I've been exploited all my life.

Not sure that I can think of a reason I'd be getting an award. We had these sort of awards in school, just among us kids, and I got a piece of paper that said I was the "best most likely to succeed harp player." Jake ran those, though, so he pretty much chose everything for us, and I don't think that counts for what you're saying. I'd get a sort of congratulatory note from the boss now and then on my work, but I'm pretty sure that's not what you're talking about, either. I've never been much for awards. You've gotta stick yourself out for those, and I'd just sort of prefer to stay toward the back, y'know, blend in a little more.

Guess if I ever did get an award, it'd be as a part of the band. I mean, we've got the right sound, and the crowds love it, so there's a chance we could get something for playing. Jake's sure of it, likes to talk about it when we're driving or just sitting around, waiting to fall asleep. And I've got to believe him when he talks about it like that. So, sure, maybe the band'll get some sort of award for our music, and I'll be a part of it. That's the closest I'm ever likely to come, and, hey, it's the best sort of award I could think of receiving, anyway.

That’s a hard one. Been through so many songs, it’s hard to tell at this point. I mean, I can associate with a lot of ‘em, and I like a lot of ‘em for different reasons. I’ve been partial to “Rubber Biscuit” for a while, but that’s not to say that it describes my life. There are some lines that figure, but that’s not the whole story.

Problem is that a lot of the songs focus on one lady, see, and right now, I just don’t have that kind of focus. Sure, there’s one around every once and a while, but they never really stay around. I don’t mope around about that, either. Not much. Guess Jake says I do once in a while, but can I help it if I feel a little let down? It’s not like that’s going to describe my whole life, though. I just can’t commit myself to saying it does.

I mean, if you’re looking for a sound that fits, I can name a number of Junior Wells tunes with real good harp lines. It’s the way the lines run in an out. You ever notice that they’re never far from some sort of melancholy, like, even in a more up-beat song? Doesn’t sound like that’s what’s being asked, though.

But if you want words, well, ah… There are a lot of particulars in the words in these songs, you know what I’m saying? If we’re thinking about the ladies, there’ve been times I could relate to, say, Robert Johnson’s “Rambling On My Mind.” Sure, I’ve run into women with claws. But like I said, that ain’t it right now.

“Jailhouse Blues” is kind of appropriate. It ain’t perfect, but it fits close enough. You know… “Hey mister jailer, will you please sir bring me the key. I just want you to open the door, cause this ain't no place for me.” Don’t feel right, being stuck in here. Even with Jake and the guys nearby, it’s not what we should be doing. I know why we’re here. I just don’t see why we should be stuck here. Like the song says, “Well I wouldn't mind staying in jail, but I've gotta stay there so long.” A day or two would’ve been all right, maybe, but this isn’t right. I can’t stare at these walls much longer, can’t be locked up like this.

It’s gotta happen sometimes, though. Don’t really want to talk about it so, ah, how about another song? Something I’d like more. It’s an obvious choice, but “Sweet Home Chicago” fits, too. It’s a standard, but there’s gotta be a reason for that. I know I’d rather be there than here. It’s nice to be out on the road, but Chicago’s always somewhere to come back to.

I guess that’s enough of that. I could go on for a while, explain what fits, what doesn’t, but I really don’t really much like talking anymore. Makes me want to play.

I’ll give you one last tip. This talk of songs like they’re something static is all well and good, but a lot of the best songs are always changing. They won’t be specific to me, sure, but the life’ll be there, the right feel of it. You want the best estimation of my life, just walk around the streets, listen for the music. That just might be the closest answer I can give.

It’s kind of embarrassing to talk about. I mean, the guys tell the story and we all kind of laugh, but that’s different. They were all there. And, hell, when we tell stories, it’s like we’re all real close, and everything sort of goes because it makes sense. It’s funny, when they tell it. ‘Course, I don’t really say it, myself. They’re better with telling stories.

Guess I’m just avoiding the main point, though. We played at a gig for Christmas, once. Not the fanciest place, but it had the works: trees, lights, and a whole lot of alcohol. People were good enough to open the bar to the band, so we made sure to drink our share. Bottles, glasses, whatever, and by the end of the night, we were all pretty toasted. Not that our playing showed it; never does that.

Murph must’ve had a fight with a lady, or something, because he drank as much as the rest of us, more than he usually did. By the time we got around to wrapping up the show and clearing out, we had one very drunk Murph Dunne on our hands, and he wasn’t very quiet about it. Not a big problem, really. The guests were already on their way out or drunk as he was, and we’d already been paid. It was just funny. He kept talking about how he wished he could fly away like a bird, and then wouldn’t stop saying how much he loved all of us. Grabbed a giant red bow and stuck it on his shirt, gave the Duck a big swat on the back. So it went like that.

I dunno how he made it over to me, exactly, but when I turned around with an amp, I was, er… I--Well, Murph was there, and he decided for some reason or other that it’d be a good idea to kiss me. On the cheek, you know, and I just kind of backed away suddenly and tripped over a bunch of cords, and by then the guys were really laughing. Murph was grinning, and I’m pretty sure I only stared for a while. Hell, I was confused.

Then he said, “Merry Christmas, Elwood,” and walked away. I think the Colonel made some smart remark or other, but I didn’t hear it. Probably better that way. My face was red enough, and I still didn’t know what the hell was going on. Just sat with my feet tangled in the cords until Jake came over and kicked me into getting up.

Man, the guys are never going to forget that one.

Depends on the night. I tell myself I’ll go to sleep, and then I just sort of don’t. It’s not even the noise anymore. There were the trains for a while, but I got used to those, enough; put on a little music, and the trains are gone. Sort of. But there’s always been noise, so I figured a long time ago I could live with it. Even the trains were just part of the background, so no, that wasn’t it.

I tried to make myself sleep, especially when I worked at the factory. The hours weren’t the greatest, and I’d be tired. I just wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, no matter how much time I spent with the Bluesmobile. I’d tell myself to get into bed, but somehow I’d always end up staring out the window for a couple of hours, watching the trains without really seeing ‘em. Be tired in the morning, maybe, but it’s easy to get used to that, too.

Just too much to think about. There’s always something going on.

And, anyway, night’s always seemed like a more fruitful time, you know? Good for playing tunes, thinking up new music, just shootin’ the shit with the guys and talking about everything we could do, the places we’ll go. We’ve had some real good nights like that. Seems like we could do anything, sometimes, and it’s always at night that we get the most excited. Even Mr. Fabulous loosened up a little bit. Hell, I miss those nights, those and the ones we played straight through.

Now, I dunno. It’s mostly the thinking, but there’s something else. The bed ain’t exactly comfortable, but I’m used to that. Jake’s sort of close by, and so are the others guys, so that rules out that, I guess. Maybe I just don’t like the bars, the way we’re trapped… Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s it.

There is no difference. No space between Heaven and Hell, no gradation, no overlord of either species. He stares at the sky and receives nothing, captured by a collision of silence and consideration.

What was it they had told him? There were spirits out there. They had presented images of kind guardians caring for everyone, guiding children from any real danger. Never a need to fear, for the angels were always waiting to help those who trusted. Once in a while, on cold nights when he felt and had been abandoned, the warm thought was all that had saved him.

More importantly still, they had said there was order, a time-tested hierarchy of divine creation. He could see it in his mind, set solidly in blocks. Something beyond to place confidence in and trust simply because it was not human, an order that drifted beyond everyday bullshit.

How easily those days have slipped away, though. Belief had vanished even before his childhood’s end, breaking with each new discovery of misdeeds, jail cells, pained acquaintances, and of falsehoods. What were such groundless thoughts to a logical mind? What power could wayward faith hold against phenomena that could be seen and felt? He has found no sense in accepting anything that refuses to show itself, not if he can’t feel it, not if he can’t trust it.

They have asked about it—days of questioning and disappointment held rooted in the memory—and will likely continue to do so. He can never answer them clearly, being unsure himself, most especially in their presence. They reflect his own doubts, and he cannot bring himself to question. His is not the place to destroy their own system, but rather to feel guilt and to nevertheless retain his doubts.

Maybe he simply doesn’t trust enough, or perhaps he doesn’t need this invisible power any longer. Maybe life itself, brother and music, is enough.

Still, the questions linger.

Jake,

Look, don’t take this too hard, but I haven’t been exactly straight with you, and I figure it’s time you knew. The band isn’t the band anymore. That is, the guys split, and not long after you were locked up. We tried a few gigs, but it just didn’t work out. I wanted it to work, man, but the guys slipped away when they realized we weren’t getting anywhere. It was hard, though. What can we do without you? We didn’t have anyone to do the singing, and it just wasn’t the same.

I didn’t want to bullshit you, but I didn’t want to tell you. And I’m sorry that you’ve got to get the news. Don’t even know for sure where everyone went, and the leads that I have aren’t great, but maybe


Elwood pauses and for a long time only sits staring, chewing on his lip. Then in one swift, sudden movement, he tears the paper, crumpling and hurling it aside. No, he won’t do that. He can’t.

Instead, he breathes deeply, scrawls on a fresh sheet of paper.


Jake,

How’s it going? Is the food getting any better? Might try to sneak something in for you the next time I can visit. That’s just a couple of weeks away, you know. Anything in particular you’d like?

Saw Curtis the other day, and he asked about you. Told him you were all right, and he sends his considerations. Wants to treat you to a bottle when you get out. We listened to records for a while, and he said the orphanage is doing all right.

We had another show the other night at a small bar. Nothing big, but I think the audience liked it, and the beer was free. Did a few songs, and we blended really well. Steve had a couple of riffs the crowd went crazy for, Willie was real hot on the drums, and you know what else? We’ll be playing again next week. Things are going really well. I bet we’ll be better than ever as soon as you get out.

Got to go pick up some bread now, take the Bluesmobile for a ride. Keep looking up, pal, and I’ll see you soon.


Your brother,

Elwood

I dunno, I tend to be a pretty controlled sort of guy. Don’t like to let myself get out of hand. I mean, I’m not fully in control when I drink or whatnot, but that’s sort of the point. It’s like a controlled loss of control, see? I choose it.

Been accused of uncontrolled driving, and I gotta say that makes me sort of angry. My driving’s more a connection than an automatic function. The car’s got its intricacies, you know. You’ve just got to learn its patterns, hear its music, like.

Seems to me that the more control you have, the less trouble you’ll get into. I like to dictate what’ll happen to me. Jake calls me a robot once in a while, usually when he’s frustrated (with me or himself, don’t know which and it doesn’t really matter). He’s close enough on that. We’ve just got our different ways, and mine happens to work for me. It’s gotten him out of trouble any number of times, as well, and I figure he sees that.

Right, about losing control. Just give me a moment, all right? There’ve been things that’ve been beyond my control, but I don’t know that I could’ve done anything about those. Can’t just stop someone when he’s got an idea in his head. Huh…

I did forget to go back to the mic once. Just sort of got caught up in the music, dancing, and realized that I was late. Jake kept going on, and I started to open my mouth before I realized that I wasn’t anywhere near the front of the stage, and then I saw the Duck grinning. Nearly lost it right there, but I just sort of went with it.

And if I’m going to be honest, then, yeah, guess I might lose myself in music every once in a while, and I think I can live with that.

I have, yeah. What? I’m not gonna lie to you about it. I have, so there you go. We sort of get drunk or high or whatnot as a group. Celebrating, like. I usually end up wandering on my own somewhere. Then I find the guys, usually sprawled around together, and Jake’s either with them or a girl somewhere. Sometimes the guys have a few, but those’ve usually cleared out by the morning.

Last time, the very unfortunate time, I ended up handcuffed to the inside of the elevator. I did it myself, yeah, but I don’t really remember what happened, or know how many times I rode that elevator. Sort of wonder about that. It must have been a while… Huh. Not sure how I managed that one. Not sure how I got away from the angry son of a bitch, either, but I’m glad I did.

Woke up confused after that, too, but it wasn’t the same. I could’ve figured what I’d done the night before: drinking, listening to music, eventually passing out. Not much to remember, see? Tried not to do that too often, but it happened. Shit like that just won’t go away, I figure.

Results for Elwood here.

When they came to him, he knew. Same old cell, same gray concrete and bars, same restless faces. Yet he had felt a coldness, and then there were the guards breaking the everyday, their eyes somehow pitying.

That wasn’t right.

He felt something inside shudder when they told him, with a snapping, a withering… It didn’t really matter. Some vital failure. Then he could only stare, despondent, as if he hadn’t heard. They told him again, sought a response. Still he only stared in silence. Elwood had heard all too well.

(Words he may have spoken in days gone by… More importantly, words unspoken but understood.)

Elwood made only one request. Without speaking, he made clear his desire to hold his harmonica; the guards complied with little deliberation. Hands wrapped around the bars, Elwood stared after them, waiting blankly. It was too painful for words, too overbearing for silence.

Retreating, he played without meditation. A refrain, a recollection of the beginning and the drive, nights spent playing and planning and drinking, living. He ceased to think, could only feel. For all he knew, he was the harmonica, or maybe he was Jake, or maybe he was Elwood with Jake, and they were free, just cruising, and everything was all right. This incoherence—this emptiness—was a dream. Something would startle him, and his eyes would flash open to find Jake and another day.

(If you leave me, pal, I’m lost. If you… Man, I don’t even want to think about it.)

A pause, sudden emptiness where music should have carried on. That wasn’t right, either. Voice, this required a voice, expression. Something was missing. This was a slipping away and into something, some gray emptiness, and Elwood knew too well what had been lost, though he spoke neither the name nor the loss.

He found the sudden grayness unbearable. Driven on and tearing up, Elwood accompanied to a voice that would never sing again.

(It’s you and me and the music. Don’t need anything else.)

He feared any sudden silence, a jolt in the spirit of the instrument. He could feel his brother in this spirit. So long as he could feel this, he knew that everything was all right. Without Jake, there was nothing. He was only half a soul. What was life without completion?

(Jake…)

For days he will only sit with the harmonica, gazing at it and playing occasionally, a strain or two. And he never says a word.

(Jake, I don’t know what I’d do without you.)

Now he only clutches the harp, staring without comprehension. This is too painful for words.




((OOC: I don't take this as an actuality. HENCE THE "IF," please and danke. I'd much rather see the both of them out of Joliet.))

The first time I saw her, I knew she was the one for me. There she stood, like she’d been waiting there all my life. Yeah, it was meant to be.

All right, maybe she could have used a paint job, a little bit of work, but what of it? Someone had discarded her, and that was a real shame. A good thing for me, maybe, but a shame for her. Car needs to sense it’s loved, you know? And there are real advantages to having something more beat-up.

Take a flashy car. One look, and everyone knows what to expect from it. They see a fast car, a car capable of astounding them. The Caddy was like that. Nice to look at and, I’ll admit it freely, a real smooth drive. That car awed people without effort. Hell, it could’ve been sitting, just parked somewhere, and they would’ve known the Caddy was something. I figure that was why Jake liked it so much; he always did like everything to look flashier, show more immediate results. I guess most people do.

Then you get a car like our Bluesmobile, that beautiful old Dodge. Paint scratched, since I’ve never really seen fit to go over her. Old, bulky, and presumably unwieldy. People take a look at her and don’t expect a thing. I’ve seen ‘em stare at us like they thought she’d fall apart in the middle of the street.

That’s all right with me. The less they expect, the more she surprises them. When they see the way she flies, they only stare. Gives us an advantage, and I can’t say that it doesn’t warm my heart just a little bit. We might not look like much, but we can outrun the best of them and perform the unexpected. That’s what really matters in our particular situation, anyway.

“…Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.”

It was too hot to be sitting at such an uncomfortable desk, listening to the nun’s voice drone through the hours. Elwood was generally a patient boy, and he had learned to half-listen to these lectures, yet even he found the urge to fidget more and more irresistible. Couldn’t she stop talking and release them? Obviously not. Much as she might go on about it, the Penguin had no sense of true mercy.

Frowning, the boy beside him muttered in a scarcely audible voice, “Who cares about the holy spirit? I’m bored.”

Elwood winced internally, forcing himself to keep his eyes forward. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge Jake, and nobody else acknowledged Jake, the sister wouldn’t notice.

No such luck. In an instant—it seemed, indeed, the blink of any eye—the nun stood before Jake, glaring down at the unruly boy. “Did you have something to share with us, Jake?”

Glancing over, Elwood caught his brother contemplating a smart response. Elwood wanted to shake his head, tell Jake to take it easy. He decided instead to rely on his brother’s judgment. The afternoon might seem more interesting if Jake messed around with the nun, but it’d be still more painful than was necessary.

Luckily, Jake chose the less contentious method—“No, Sister,” he shook his head earnestly—and received a slap of the sister’s yardstick for his troubles.

“I believe I heard you speak, Jake.”

“…I might have said something.”

“And what did you say?”

“Not… Not much, Sister.”

She swatted him again. “I do not want to hear such remarks in this room. The subject I speak on is of the utmost importance to your soul.” The yardstick again. “You will not interrupt and endanger the souls of your classmates.” Another slap. “Is that clear, Jake?”

For a moment, Elwood felt that his brother would argue. The moment passed, however, and Jake only nodded. “Yes, Sister. Forgive me.”

“I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, Jake. Now, pay attention.”

With that, the Penguin turned to recommence her lecture, soul-saving story, or whatever it was. Jake’s eyes shifted to Elwood, confidence of an oncoming remark. And Jake did speak, this time less discretely than the last, as if wishing the nun to hear. “Stupid Penguin.”

This time it was the yardstick that appeared out of the air, catching Jake over the shoulder and wrist is rapid succession. Where another boy might have whimpered, Jake only slapped a hand on his desk. “Hey… What’d you do that for?”

Another swat. “What did you say, Jake?”

A pause. “I said, ‘What’d you do that for?’”

Another, this time over the head, and the nun only glared. Jake threw his arms up, shielding himself. “I didn’t say anything.”

Elwood saw the nun’s hand twitch around the yardstick and heard himself speak before he realized what he was doing. “I did, Sister.”

Slowly, slowly the nun rotated toward him, eyes boring into his soul. Now she flashed a smile, but it was a smile not to be trusted, a stalker’s trap. “Elwood?”

He wasn’t about to back down. Jaw set, he spoke clearly, “It was me, Sister. I said it.”

“And what did you say, Elwood?” Every word seemed measured, designed to hit with full force.

“I said, ah…” Could he repeat it? He might have been thinking it, sure, but he would’ve have said it… Aw, hell. He could. “I said, ‘Stupid Penguin.’”

This time Elwood felt the bite of yardstick. “Elwood, I’m surprised at you.” Another slap across his wrists, and Elwood bit his lip. The stick hurt, but if she had believed him, did it really matter? Better that he and Jake share the punishment and the blame.

“I’m sorry, Sister, I…”

“Lying to me.”

She hadn’t bought it, then. The Penguin returned her attention to Jake, speaking sharply. “Sister Helen will deal with you, young man. I want you to leave this classroom immediately, and remember that the Lord wishes us to show respect to our elders. You will behave as expected, and you will not show such utter disrespect.” She delivered a final slap of the yardstick for emphasis, adding as Jake scuttled toward the door, “I am disappointed in you.”

Elwood watched his brother walk away, knowing that only further punishment could come from Sister Helen (and that only more still would come from avoiding her). There would be lectures and another ruler, and then another set of lectures.

He was shaken by the realization that the Penguin stood before him once again, shaking her head. “I am disappointed in you, as well. The Lord punishes those who speak falsehoods, Elwood. You will report to Sister Helen, as well.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he saw the yardstick, realized that she would strike him again if he didn’t move quickly, and bolted toward the door. He felt her eyes bearing into the back of his head even as he closed the door, and it was with a sigh of relief that he started down the hallway, nearly knocking into Jake.

“Man, the Penguin’s a demon with that stick,” Jake grinned, rubbing his shoulder.

Elwood nodded, smiling in response, and together, the boys headed toward Sister Helen’s office and the invariable punishment. Ah well. It was more interesting than listening to Sister Mary lecture, anyway.



((OOC: Opening quote taken from the land known as the Bible. Whoa.))

Jake still hasn’t gotten over the car. Elwood notices the signs, sees his brother’s eyes shifting toward the window, sees his fingers twitching with his tie, dancing across his leg. When Jake finally speaks, Elwood isn’t surprised.

“Can’t exactly take the car out to pick up women.”

“I don’t want to pick up any women.”

“No, dimwit, I mean me. I’d take the car.”

“Jake, you can’t drive that car.”

“What the hell is that? Why do you always… I don’t drive any worse than you, motorhead.”

A straight look. “I would prefer that you didn’t drive it.”

Hesitation. “…well, I didn’t want to drive it. It’s a piece of junk.”

“Yeah, well.” Not the slightest hint of humor. Elwood isn’t going to budge on this; he really does love that damned car. He crosses his arms. Jake sighs.

“All right.” Stands up, forces himself to smile. ”Hey, I’d rather not screw around with any girls tonight, anyway.” Suddenly smiling naturally, he slaps a hand on Elwood’s shoulder. “Let’s go for some drinks. Just you and me.”

Elwood stares straight ahead. “You sure you want to be seen in ‘that shitbox?’”

“Sure. If it gets to be too unbearable, I’ll just close my eyes.”

Now Elwood smiles as well, a slight, almost sly expression. “Pretend you’re in the Caddy again?”

“Yeah. Yeah!”

“All right, then.” He stands; the smile remains. “I’ll drive.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, pal.”

Unless you’re talking about some disease or other, I think I’d have to agree. Makes sense enough that we’d learn from our mistakes; I know I have. I don’t drive a hundred down certain lanes during the day, try to stay away from the more high class and heavily guarded areas. I have ‘em written out and marked down on a map. Handy stuff.

That’s how we get along in the world, isn’t it? We make mistakes, we come back in a different way. Maybe take a different approach. We find what works for us even as kids, and then what? We keep finding out. Make a lot of mistakes, learn a lot. That’s how we survive. Same as with the car and the roads, I learned how to avoid a fight, how to duck when some wise guy throws a brick. Simple enough.

But then, I don’t know whether Jake has learned anything from his girl (she was his girl; she isn’t anymore), except maybe that he can still get away with anything. We don’t really talk about it. Hell, I’m still confused, but I’ll wait to ask. It’s not exactly a pressing concern of mine anymore.

Now that I think about it, sometimes Jake doesn’t seem to learn much, period. He just keeps running.

It works for him, though, and maybe that’s a part of it. He can take it head on, so he does. Pushes his own route. I’ll take whatever route I find, slide in and move along before anyone notices. Might not be the best way, but it works for us. Hell. It got us the money, didn’t it?

Sort of torn here. It shouldn’t be a hard question, I don’t own much, but what can I say? I’m conflicted.

I like my car. Our car. The Bluesmobile. She might look like a shitbox, like they’ve said, but she runs like no other. Puts the Caddy to shame, no matter what Jake says. And she’s served us well; couldn’t have accomplished the mission without her. I guess she’s in pieces, though, and I don’t have any of those… Maybe I should just sort of skip that one.

And if we’re talking some kind of non-material possession, I’ve got another point. I mean, there’s Jake, and what we’ve got… Yeah, well, that’s not a possession, anyway. More a state of being, so I’ll just quit where I am.

My best instinct would say my harp. The instrument itself is a beauty, any one of them is. Just listen to the artists, some Junior Wells, and you’ll know. It’s the sound. I’ve had mine long enough to be attached, and I like the sound of it. The feel of it, too, yeah. You get to know an instrument, and it gets to be worth more. Seems like I’ve had one forever, and they all sort of blend into one. Had one when I was younger; Curtis gave it to me, and man, Jake and I would spend hours singing, playing, dancing… And I’ve still got it. One of ‘em, anyway. Couldn’t imagine being without it.

Then again, I can’t really imagine parting with the suit for good. I don’t have it now, but it’ll be waiting for me. It’s kind of become a part of me… For that matter, so has the harmonica. And that’s more than connected with the music. Pretty much is the music. So, yeah, I’ll stick with that. My harp.

The night is too quiet. The trains roll past, sure, but he scarcely notices them. It’s a human voice that he’s after. For a moment, he thinks he hears it, a jest and a laugh. He smiles and almost speaks, then realizes his error. No one is here. It’s been a while since anyone has been, really. Luck granted him salvation, but what is it without that other voice? What is silence—the silence he usually reveres—without a voice to break it from time to time? God, he misses Jake.

It isn’t entirely Elwood’s fault, but he isn’t blameless. He knows this. He has chastised himself, and though he doubts that he could have stopped his brother, he thinks there must have been something more to say. Something, anything, and he can see the scene again, played out upon and beyond the dreary apartment walls…

Jake is determined. Elwood can see it clearly; hell, anyone would be able to see it. He’s going to get the money, and this is the only way. Jake insists, and Elwood isn’t about to refuse. What else is there to do? They’ve thought, they’ve debated, and in the end, it’s too much money, and there isn’t enough time for anything else.

He wants to restrain his brother. Desperately, Elwood seeks the strength to pull an arm, to shout, to plead, anything. If only he has the right words, enough strength, maybe he can hold Jake back. Because this isn’t right. Something feels wrong, never mind the money they owe. If Jake follows through with this—and he so strongly intends to—there will only be trouble. Something cold. Something empty.

He shivers, Jakes notices, and for a moment, Elwood thinks that his brother may stop… Yet Jake’s eyes tell differently. For a moment they stare at one another, and Elwood is certain Jake knows what awaits. There is an apology, a look of deep sorrow, yet the determination stands. It is as ever; there can be no changing Jake’s mind.

As his brother starts toward the gas station, Elwood takes a step forward, falters. There is nothing to say. It has already begun.

He spends the torturous drive to Chicago, the following sleepless nights, in mute agony, wishing to God that he might somehow have changed the outcome.

This will be another sleepless night.

I wouldn’t say that I’ve inherited much of anything in the traditional sense. When you’re an orphan, you sort of take what you can get, and none of that’s going to come from any traditional parental figure. I mean, I didn’t even get a name from any mother or father. I guess I inherited my body, the basic physical character. And I guess it wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them, so if that counts, there you go.

My brother Jake and I, though, we managed, learned from others. Mostly we learned from Curtis, maybe even a little from the Penguin. We had to learn some sort of discipline. But it was Curtis who made Jake and I what we are, taught us to play and really feel the music. If it wasn’t for Curtis, I don’t know where we’d be. He gave us direction, you know. Something to live for, maybe try to stay out of trouble for.

So I guess that’d be it, the inheritance. I just hope we’ve done it well. Jake says we have, I like to think we have, and I guess I really just want to thank Curtis for introducing us to music. For giving us something worthwhile.

Figure I should make an introduction of sorts. I'm Elwood Blues, and I guess I'll be hanging around, maybe writing something down here and there. Not much else to do in the joint, is there? I mean, aside from when they let us play.

Yeah, that's right, I could explain. You see, my brother, Jake, and a bunch of guys... Together, we're the Blues Brothers. We play pretty well--really well--and if you're ever around, maybe you could stop in and listen. The atmosphere's not great, but it'll work. All we really need is the music, anyway.

If you've got places to go, I won't keep you. Got my harp to keep me company, and Jake's near enough. Thanks for stopping by, and, yeah, nice to meet you.