Mister Bojangles
December 22, 2000

Here I am Raiford Starke, dressed in Holiday style, cruising the hovels and streetcorners of Starkansaw, feeling all seasoned and cobblestoned with the spirit of Christmas. Warm jingle belly gas crawled through my gut and I instinctively felt my left buttocks for the lump of my wallet. If anybody's going to rob me tonight, I thought, I want it to be the good shop merchants of my fair hometown. There was a nip of freshness in the air, the Chernobyl Brothers landfill was downwind this evening, my grandma got runned over by a reindeer and Yuletide carols were dinging through my brain like dancing Chinamen in a West Memphis cow pasture.

Naturally, I gravitated over to music, wherever I could find it. It was only December 23rd. I had lots of time before the big day. A man singing fashionably off key caught my attention. It was Jimmy "No S" McDaniel and the Mill Brothers singing, "Extrudolf the Screw-nose Reindeer." At the next corner was ol' Jim Crow and the Straw Men belting out "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas."

I tipped my hat to the musicians and kept walking down the street, through the mud and the blood and the beer. I probably would have gone on and finished my shopping - I still hadn't bought Lowella anything but a gift certificate to Quickee Lube - but I was stopped in my tracks like Ebenezer Scrooge meeting the Ghost of Christmas Past. It was a sound I had heard before. It was either from heaven or an elevator. It was a bell.

Not just any bell, but a G-tuned Franklin two-penny aluminum-steel alloy with swivel reverb and an output to any karaoke machine. There, prancing alone on the sidewalk, was an ancient, silver-haired man doing the ol' soft shoe while ringing the bell in three-quarter time. Beside him, propped on a tri-pod, stood a red tip bucket.

Most people, huddled against the cold, snow tossed wind, totally ignored the small, wiry man, passing by with furrowed brows and furtive glances at this intrusion into their sense of well-being. But, I was drawn like butter. I don't know what it was, but something made me reach in my wallet and pull out a crumpled up $5 bill. Someone had written "Eat Me" on the bill and drew a goatee on Lincoln.

I tossed it into the poke and the old men stopped ringing and looked up. His smile warmed up the corner. I stood and listened while he told me of his life, of how his dog and him traveled about. "We played minstrel shows and county fairs," he said "throughout the South." I listened to the old man ramble on, wondering whether this is going end up being another shaggy dog or baggy pants story. Then he introduced himself, matter of factly, thrusting his hand out in mid air. "Bojangles. They call me Mr. Bojangles."

"The Mr. Bojangles?" I said incredulously.

"That's right son," he said.

"Y-You used to be famous," I said.

"Um-hmm."

Then he proceeded to tell me about a fellow named Jerry Jeff Walker he met in a New Orleans jail cell years ago. "I was down and out," said Bojangles. Jerry Jeff wrote down everything the old man said and wrote a song about him.

"Wasn't a bad song, just a little inaccurate," said Bojangles. "My dog Teddy never up and died. Some ad man borrowed him from me and never brought the little critter back. Last I heard he became the mascot for some guys called the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ."

A tear rolled down the old man's cheek and I felt my own eyes well up. The wind had changed and brought back the familiar bouquet of the Chernobyl Brothers plant. "We would dance now at every chance at honky tonks and bar mitzvahs," he choked.

"Throughout the south?" I interrupted.

"Why yes," he looked amazed. "How did you know?"

The rest of the story was downhill. There was an appearance on the Gong Show and a cameo on Sanford and Son. "I even got paid $15 for them to use my name in one of the Jeopardy questions," he said. "Some guy named Uncle Charlie started impersonating me all over the place. I don't know. Here I am."

He hung his head. "Actually," he admitted, red-eyed. "I drinks a bit."

More than anything else, drinking put him on a street in Starkansaw, begging for quarters. "What about royalties?" I asked. "I hear that song about you almost every day."

He shook his head. The dog was a blow, but the money really hurt him. After 20 years, he still grieved.

"I get a social security check," he admitted. "I just do this for drinks and tips." He's never heard from Jerry Jeff or the Nitty Gritties in years. "I should have never told John McEuen that ol' Teddy could sing the Old Rugged Cross. I should've sold him that information, but in those days, everything was vinyl. How was I to know?"

I dropped another five spot in his cup and walked away. I couldn't take it anymore. "Have a Merry Christmas, young man" I heard him exclaim as I turned out of sight.

Suddenly, I was startled by a shuffling noise. I looked in the alley and out from behind a pile of garbage emerged a ten-week-old stray puppy. A note was attached to his collar that said: "Please give Spike A Good Home." It was signed "Hollis Brown." The little terrier was thin and weak and it was clear he had been wandering for days..

I petted the little tyke and he yelped a perfect key of C. Hmmmmm. I took my old harpoon out of my dusty red bandana and began to blow. The pooch mimicked every sound I made, right on key. Suddenly my eyes widened and one of those strange Nicholas Cage things happened to me. For a brief shining moment, I could see clearly now. I picked up the little puppy and carried him back to the old man..

"Mister Bojangles," I cried. "Mister Bojangles. Dance!"

He jumped up, clicked his heels and began to softshoe while he hummed the "Old Rugged Cross." Suddenly the little pooch in my arms began howling with Bojangles' hum. The old man jumped, turned with a surprise look on his face, and lightly touched down.

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, gaping in stone-shocked silence. I handed him the dog.

"Merry Christmas, Bojangles," I smiled. He grabbed the mutt with tears of laughter as the cheerful little pup jumped all over him and started licking his face. Meanwhile a crowd of townspeople gathered round to see what the commotion was about.

"Teddy," the old man cried. "Little Teddy!"

"Uh . . . his name is Spike," I corrected Bojangles. "Let's not take this column too far, now."

The old man danced. Teddy. . . er, Spike sang. The exuberant audience clapped and cheered. The tip bucket overflowed. Tens and twenties and numerous business cards with offers to perform at private functions.

Jimmy McDaniel even handed Mr. Bojangles his business card. "I run a feed mill out on Glick Rd. We've got the only extruder in Starkansaw and we just started extruding puppy chow this week. Here's my cell number. I want you and ol' Spike to come on down and pick up a 50-pound bag free of charge."

Later, I told my friend Renee all about my good deed. "What did you do next," she asked. "I just walked away, Renee." I replied. "I turned and walked away.. Then I ran into another old friend of mine from Tallahatchee, I knew a long time ago. He was in a wheelchair. His name is Billy Joe McAllister."

Renee wanted to know more. "I'm not going to bridge that subject now," I said. "That's my column for next Christmas."

-- Raiford Starke is a bluesman living in Fort Lauderdale.

© December 22, 2000, The Seminole Tribune