fight. Damn, right. Bare knuckle fight. Break faces, break fingers of punk ass rich kids saying, ” Yeah, it’s old, real old, the blues the old guy’s playing.”

And they said the word, “old,” like it was slime in their spit. Liked it was nothing but shit thrown at their sensitive ears. And, for some reason, I felt dirty enough to want to apologize so I thought, “From the stage would be nice.” Till I passed two guys at the bar and I had to ask myself twice coz their fingers were over their mouths and their accents were Deep South and I didn’t want to believe they were saying, “He must’ve hit the pipe hard…Looks like his deck’s missin’ cards…Some kinda creepy, spastic, no talent for the piano kinda thing goin’ on .”

So I stepped up onto the boards and took my performance seat. And I felt the rush. And the rush felt sweet with spotlight on my face, my fingers, my hands, I was King of the World and I bowed to no man.

I boogied all eighty eights and I gave a hoot, “They call me JoE Fingas coz I’m good with my hands.”

As expected, no response so I hooted my own. Then, I hollered, “Not only that, I’m a piano playin’ man.”

“Can I get a hell, yeah?”

I couldn’t.

But I didn’t care. Creative juice was my wine.

“Hey, y’all,” I hollered. “I call this a ‘holler’ not a ‘holla’ coz I’m old school. Really, I’m older than any school. But I helped build the first school. First ever. Oh, yeah, in case you were wonderin’ bout my pipe…

Some people call me a ‘Crack Head’
tweakin’ up there behind the keys.
Some people call me a ‘Crack Head’
tweakin’ up there behind the keys.
But, if I was a ‘Crack Head,’ well, they’d
call me JoE Knees.”

That’s when I got down on all fours beating the floor of the stage with my hands providing my one man band much needed shuffle to scuff and beat the boards sure enough to procure imaginary pure bit-pieces of rock in my attempt to shock, annoy and rattle those who think me their chattel proving to them and to me the lyrics of verse three:

“Rick calls me Lucky coz that’s exactly
what I am.
Rick calls me Lucky coz that’s exactly
what I am.
Yeah, they call me JoE Fingas and I’m a
slave to no man.”


About joefingas

I am a songwriter, poet, blues singer, and a boogie woogie piano player. I have a grandson but I have no children of my own. All my women have wised up and left me. I was a bum, a wino, a drug/alcohol counselor, a prevention/intervention specialist and a pretender. I have no more time to pretend.
This entry was posted in 12 Step Meetings, Blues, Co-Dependency, Denial, Fiction, Love, Memoir, Money, Poetry, Relationships, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Finga Fable #1

  1. Saurabh Shukla says:

    “Can I get a hell, yeah?”

    I couldn’t.

    But I didn’t care. Creative juice was my wine.

    Hell, yeah!

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