Saturday night, and Beale Street was alive with music and excitement. Elwood's heart was racing as he cruised down the road.

This is where it all started. Memphis was The Home of the Blues. The United States Congress had just passed an act saying so, in case there was a doubt in anybody's mind. He passed by a new plaque on the side of the road, letting tourists and locals alike know that this stretch of road was now a National Historic Landmark.

The thought of that designation made him proud, and sad, all at once. In twenty years, would there be nothing left of the blues, other than some old mural painted on a local post office wall? Would the plaques and sign posts be the only evidence of a golden age of American music? Slowly, he drove past the Drist Theater, already starting to suffer from the twin evils of neglect and abuse.

But right then, right now, it didn't matter. He was here, and this was where it all happened.

W. C. Handy... Rufus Thomas... Muddy Waters... Albert King...

The names of the Grand Masters of the Memphis Blues raced through his mind.

Howlin Wolf... Ike Turner...

The memories of the rhythms flowed over him, and overwhelmed him.

B.B. King... Rosco Gordon... Louis Armstrong...

He parked the Bluesmobile, and decided to walk, with his feet on sacred ground. Yet, it didn't feel like he ever touched the street. Instead, he was standing on the shoulders of giants.

And, oh, how Jake would love to be here, with him!

With a wallet filled with cash, courtesy of two drug dealers out of L.A., Elwood took in the town. The bars. The music shops. The nightlife. The Mississippi River. He even rented a little hotel room for himself, where he could sleep most of the day, and avoid the stifling August heat.

Every once in a while, as he combed the streets, the music overtook him. He'd break out into a little dance on the street, knees lifting high and arms flailing, if the music hit him just right. By the second day, local shopkeepers and musicians alike knew that when the tall skinny man in black walked by, it was their duty to open the doors of their hall, or strike up the instruments on the sidewalk, and try to make him burst into his frenzied routine. It became a local challenge, to test their musical skills.

Whenever he could, he'd join an impromptu jam session. He made a point to meet as many local musicians as possible, and play as much as he could. He loved to spend hours comparing musical styles, learning whatever he could about the differences - both subtle and jarring - between Chicago and Memphis style. He especially enjoyed the jug bands, when he could find someone still interested in the classics. The folk influence was unmistakable. Clean, almost pure. It was almost primitive.

And for all that he learned, he reciprocated by showing others his craft, and the wider range of notes of Chicago blues.

And, as far as Elwood would talk, he liked to talk about the band. And Jake. He especially loved telling people how he and Jake changed their names to "Blues" when they were just little boys. The women giggled at the story, and men laughed outright, at how Jake had even convinced the Penguin that it was a really good idea.


.

"He ain't gonna learn how to spell his name, either," Jake would say at least once a week.

To that, the Penguin always would reply "He isn't, Jacob! He isn't going to learn..."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sister!"

The Penguin would wrinkle up her nose at Jake's insolence, wrap his hands with a ruler, and stand firm in her refusal. Yet, the thought of two of her orphans leaving St. Helen's without even knowing how to spell their own last names was far too much to bear.

Jacob Papageorge? Perhaps she could understand why he never wrote his name, considering his difficulties with the written language. At least that part of the story was believable. But Elwood Delaney? And Elwood was a fair student! In fact, Sister Mary Stigmata knew that he could be an excellent student, if only he would apply himself. Somehow she didn't quite believe the story, especially since she knew Elwood had been writing his full name for at least five years before Jake's requests began.

"So, Jacob. Let me see if I understand you," she finally asked, after weeks and months of Jake's constant pleas. "You want me to allow you to legally change your last name?"

"Yes, sister."

"And you want me to also allow Elwood to change his as well."

"It would only be fair." With that, Jake even removed his sunglasses and hat, and looked up at the nun with big, pleading eyes.

"Because neither of you can actually spell your last names?"

"That's right."

"And you think, as nine and ten year old boys, that you are old enough to choose a name that will stay with you for the rest of your lives."

"Yes, sister."

"Oh? Well, then tell me, Jacob, what name have you chosen?" she asked, patronizing the ten year old boy.

"Blues."

"Blues? Jake and Elwood Blues?"

"Curtis said we had Blues in the blood, so I figure it should also be in our names, too."


.

On the window, Jake noticed the handwritten sign. At first he thought it might be an announcement, or even the menu. He came in a little closer to read it.

Stump the Blues Masters, Drink for Free.

So, this was the place. He'd heard about it several times, but only today decided to make his way in for the experience.

Inside, behind the bar, Elwood noticed five older men, seated on stools. The bartender moved around them, as not to disturb them in their work. The five sages, no doubt old musicians themselves, welcomed any and all questions about Blues music. After the question was asked, the panel would follow up with a few exchanges, stories, or facts flying back and forth across the bar. If they couldn't answer correctly, you would drink for free.

Questions were usually offered up by the foolish; those who believed that they possessed some nugget of knowledge that somehow escaped these five masters.

In a street filled with dozens of bars and clubs, they were a unique attraction that tourists and locals alike came to see. Where other bars had lived music, this bar had a living tribute to the music. It was a living museum of knowledge. A living, walking, breathing, and smoking museum of knowledge. They were the heartbeat of the bar, pumping words and tunes and lyrics back and forth like its lifeblood.

He wondered if they were paid to sit behind the bar, and share their wisdom. Or did they serve, just for the love of the music? For the duty of passing on the word and the tradition? Or did they do it because they could drink for free, too? And were there shifts of old sages? Did these five give up their seats, like the changing of the guard, to a fresh band of Blues Master Trivia Czars every few hours?

Anyway, he could see Curtis there, in his retirement, hanging out with these guys, just talking about the music all day long.

Elwood pulled out a stool in front of the bar, touched the brim of his hat and nodded, and respectfully smiled at the men in front of him. It was, indeed, a sign of respect. You don't see these kinds of guys anymore, except maybe in the basements of orphanages. And for Elwood, this was one opportunity to learn that he just couldn't pass up.

A tourist, pale and sweaty, waddled up to the bar. He wore a bright yellow polo shirt with Bermuda shorts. Elwood expected the tourist with the goofy smile next to him to ask if it was hot enough for him. Gratefully, he never did.

Elwood nodded at the bartender, and pointed to the tap. Then he turned his attention to the trivia round, and the emboldened tourist.

"So, I've got one for you..."

Elwood was a little surprised that the man in bermuda shorts had even heard of the blues, let alone could think up a question to challenge these fve men.

"Ok. What was the name of Elvis's favorite show that aired on WHBQ."

The five in front shook their heads, and pointed back and forth to one another. The tourist grew excited, thinking he had finally stumped them. He didn't realize they were silently fighting over which one of them would lower themselves to answer the question.

Finally, the frail one on the end answered.

"Dewey Phillip's Red, White and Blue. Boy, is that all you got?"

The tourist smirked, then shook his head, paying his tab in defeat. As he walked away, the five began to laugh and cackle and occasionally whistle.

"Elvis?!"

Elwood also laughed, although more subtly, and quietly under his breath.

"How about you, son?"

Elwood looked up, a bit surprised. He just shook his head, again, respectfully.

"Come on. Give us your best shot..."

"Do you know anything about the Blues, son?" the frail one asked.

"Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I do. Blues is my last name."

With that, the men all broke out into hysterical fits of laughter at the young white boy's claim. Then in a twisted role reversal, one of the men began quizzing Elwood, trying to figure out what made him tick.

"Where are you from, son?"

"Chicago."

"On vacation?"

"A journey."

"What kind of journey?"

"A pilgrimage..." Elwood suggested, unsure.

"You play?"

"I blow. Harp..."

"Wait a minute. You're that white kid I've been hearing 'bout. Yeah! People are talking about you. Shit! You're a celebrity 'round here."

Elwood, for the first time in the week that he had been in Memphis, suddenly grew a little nervous. His escapades with federal officers, throwed rolls, and blonde drug dealers may eventually find him here, if he settled too long.

It was getting time to move on. He'd leave today, after his beer.

"All right," Elwood finally said. "I got one for you."

Three of the men whistled, egging him on.

"Ok! Give us your best shot!" the one in the middle replied.

"New York Blues band. Tell me, who was the lead singer for 7 Line Blues?"

There was a moment of silence. It wasn't the silence that followed the waddling tourist. It was pure silence, accompanied by genuine looks of confusion and shock.

"Who the hell is that?" the middle one finally asked.

"That's what I'm asking you," Elwood responded, sipping at his beer.

"Never heard of no band like that."

"They're out of New York," Elwood clarified, perhaps unnecessarily.

"New York? Shit!"

"Shit... that's no question..." another one of the masters chimed in.

"Why not?" Elwood replied.

"You may as well ask us who played the guitar at Franklin High School Senior Prom last year... in Bucksnort, Tennessee!"

"It's a legitimate question. They've got a record out," Elwood said, respectfully. "They played the Bottom Line, man... Either you know it, or you don't. Right?" He followed the statement with a shrug.

After a moment, the frail one simply said "Shit!" Then he laughed at the question. Then he laughed at Elwood. And then he laughed at himself.

"Franklin Jones," Elwood said, finally.

The men all looked back and forth at one another, shaking their heads and accepting defeat. Maybe they could have worked it out, but Elwood thought that they secretly enjoyed losing, just this once. Maybe they liked the idea of being stumped every once in a while by some stranger - especially by some white boy from Chicago with the last name of Blues. Anyway, it kept things real, it kept people coming in, and it kept the music in motion.

Elwood accepted his free beer, made a toast to the music, and enjoyed his drink in the presence of the Grand Gate Keepers of Tradition.

But he also knew it was finally his time to move on.