King Of The Code
September 29, 2000

Here I am Raiford Starke driving through West Memphis on the outskirts of Starkansaw, going from bar to bar with a whole trunk load of Raiford Starke CDs. I looked into the rear view mirror and had to blink about 20 times before the face of my great Uncle McAlester, the family Fuller Brush man, morphed back into mine. Scared the bejunias out of me.

Sweat beaded burbles on my brow. One thing I didn't want in life was to be like Mac. The whole family despised Uncle Mack because he was a salesman whose main customers were his own family. He even tried to sign Lowella up for a Brush convention in Vegas. Lowella says Uncle Mac was a pervert, too.

Uncle Mac was heavy on my mind when I strolled into Stephen and Ira's Lounge, lugging my crate of CDs. A local came right up to me and asked me to "give" him a CD.

"You . . . uh . . . don't want to buy one?" I asked. He shook his head heck no.

I was insulted! "Partner, I ain't in this for nothin'. I got to make a livin', y'know!" He walked away muttering something about a "lousy" fifteen bucks for my twelve-song CD. I mean, if it wasn't me, I'd buy a whole box and give 'em out as Christmas presents. Me. Raiford Starke. I've been to Copenhagen, Nashville and Mosca, Colorado. Chief Jim Billie and Phish are my back-up band. That makes me famous, right?

"Me, me, me, me, me, me, Raiford. It's all about me. You think the world revolves around you. I got news for you, friend - it does not." The words were those that Lowella nags me with every day of my life. But the voice was different. I turned and saw the club's part owner, my main hombre, Stephen Flowers.

"You'll never sell any CDs like that Raiford. Why, your CD doesn't have a bar code," he said, "you can't sell anything these days without one of those."

"Well, how do I get one?" I said.

"Well, you need to mail $500 dollars to the Uniform Pricing Control, and they send a barcode and stickers to put on your CD's. Of course . . ." he started looking around the room and then he leaned into me, lowering his voice, "if you want to cut through all the red tape and speed things up you can give me $300 right here, and I'll take care of you. This is a bar. And we got the code!"

I was suspicious, but I trusted Stephen Flowers. I handed him my Bank of Starkansaw debit card and we completed the transaction. The band immediately went into a familiar Carlos Santana groove.

'Ol Stephen started sashaying to the hypnotic Latin rhythm with a catnip-laden, canary-eating grin. Strange enough, I heard the band's lead vocalist crooning: "I've got a black magic . . . marker!"

The music was hypnotic. Stephen grabbed my arm and began to lead me around the bar, pulling a magic marker in and out of his coat like Groucho twirling a cigar. Next thing I know, I'm rolling up my sleeve and each bar patron is placing an individual black magic marker mark on my arm..

"Okay Raiford," said Stephen, after we were done and my arm was a tattooed nightmare of lines and squares. "You now have your very own official "bar" code. You can sell anything you want. "

He pushed me outside, closed the door and locked it behind me. I could barely make out the sounds of uproarious laughter and the salute: " Boys . . . I believe this next round is on me!"

Confused, violated and my stomach upset from the jalapeno health shake I had this morning, I hopped in the car with an empty bank account and a trunk full of the blues - a real live blues song playing on an endless, hopeless loop. I stopped at the Bower Records store and walked in with a box of CDs. I rolled up my sleeve to show the manager my official Stephen and Ira's UPC barcode. He looked at me like I was Elian. "There's a public restroom across the street at the Hess station if you want to wash that off," he said.

"What do you mean? This is my barcode and here's my CDs. Now start settin' up a display . . ."

He got on the intercom: "Security at customer service, please!" Next thing you know I'm surrounded by three Wackyhut guys who have no appreciation for barcodes or the blues. As they approached, their meaty hands clenched, I backed up slowly towards the register, where the checkout girl was ringing up merchandise. "Watch out," one of the goons yelled..

Too late. I tripped and fell onto the conveyor belt and immediately assumed my favorite fetal position, tensing up to ward off the blows. Suddenly, the checkout gal hit the foot pedal and the belt began to move. I passed right under the scanner and got dumped into a shopping cart. Sunset Beach Pete saw the whole thing and came running over. "Hey, check it out Raiford," Pete exclaimed, pointing to the register. There, in digital letters, was displayed "Starke $2.99.".

I slumped in the shopping cart, as Pete pushed it out into the parking lot. A little child passed by tugging on his mother's harm. "Look Mommy, that man's for sale! How much is he? Look Mommy!"

Sunset Beach Pete stopped and smiled at the embarrassed mother trying to shush her child. "No problem ma'am," he said, "this man's not for sale. He's a salesman!"

I groaned. Then another hit song came to me. Thanks Uncle Mac. This one's for you.

Cee-Dees for sale or rent/Tunes to rent, fifty cents
No poems, no fools in debt/Ain't got no minaret
Four hours of pushing tunes/Buys 8 to 10 pasture 'shrooms
I'm a man of jeans, with no seams/King Of the Code...

-- Raiford Starke is a Fort Lauderdale-based bluesman whose CD, 'Speak Me' is available at Big Cypress Records.

© September 29, 2000, The Seminole Tribune