Blues for Betty

Noah was sitting on a rock, the bottoms of his boots just skimming the surface of the harbour as he moved them in time with the song he was singing.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

He gave no sign of awareness of the entourage making its way to him and stopping just behind him.

"You like to sing, huh?"

"Who doesn't?" said Noah. He didn't want company. He was singing to the miniature lighthouse on Bowleg Shandy's old dock. That was all the company he required.

The man at the head of the entourage separated himself, sat down on the rock beside Noah and extended his hand. It had rings on every finger. Noah made no move to take it.

"That's cool," said the man. "You got things on your mind. I can tell."

"My girlfriend said to sing this when I miss her. I'm missing her. I'm very busy missing her."

"Hey, man. It's Bustah Moove. I might be movin' here. We might be neighbours."

"...let it shine, let it shine, let it shine."

They got back in the limo. "You see, man," Bustah said. "That stillness thing, even when they singin', that like a stop sign, like a fist on a fly, like a cow paddy on rye..."

"You rappin', though," said the man with the tiny spoon heaped with white powder. You rappin' like it doin' you good."

"Like it doin' me good. Like it doin' me good," Bustah said. He opened his window and breathed deep. "I dunno. If it doin' me good, how come I feel so bad?"

They drove back to the club. Bustah took the tickets he had meant to give away and flushed them down the toilet.

It was in his mind all night, an echo that wouldn't die down.

"...let it shine."

"How I'm s'posed to win," he said to the stall door and the indecipherable graffiti there, "if I'm fightin' myself?"

Back in the village, Noah lay on his back in his bed, singing to the ceiling even after lights out.

18 March 2026
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia