|
Z.
B. D. Westcoupe 
|
Rooster? Who's that, you ask? He's a Trickster, sure enough. I met him thirty-odd years ago over in Gull Wing County, which was at that time enjoying a revival of the boogie-woogie piano craze. Hoot, the owner of Hoot's Coop of Blues, had put up a hefty purse to get five of the county's top piano pounders, Kiskadee Slim, Speckled Blue, Pinenuts Perkins, Rooster and myself, to agree to a cutting contest, winner take all. He billed it Hoot's Honky-tonk Showdown. Folks of every stripe and feather came from miles around, eager to dance to some pulse-raisin' music and see which of us five would be the winner. Having picked the shortest straw, it was up to Speckled Blue to get things rolling with her trademark Blue Lightning Boogie. Hoot had rigged-up an applause meter out of radio parts. Applause, depending on its volume, would make the meter's big red needle jump from the blue "Cold Fish" reading, through "Luke Warm," onto "Hot," then "Red Hot," coming at last to the "Showstopper" setting. The hullabaloo at the end of Speckled Blue's set pegged that big red needle to "Showstopper" for a solid three minutes. Next, Pinenuts Perkins gets up there and hammers out a blistering Pinenuts Boogie. This time the big red needle stays pinned on "Showstopper" for four minutes. Then Kiskadee Slim dishes out a rough and ready Slim Bird Strut. Thunderous applause nails the big red needle to "Showstopper" for almost five minutes. Then it's up to me. I start out slow and sultry. Seeing some of the ladies movin' nice and curvy, I double-up the time and jump on board a runaway freight-train rhythm, which I ride for all I'm worth. When I'm done that big red needle stays riveted on "Showstopper" for six long, glorious minutes. I'd heard rumors of Rooster's piano playin' prowess, but I'd never actually heard him. He didn't look like a threat. Fairly small he was, and frail-looking. After taking an annoyingly long time finding the right height for the piano stool, cracking his knuckles, and adjusting the tails of his flamingo-pink tuxedo, Rooster starts slammin' on that piano so hard strings are poppin', so fast smoke's pouring off the keys. And for the next twenty minutes Hoot's raggedy roadhouse becomes a golden temple of boogie, bewitched by Rooster's soaring, rip-roaring rhythm. Even Kiskadee, me and the others, it being distinctly in our interest to appear disinterested, are out there on the dance floor, whoopin', hollerin', and high-steppin' right along with all the rest. Rooster's set ends to such a storm of mayhem that Hoot's applause meter goes haywire with the big red needle stuck on "Showstopper". Fried it was, with all the wires melted. It never did work again. Am I sorry Rooster won that contest? No sir. Fact is, it was his uncanny piano playing that clued me to his being a trickster. I'd heard enough trickster stories growing up to know prizes lay in store for those that could trick a trickster. So I decided to catch that bird in hopes of getting him to reveal his secrets. I borrowed me a rope and a fishing net I found hanging on a fence. I rigged the net with rope and set it so it spanned the path ol' Rooster'd be taking ---being careful to position the whole business under the bough of a cottonwood. Having covered the net with leaves, I maneuvered the rope's free end over the bough, tied it 'round my right hand, and hunkered down in some bushes. A big old amarillo moon was burnin' bright that night, so I could see him coming. Happy-go-lucky he was, whistling a bluesy tune. I waited --- my heart thumping. Suspecting nothing, he ambled right into my trap. "Gotcha!" I haul back on the rope. Rooster shoots six feet straight up into the air. Caught in my net, he puts up a fuss, all right, kicking and crowing, telling me all the terrible things he's going to do to me when he gets himself free. "Quiet down, bird! You're a Trickster! Don't deny it!" Well that shut him up, all right. "I don't mean to harm you. Just give me the secret of your trickster magic and you're free to go." "Nothing simpler!" says he. "Just let me down and it's a done deal." I let him down, but tied him good and tight, with one end of the rope around his waist, the other around a tree. "Now I'll take that prize money," I tell him. "Don't mean to keep it, unless you try to run off." Reaching back into his tailfeathers, he hands over the prize-money pouch. "Now about that little secret you promised me?" "The secret? Right! The secret is there is no secret." I scruffed him. "Bird, don't you lie to me!" "Honest. It's true. Everybody's got trickster in him. You just have to find it and set it free." I must have believed him. Though looking back I can't think why. At any rate, I untied him. "You can go." Glum, I was. "Here's your money." I gave him the pouch. Tired from all the excitement, I sat down on a rock. Seeing my gloomy disposition, Rooster put a feathered arm around my shoulder. "Tell you what," says he. "Let's head over to Wilma Feather's soda fountain. We'll get us an egg cream with what's left of the prize money and I'll tell you my life story." He pulled out the contents of the pouch, which consisted of three crumpled-up dollar bills and a few cents in change. "What happened to all the money?"I asked. Rooster laughed. "Hoot's got it! Egg creams all around!" "Serves you right for playin' so good." I tell him. Rooster and me, we walked away friends that morning, and we've been friends, on and off, ever since. No, I didn't get the easy magic I was hoping for, but in the end I got me something even better---the makings for this book of rompin', stompin' Rooster Tales! I sure hope you like 'em! |