The Ballad of Booker James
I met Booker James on Duval Street in 1996. Booker, a street musician living on a sailboat, loved to drink and spin yarns. He won me over with a story about the rat on his Nash 22.
Booker died a few months after sharing the story. Nobody knew much about him. Nobody claimed the body. He was probably cremated and buried in the plot reserved for indigents, but I still think about Booker when I walk on the slab of concrete he occupied with his portable keyboard.
Jimmy Buffett wrote a song called Death of an Unpopular Poet, and though Jimmy’s song isn’t about Booker James, I like to think Booker’s words and music are hiding in a forgotten corner of Key West waiting for the right time to be discovered. Until then, there is a short story I penned about him many years ago, The Ballad of Booker James.
The Ballad of Booker James
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
It all might have worked out okay if the rat had listened, but the island had different plans for Booker James.
Booker looked like Jimmy Buffett before he shaved his mustache. He could sing like him, too. He set up around the corner from The Coral Reef Coffee Co. on Duval Street most nights, playing covers on his Casio keyboard until the batteries died.
Booker liked talking to people but didn’t care much for what they had to say. The night’s tips usually afforded a fresh set of D batteries for the Casio, a slice of mushroom pizza, and a 5th of spiced rum. Rum was a priority, yet he offered it freely, never realizing nobody wanted to drink from the same bottle as him. Booker finished whatever rum was left below deck each night on his beat-up Nash 22.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The rat looked at him momentarily but remained silent and sniffed a can of Old Bay.
“I said... I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The rat glanced at Booker, and a brief staring contest ensued.
“If you don’t get outta here by the time I count to three, I’m gonna shoot your rat ass!”
The rat stared into the distance.
“One”
“Two”
“Three, motherfucker!”
Booker grabbed the Colt from his pillow and fired at the rat as it leaped from the galley counter. Four more shots and seven clicks followed. Booker lay back and stared at the cabin ceiling.
“You should have left when I asked nicely.”
Booker awoke when saltwater filled his ears. He managed to escape the cabin and swim to shore while his Casio took up residence with the Nash and the rest of his possessions at the bottom of the hook.
Booker made a go on Duval for a couple of weeks, but nobody listens to a musician with no instrument who can’t sing, so he resorted to panhandling and a life on the streets.
When it became more than he could handle, Booker walked the ocean and then the highway until he reached mile marker 17 in Sugarloaf and listened for the next southbound semi traveling at a good rate of speed.
The truck driver stared into the distance.
Booker James took his last breath as he timed the truck’s approach.
“One”
“Two”
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