The SCP Experience - The Mount Golgotha Blues (Part 1) | SCP-012

Episode Date: December 16, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-012: The Mount Golgotha Blues This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-012, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author's work here: newpulptales.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

My daddy was a mean son bitch. He was also a preacher that believed that the road to salvation was unflinching faith. As such, the best way to keep children on the right path was through hard work and strict discipline. My childhood can be described with a lot of words, but trust me, spoiled ain't one of them. Due to my upbringing, I've soured on the ideas of faith and religion. but despite that, I still believe in God in my own way. I don't show this by quoting scriptures or attending church every Sunday. I worship him through music.

Despite the beatings I received in his name, how could I not believe in God? Not after being blessed enough to grow up in an age of real music. I'll never forget the first time I heard Robert Johnson on the radio. Those powerful chords and raw lyrics shook me to my very very. soul. I only heard him for a minute before Daddy slapped me so hard that my ears were ringing. Those people are marked by sin, and so is everything they do. I will not tolerate the devil in this house, boy. Daddy made his point clear through scripture, but he did nothing to dull the passion

that the blues brought to my soul, nor did the constant teasing from the other children in school when they found out about my taste in music. While they listened to the latest honky-tonk hits, I taught myself to strum the blues on a guitar and learned how to tickle those heavenly tunes out on a piano. One day I hoped that everyone would speak the name of Ricky Dodds, the same way they did Johnson and Muddy Waters. It became clear that I would never be able to achieve my dream

while living under Daddy's thumb. So, I scrimped and saved every penny. I could from doing odd jobs around town. I sang in the choir to nurture my vocals and would listen to the radio in secret, humming along to the songs. Even in the quiet of the night, barely above a whisper, that music lifted my spirits. If Daddy had any suspicions about my goals, he never vocalized them. I imagined the night I left home was a complete shock to him. Honestly, I don't know. I I wasn't going to stick around and wait to find out. Instead, I hopped on the nearest bus out of town. When my money ran short, I hitchhiked and jumped trains until I finally reached Chicago to pursue my dreams.

The years passed by slowly and painfully. Learning how the windy city worked was tough for a dumb redneck boy, fresh off the truck. Times varied between lean and rough, and never babbled much above good. The days I got to got three square meals were few and far between. I lived everywhere, from flop houses with leaky roofs, and oftentimes on the streets. Despite how tough those days were, I can't help but look back on them with a lot of fondness. I was fearless throughout my 20s. Hope and dreams were the only things I needed to keep me going. Every day I clawed at success, getting by on pennies playing on the streets, and blessed by the occasional working night with my battered. guitar. Sure, the bay was never much better than breaking my back-dicking ditches, but there ain't

no feeling like being in the spotlight and soaking in the applause of a crowd. I don't care if it's a room with a dozen people or a stadium filled with thousands. In that moment, a man is as close to God as one can ever hope to be. Like the century I lived in, my 20s gave way to my 30s, The confidence of youth gave way to the reality of maturity. Eventually, it came time for me to face the truth. You see, there's a problem growing up with legends. When the stages and the radios are taken up by the Tommy Johnson's and Tampa Reds of the world, they're not just your inspiration.

They're your competition, too. I could pick a guitar well enough. Even accompany the rhythms on a piano with some degree of competence. My voice could draw attention from people passing on the street, but wouldn't captivate a room full of people. In short, I was good, but I wasn't great. And I wasn't ever going to be. In the spotlight, well, it's got no sympathy for those who can't cast a shadow. It was my 33rd birthday when I finally realized my big break wasn't coming, and I hung up my aspirations for good.

By then, a few years of the Volstead Act had already passed, which banned alcohol. And while legally the country was dry as a bone, booze still flooded the streets of Chicago. It was so rampant that anyone could make money on the stuff. Even a hick passed his prime with a busted dream. I got a job bartending at the Purple Piano in Chicago's south side. You'd never know Prohibition or Black Friday were a thing within those doors. People would dance and drink the night away. The owners were Italian, but the music was always blues or jazz.

Despite the beatings and teasing I had received growing up, the music had broken through the color barrier. Black performers packed the seats with all white crowds. Tolerance is distance-based, though, I guess. Fancy white folks don't mind color from a distance. Not when they're a safe distance away from them on stage, or through the speakers on the radio. They also don't mind them waiting on them and cleaning up their messes, but apparently, they've got a problem with them handling their food and drinks.

This is why the other bartenders and I were the only white faces that worked at the purple piano. I often received decent-sized tips from the customers, but in truth I had more in common with my coworkers. I'd rather listen to them talk about music in their day than hear the white rich people complain about problems that I wish I could afford. Still, I pocketed their money all the same. I ain't no saint, and I never was. The purple piano satisfied me in other ways, too. While dishing out gin and bourbon by the barrel load, I was still close to the music I loved.

I witnessed greatness as it happened. And while I didn't have the talent to make it big, my ears still worked just fine. And after closing, I could still strum along on my guitar and sing. Sure, it was an empty crowd, but it kept my younger self alive. The dream might have died, but that spark of hope always remained. One night I stayed late like I always did, waiting for the last revelries to fade. The party went later that night than most, something about a wedding or a bachelor party.

Inside the purple piano, the two didn't look much different. Finally, the last of the party stumbled out the door and left, the rest of the staff and I to clean. I had just stepped outside and lit a cigarette when I heard scratching from the bar. Christ, it sounded like we had rats again. If we had any screaming dames on the dance floor, it would have been taken out of my check. I picked up the baseball bat we used for the unwelcome pests and stormed into the bar, ready to battle with the venomous bastards. Instead of rats, I found a young black kid who bolted up from his seat. I recognized recognized him as one of the new hires to sweep up around the place.

He was about the same age I was when I first came to Chicago. But he didn't string a sentence together in under five minutes. Stuttering John, I remembered. That's what everybody called him. John didn't know me. All he saw was an angry white man with a baseball bat. Like any sensible black man, he turned and fled, tripping over the stool as he did.

I dropped the bat and yelled an apology after him. But by the time I got to the front door, the streets were empty. I sighed and rubbed the back of my head, making a note to apologize to him the next day. I headed back toward the bar. John had been in such a hurry that he left behind what he was working on. It was a battered-up piece of sheet music and an abandoned pen. Atop of the score was the title, Chicago or Bust. Reading over the notes, I found my hand tapping against the side of the side of the book.

of my leg. The notes and the lyrics poured through me, nourishing that beaten younger self. New life flowed through my spirit and my body. Walking as if in a trance, I picked up my guitar from behind the bar, took the stage, and set up John's sheets. My thumb strummed the first chords in a rhythm that vibrated through my core. Closing my eyes, it was like I didn't even need to see the notes. They flowed through me into my heart and pulsated through my hands in a rapid twist of chords that I would never have been able to match before. The lyrics did the same.

All I had to do was open my mouth and they poured from my throat. I didn't even need a microphone. It was like the years of tobacco abuse never happened. My voice pitched high as a schoolgirls and deep as the ocean when the song demanded it. Kick my soul to the dust. I don't care, baby.

It's Chicago War bust. My guitar and my voice echoed with the last lyrics as I sat on the stool and felt the tears well up behind my eye. The kid who couldn't speak without stuttering was a damned musical savant. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, and I was grateful even to be a small part of it. Things are feeling a little less human these days, aren't they?

But isn't the whole point of progress to make things more human? That's why at TD, when we design a product, whether it's an app for making trading easier or monitoring your account for fraud, we ask one simple question. How does this help people? That's how we're making banking more simple, more seamless, and more intuitive. But most importantly, that's how TD is making banking more human. Are we human? Biennue at board of Viaray.

Embarked and profited. Embarked and relaxes. Syrotay. Bookiné. Oh, that also. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that we love. Clapping snapped my eyes open.

It was just one set of heavy hands. But they were like thunder in the empty room. Standing closer into the light, my mouth went dry as I saw the three-piece suit and cigar. dangling from his lips. Big Maddie Marcon, a coppo for the Gambino crime family, and my boss. The purple piano was more like a playground for him and a place to launder money through his less legitimate businesses. Our bartender had been accused of stealing from the till, and it was said that Marcones was why we never saw him again.

Sorry, Mr. Marconne, I said, and jumped to my feet. The manager said it was okay if I played after hours. I mean, so long as there ain't no customers around or nothing, I didn't know anyone else was here. Marconne looked like he hadn't heard a word I said, and plucked the cigar from his lips. That was beautiful. He stressed each syllable in the word. What's your name, kid? I doubted I was ten years younger than Marconi, but I wasn't going to correct him.

Ricky, sir, Ricky Dodds. Good name, I mean, not Italian, but eh, not. but he's perfect, right? Marconne barked at his joke. And knowing that he was a man you didn't want to disagree with, I laughed along with him and made sure to cut it just as soon as he did. We had an act call in sick.

You interested in headlining tonight, Ricky Dodds? My eyes widened. I had been on stage, even accompanying some great names before they made it big. But it was always off to the side, never in the spotlight. And never in a venue as big as the purple piano, I couldn't believe it, and I couldn't find the words.

How could I achieve something like this after giving up on my dreams? It was all because of stuttering John. I'm going to take that stunned silence as a yes. It almost always is. I mean, unless I got a gun to someone's head, but hey, you didn't hear that from me, capish. Marconne reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of bills. He thumbed out several and placed them in my hand. It was more money than I had ever seen in my life.

Get yourself a decent set of digs for tonight's show, kid. And hey, if you got more songs like that, who knows? Maybe we can find some more work for you. I wrapped up the bills and stuffed them in the breast pocket of my shirt. Warmth radiated off them and through my chest, almost as much as John's music. I nodded, still at a loss for words. I took Marcone's silence as a sign that I was dismissed. So I slung my guitar over my back and headed to the nearest exit.

It felt like I had just robbed a bank or something, and I felt a dire need to run out as soon as possible. Something stopped me, though, and I rushed back and grabbed John's sheet music and penned. I spent the next hour beating on the doors of some coworkers. They answered the door with red eyes and a few swear words. After a few knocks, though, I finally got an idea of where John lived. We were already on the rough side of the tracks, but hell, the tracks didn't go to John's neighborhood.

I was self-conscious of the money, afraid that any would-be muggers could smell it on me. Luckily, I was in my work clothes and up all night. Most of the bombs loitering on the streets looked better off than me. It took a while, but I finally saw him walking up the streets. John's head was bent low like he was dragging an anchor around his neck. I stepped in front of his path and called out to him. Hey, it's John, right? He looked up and blinked several times,

clearing the haze from his eyes. It took him a moment to recognize me, but his mouth dropped open. I held up his sheet music before he could spin on his heel, and it froze him for a moment. He bobbed lightly from one foot to the next, unsure of my intention, and ready to flee if he had to.

Sorry about before. Heard the scratching and thought we had rats again. I held out his music toward him. and he hesitantly reached a handout. I smiled as his fingers wrapped around the wrinkled sheets of paper. You're a hell of a music man, you know that? The fear in John's expression finally broke with a smile. Thanks!

His nickname was definitely apt. I glanced up and down the streets and worked out where we were. There's a hash house not too far from here. Not the best grub, but generous portions. You hungry? I could practically hear his stomach growl. But he frowned and shook his head. No money.

Don't worry, it's on me. I figured it was the least I could do. But John's eyes lit up like I had just offered him a winning lottery ticket. Once again, I was reminded of myself when I first came to Chicago. How many times had I gone without food before booking a gig that at least came with a sandwich? I turned up the streets, and John wasn't far behind. The diner was just like.

like any other, nothing special about it, but filled with the smell of burnt bacon and heavy with smoke from the paying customers. It was also close enough to the poor side of town that segregation wasn't heavily influenced. Even still, the blonde waitress eyed John suspiciously as he sat down across for me. That was a lot better than open hostility, so I decided to chalk it up as a win. I ordered some eggs and toast, and when John decided to do the same, I added a couple of other dishes on top of his order. I had finished my breakfast while John dug into a stack of flapjacks with unrestrained joy. It had definitely been a few days since he had a meal.

When he finally popped the last slice of bacon in his mouth, I offered him a cigarette, but he shook his head. I sparked up and sipped my coffee before clearing my throat. John, do you know who Maddie Marcones? He flinched and nodded. Boss, that's right. Well, John, I was playing that song you wrote, and Mr. Marconne heard it. And even better, he liked it. I reached into my pocket and fished out several of the bills, careful not to flash the cash on this side of town. I finished my coffee and hit the bills under

the cup. Then I slid them over to John. He liked it a lot. John's eyes went wide as saucers as he lifted the cup. He looked at the bills the same way he had the sheet music when I returned it, like they were bait in a trap. And he was worried that he couldn't see the snares. Take the money, John. It's yours. You earned it. I waited until he stuffed the bills in his pocket. He did it fast, like he was afraid they would disappear.

I had done the same when Marconne paid me. John, I ain't blowing smoke up your ass. That song? one of the greatest I have ever heard. How come you're not on stage somewhere? John shook his head. He said, giving up on the word, then tapped his lips with two fingers.

No good for singing. He held up his hands and showed, trembling fingers. No good for playing. Sympathy filled my heart as I flicked the ashes from my cigarette. Poor kid was gifted with limitless music imagination, but his body wouldn't let him live up to his potential. But at the same time, I couldn't help but think it was another sign of faith, of God rewarding me for worshipping him in my way. Here we were, him with the imagination but not the skills, and me with the skills, but without the talent.

What were the odds? I tapped the side of my head. But really good writing. You got any more songs, John? Or is Chicago or bust a one-hit wonder? John smiled and reached into the dirty satchel he carried at his side. He pulled out several other beaten sheets of music, and I had to stop myself from snatching them up. As my eyes glanced over the notes,

I could already hear the music filling my mind and rising to my throat, just begging to be sung. Right. Here's what I'm thinking, John. I can play and sing. but can't write worth a lick. You've got the opposite problem. I stacked up his sheets of music. You write the songs for me,

and I'll play them for the crowd. I'll take the credit as the performer. You get the credentials as a writer. How's that sound? John's smile grew even wider. Sounds good, sir. Don't call me, sir. My tone made him flinch, so I softened it.

I ain't your boss, John. I'm your partner. We're going to split everything, 50-50, which means the cash too. So, you call me by my name, Ricky Dodds. I held up my hand, and John reached up and took mine. Johnny Gagoo-Goo-Goo-Gree! Lazzangue sur-gillet,

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