In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

friend,werewalkinghomefromschoolonedayandheardmusiccomingfromLane’s house. “Ernest’s daddy had a piano in the livin’ room,” says Ike. “We looked in the window, and I saw Pinetop Perkins playin’ that piano. I never saw nothin’ like that in my life. You could hardly see his fingers, man. . . . I went home and told Mama, ‘Mama,Iwantmeapiano.’ “See, my mother raised me like this: If I wanted a bicycle, she would ask me, ‘Howmuchdoesitcost?’Isay,‘Itcoststendollars,’andshe’dsay,‘Here’smyfive dollars.Whenyougetyourfive,yougogetit.’Then,IwouldgoandpickupCocaCola bottles and sell them to the store. I would sell scrap iron. Another thing I would do was I would buy baby chickens—twelve baby chickens—and I would raise them up and sell them to the store. I was hustlin’ like that from the time I was a kid.” This time, Ike’s mother made him a different proposition. If he passed the secondgrade,he’dgetapiano.SowhenIkereceivedhisreportcardshowingthat he’dbeenpromotedtothethirdgrade,hesprintedallthewayhome.“Shealready had the piano in the house,” he says. “Yeah, boy! I was set. Wow!” His mother gave him a dollar a week for piano lessons. “[The teacher] was playin’de-de-de-de,allthata-b-cstuff,”recallsIke.“Shewouldplaymeasong,and I’dsitdownthereandplayitbacktoher.AnythingIheard,Icouldplay.Thelessons weresoborin’tome.Ididn’twanttodothat.IwantedtodothatPinetopshit.” Itwasn’tlongbeforehewasskippingthelessonsandspendinghismoneyat thepoolhall.“Iwouldgothereandshootthatdollarupinpool,”hesays.“Allthe time, Pinetop was showin’ me that boogie-woogie stuff. I’d get home, and Mama would ask me, ‘Sonny, what you learn?’ and I’d play her what Pinetop taught me. She’d say, ‘Ooh, my baby learnin’. Yeah!’” Ike roars with laughter. Then he quiets and turns serious at the recollection ofafirethatdestroyedhischildhoodhome.“ItwasaSaturday,andwewereatthe movies,” he says. “That’s when our house burned down. My piano got burned down. Shit, man. All the hammers, the wires inside were popped loose. Wasn’t nothing left but the soundboard in the back. “That’swhenIlearnedhowtomakeapiano.First,Igotsomesandpaperand a wirebrush, and I wirebrushed that thing down as good as I could. Then, I went andgotmeafelthat,somecementglue,someshoestring,andcartires.Icanmake apianowiththat.Youknowthepartofatirerightaroundtherim?Ifyouburnthat littlepartaroundtherimthere,that’sthesamewireintherethatmakesthesound inside a piano. I burned me four or five car tires, stretched that wire across the yard, and me and Lane sandpapered this wire down. Then, we rolled it up and rewired that piano. “Itookthehat,cutitup,andgluedthefeltonthehammerswithcementglue. Itiedshoestringtothehammers,sothey’dpullbackandforth.Ididn’tevenknow theymadetunin’hammers,soIwentandgotasocketwrenchfromagarage.Iput 168 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 168 that little socket wrench on there and started tunin’ that piano. That’s when I learned how to tune a piano. I can make and tune a piano, man. After I did that, I started goin’ around to churches fixin’ pianos to make a little extra money.” Jeanetteentersthestudio,sayingshe’sgoingtothemarket.Ikestands.“How much you gonna need?” he asks, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. Shesays,“Ahundredoughttodoit.”Andhepeelsbillsofftherollandhands them to her. “Why don’t you take the Lincoln?” he says. “I got an errand to run, too.” Afewminuteslater,IkeandIarebarrelingupHighway78—inatanMercedes sedan with IKEREVU plates—on our way to LensCrafters. As he speaks, he constantly cranes his neck, looking for openings in traffic. The speedometer often hits 100 miles per hour. At one point he has to brake abruptly for a motorcyclist. “Thatboyonthebikegonnagetrunover,”hesays.“He’stakin’hislifeinhishands on a road like this. And I can’t see too good, either. There’d be nothin’ but a spot o’ grease in the street.” I ask about his father, Izear Luster Turner. “He was a minister,” he says. “He diedwhenIwasrealyoung,man.Hewasgoin’withthisblackchickthatwasgoin’ withthiswhiteguy.Whentheycametogethim,whentheykickedthedoordown, Irememberthefall.Iwasinmymother’sarms,andtheyknockedherdownwhen theycameinthere.Itwasacoupleofpickup-truckloadsofwhitesinkhakipants andkhakishirts.Mamawastryin’toholdontoDaddy,andtheypulledherloose. She was cryin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ and all. “When they brought him back, they threw him in the front yard. He was all bloody.Theyhadkickedholesinhisstomach.Mamatriedtotakehimtothehospital in Clarksdale, but they wouldn’t accept Daddy because it was for whites only....Thehealthdepartmentputupalittletentoutsideofmyhouse—because thosewoundssmelledsobad—andhestayedthereforthreeyears,andhedied.” Ike also recalls being molested at the age of six by a neighborhood woman and getting beaten with barbed wire by his stepfather. He shakes his head. “Kids, man,”hesays.“Youhavetowatchwhatyoudobecausetheyrememberstufffrom way back.” Afterhavinghisglassesadjustedatthemall,wheretheLensCraftersemployees greet him like an old friend, we speed home to a dinner of fried catfish, cornbread ,potatoes,greens,rice,andicedtea.HeeyestheplateJeanettesetsinfront ofhimandpatshisslightlypaunchystomach.“Peoplekeeptellin’methatI’veput on a few pounds,” he says. “One thing’s for sure,” says Jeanette, “you will eat good at the Turners’.” “There’s nothing else to do here,” Ike adds, with a chuckle. “Eat and play music, that’s all I do.” Ike and Jeanette met in East St. Louis eleven years ago. At the time, she was singing with...

Share