Around 2011 we went through some really hard times financially. Desperate to keep my family’s home, I worked any job I could get. One of those jobs was at the shipyard. This is one of a series of stories about the shipyard, and one of the men I met.

“Missa Mike, I don’t be meaning you no disrespect but white mens can’t understand de blues,” Herb said in his southern country dialect, as he unpacked his tool bag.

The first time I met Herb he intimidated me. He’d come into the shop, unpack his tools, get to welding, and be cussing under his breathe the whole time. He wasn’t much bigger than me but his body was shaped and molded by sixty years of labor; and crippled by it as well. When he walked it was more of a hobble, like a gargoyle come to life. But when he found out I played guitar we became inseparable. In January, when the company sent us to work on the flight deck of a carrier, we became even closer friends, as only men who have lived in a gulag could be. When we’d hear a Motown song on the radio we’d start to sing and dance together. Ol’ Herb and that crazy man, Magic Mike.

            “Herb, how can you say that?” I asked. “What about Duane, or Eric, or Stevie? You telling me that those dudes couldn’t play the blues?” I started fishing around my MP3 player for a song. “Here listen to this,” I said handing him the earphones. Herb listened as intently as any man who had stumbled into a sanctuary seeking redemption, as Boz Scaggs started playing the organ, just like in church, for a verse, only to give the song over to Duane Allman, whose licks made you realize how sad life can be. “Somebody loan me a dime,” Boz started to weep.

            “Damn, dat’s sweet, Magic Mike,” Herb said as he closed his eyes and swayed gently and hummed the melody. But before we could carry on our conversation Boss-Dawg came over, “Gawd damnit, put that shit up and git back ta work or I’ll fire yer asses! I ain’t paying ya to listen to music all day.”

            “Yes, boss,” we both mumbled as Herb handed me back the earphones. We got back to working, hoping the activity would warm us up. The cold seeped past our six layers of clothing, sinking into our bodies, making every arthritic joint throb. We started work at seven and by nine our feet, knees, back, elbows, and hands would be numb and aching from the cold. During breaks we would huddle in a makeshift tent made from rags and eat cold sandwiches, cold chips, cold…everything was cold. Except our conversations about music.

            “So are you saying that only black guys can play the blues?” I asked Herb during our next break.

            “Naw, lots of mens can play the blues, womens too; but ya gots to be black to understand dem,” Herb replied.

            I thought about what Herb had said, wanting to make sure I had grasped what he was trying to convey, before I spoke again. “Herb, did King David understand the blues?”

            Herb cocked his head and got a big grin, “We gonna do a Bible study, Mike?” he reached into his tool bag and brought out a working man’s Bible; it was torn and tattered and some of the pages were ready to fall out. This wasn’t a book that sat on a coffee table to impress guests, but a Bible owned by a man who had picked cotton as a child, pulled steel and welded on ships.

            “Turn to the thirteenth Psalm,” I said and watched his strong, weathered fingers gently turn the familiar pages until he found his mark. “Now read the first two verses for me,” I asked and closed my eyes to listen to Herb.

He struggled with the words as he spoke, but he said them with a reverence and resonance that gave them even greater strength, “How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? For ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?” (King James Bible, Psa. 13.1-2). He finished and looked up and asked, “King David wrote that?”

“Yes,” I answered, “and four times he asked “How long?” Doesn’t that sound like something one of the Three Kings would sing?”           

“Three Kings?” Herb asked with a twinkle in his eye; he knew I was about to make a point.

“Yeah, you know – B.B., Freddie, and Albert King; the Three Kings.”

“Gud Gawd Almighty, but dem boys can play, Magic Mike, dem boys can play,” Herb laughed covering his smile with his hand. Herb was missing a lot of teeth and sometimes was very self-conscious about his smile. He shouldn’t have been – it was an honest smile, a beautiful smile. He gave me a thoughtful look and said, “Well, maybe…”

As we went back to work I knew that Herb still didn’t think that white men could understand the blues but he hadn’t wanted to hurt my feelings. I thought back to last winter when I had gone to a blues jam at a sleezy little bar nestled in-between a bowling alley and a topless bar, in a dying shopping center. The men would sit with their guitars waiting to go onstage, as solemn as any group of deacons about to serve the Lord’s Supper. Theirs was a gospel about pain, suffering, and loss but, unlike the Gospel I knew, theirs lacked a Redeemer. Maybe this was the “understanding the blues” that Herb was talking about.

We worked on that carrier for two grueling months. When the job was finished Herb disappeared for a week. The next time I saw him he was coming out of the Human Resources Office. He had been fired for being out sick; our company has one sick leave policy – if you’re sick, then leave.

“It was dat ship, Mike. It done messed my knees up bad. It done me in,” Herb said as he hobbled off.

I knew then that Herb was right. I could play the blues, but I would never understand them like he does.