By Robert Darden

Hi, officers. Beautiful evening. Clear but cold — that’s why I’ve got this hot chocolate — but it’s always beautiful on Christmas Eve, isn’t it?

What am I doing on Clifton Street alone at nearly midnight sitting on the hood of my ’88 Ford LTD? Good question. I’ve got a good answer if you’ve got a minute.

First, sure you wouldn’t like some cocoa? No? Suit yourselves.

My name? Oh, Jack Storrow, but everybody in Waco calls me “Jaco,” on account of I play bass guitar and the world’s greatest bassist was Jaco Pastorius.

A few years ago, I was working at Goggin’s Music Store. Remember it at around 7th and Austin Avenue? It’s gone now. It was Christmas Eve. The old man said someone ought to work late in case someone needed a last-minute gift. I volunteered. Why the heck not? My longtime girlfriend had just left me, I didn’t have any family here in town, I was in a crummy mood anyway — why not just make it a perfect evening by working Christmas Eve?

Naturally, no one came by. A drum set or Farfisa organ isn’t exactly an impulse item. So I put some old LPs on the turntable — a little B.B. King, some Aretha Franklin — and started to tidy up.

My well-worn old Squier bass guitar needed some new strings, so I re-strung it. Then I plugged it in a couple of bass amps to check them out and started practicing.

I guess the time got away from me.

Suddenly, three sharp-looking black gentlemen came in the store. I mean, they looked good — gabardine suits, fedoras, shoes with spats, vests, the works. I started to tell them that the store was closed, but I didn’t have anything better to do.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, you can help us a great deal, young man,” the apparent leader said. He was a good-looking guy with a deep, deep voice. “And perhaps, just perhaps, we can help you.

“These are my associates, Benny Benjamin and Son Seals. We heard you playing. We have a Christmas Eve engagement tonight at one of the finer venues in this charming town, and we suddenly find ourselves without a bassist. Interested?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Splendid! And your name is …?”

“Jaco Storrow. And I’m afraid I didn’t get your name …”

“Oh, I didn’t toss it. My name is John Marshall Alexander, Jr. But please, call me Johnny.”

Benny bought a pair of drum sticks, and Son bought some light gauge strings. I rang them up, grabbed my bass and started to pick up my battered old Fender bass amp.

“Oh, the club has its own equipment,” Johnny said. Was that a slight frown? The amp had seen better days, I’m afraid. Or maybe it was the slogan, “This machine kills Fascists” that I’d neatly painted on the side in day-glo yellow.

Outside was parked a beautiful classic 1953 aquamarine blue Buick Roadmaster Riviera with a white roof and whitewalls. But when Benny tried to start it, it wouldn’t turn over.

“Good luck finding an open garage tonight,” I said.

“Is that your … vehicle?” Johnny asked, pointing to my faded LTD. “Would it be possible to hitch a ride tonight? This is a very important gig. We will, of course, compensate you for your time and gas.”

“Uh, sure! That’d be fine. Just give me a minute to, um, tidy it up a bit. I’ve been, um, moving.”

“Of course you have,” Johnny said, with his most dazzling smile.

Once we’d pulled out of the parking lot, Johnny turned to me. “One other thing. We haven’t eaten in forever. Not since Houston, anyway. Would you mind taking us to a restaurant before the show?”

“No problem,” I said. “But there probably aren’t many places in town that are open, either.”

“Gentlemen,” Johnny said, “I propose we go to Sam Coates’ Restaurant!” Benny and Son happily agreed.

“Um, I’m not sure where that is,” I said.

“It’s on South Valley Mills,” Johnny said. “I’ll show you.”

“You guys must know Waco pretty well — I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Oh, we come to Waco most every year about this time,” Johnny said. Son and Benny laughed a little too loud, it seemed to me.

And when did it get so foggy? The forecast had said it was going to remain clear and dry through New Year’s. I could hardly see a block ahead of me. Even the old familiar Waco landmarks looked a little different as we passed them. Or maybe I was just getting tired.

Sam Coates’ Restaurant was, indeed, open — right where Johnny had said it would be — just before the South Valley Mills overpass. Funny, I’d never noticed it before.

But the lights shone like a beacon through the mist and the place was packed. It seemed like Johnny, Son and Benny knew everybody there. A bunch of the guys looked like old football players.

The food was fabulous, especially the black-bottom pie.

When the waitress came with the check, Johnny reached into his coat pocket.

“Oh my,” he said. “It appears that I left my wallet in my other suit back in the car.”

Son and Benny were suddenly very interested in their shoes.

“Jaco, I hate to impose on you like this, but could you cover us until after the engagement?”

Johnny gave his most ingratiating smile. “Well, of course,” I stammered, and fumbled for the money.

When we left, the fog was worse.

“We’ve still got a few minutes before we’re due to go on stage,” Johnny said. “Let’s take the scenic route to East Waco through downtown.”

“You’re the boss,” I said. But it quickly became clear to me that I was more than a little turned around. As we neared the old downtown square and headed towards the Brazos River, I kept seeing businesses I had never seen before — Ashford’s Café, T.J.’s Restaurant, the Mecca Drugstore, Baby George’s Saloon, Pipkin’s Drugstore, Pete’s Hamburger Stand and the Jockey Club.

“Man, I hope you guys know where you’re going,” I said. “I’m completely lost.”

“Oh, we’re doing fine, Jaco,” Johnny said. “You’re doing fine. Just keep heading towards Clifton Street.”

In East Waco, I stopped for a traffic light near something called the Gayety Hotel and a trolley pulled out of the mist and fog and silently eased past us.

Now I was really confused.

Finally, we reached 1001 Clifton. A rambling old building with a weathered sign said, “Walker’s Auditorium.” Even in the car, I could hear the music thumping. People were appearing out of the fog and streaming in, attracted by the lights and laughter.

Inside the club, the fog turned to a thick, smoky haze. Usually cigarette smoke kills my eyes, but this didn’t seem to bother me.

The four of us entered to thunderous applause. Johnny raised his hands grandly like a reigning monarch.

On the small stage, a single pianist was playing a rollicking blues number. “It’s Otis Spann!” Johnny shouted. “How in the world are you, Otis? You must sit in with us. I insist!”

Otis nodded and kept playing.

True to Johnny’s word, the stage was already set up with first-rate amplifiers and instruments. My old bass guitar never looked more out of place. Son picked up a vintage Gibson and Benny sat behind the drums.

“Hey, Jaco,” Benny whispered. “Do you know ‘Cross My Heart?’”

“Um, that would be a ‘no.’”

“Aw, you’ll do fine.”

Just then, Johnny launched into a soulful ballad — “Cross My Heart” — and I watched Son hoping for the key, for a sign, for anything. He just smiled and mouthed, “Follow me.” Miraculously, I did.

The place went berserk. We followed it with several more songs, none of which I knew, but I somehow managed to figure out the bass lines after a few bars — “The Clock,” “Yes, Baby,” “Please Forgive Me” and “Never Let Me Go.”

By now I had time to look around — or at least squint through the haze. It was pretty clear I was the only white guy there, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.

After the applause died down from “Never Let Me Go,” Johnny motioned to some of the people in the audience — “T-Bone! Big Bill! Elmore! Buddy! Sonny Boy! … good to see you, brothers! And Big Mama! Are you a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart! Why don’t you come up and do a few songs?”

Big Mama was, indeed, big. She lifted Johnny up and gave him a massive bear hug, made a funny curtsy to the crowd, then turned to the three us.

“‘Hound Dog,’ boys — and try to keep up with Big Mama,” she hissed.

“Wait a second …” I said, but it was too late. A deafening roar filled Walker’s Auditorium … “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!” and I was furiously playing along.

For the rest of the evening, different people took the stage, one by one. Otis was replaced by a pianist named Sunnyland Slim. After a while, Son left and T-Bone took over and tore the place up. A guy named Al sat in on drums for Benny — although everyone actually called him “Papa Zita.” Al was superb, a human metronome.

It was surreal. I somehow knew all of the songs. I felt like I should know all of the singers as well, but my head was spinning from fatigue and the effort to keep up on bass. But they all somehow looked so familiar …

At last, a heavy-set guy came up with a beautiful new Fender Jazz bass. “Hey, son, you’re looking a bit pale — even for a white guy — let ol’ Willie Dixon take over for a spell. Get yourself a root beer or something.”

I was too happy to give up my seat on the stage. After a song or two, it was clear that the guy was an extraordinarily funky bassist. He smiled my way and gave me a wink.

I stood by the band and watched and listened in amazement as an array of unbelievable singers took the microphone. I had no idea what time it was, and every bone in my body ached. I had blisters on my fingers from playing so hard and a headache from squinting through the clouds of smoke. But I was mesmerized.

At last, a few singers I did recognize took turns at the microphone — Wilson Pickett, Ike Turner, Joe Tex … “Funky Broadway,” “Rocket 88,” “Skinny Legs and All” …

Something at the far end of my consciousness kept nagging at me. Something wasn’t right here … and yet … and yet … the music was so other-worldly, I couldn’t help but get caught up in it, completely swept up in its bluesy power.

Finally, Johnny majestically took the stage again. He called Papa Zita, Otis, Son and me back up to the bandstand. I looked for my raggedy old Squier bass, but it was nowhere to be seen. I panicked for a moment, but Willie handed me his.

“This is the last song,” Johnny said. “It’s almost Christmas morning — and we all know what that means. It has been wonderful. It’s always wonderful.”

Some people in the audience were crying.

Johnny took the microphone and, in his rich, resonant baritone, began to sing a song I’d heard on the radio only once before, “Pledging My Love.” And the folks who hadn’t been crying before, were bawling now:

Forever my darling, our love will be true

Always and forever, I’ll love only you

Just promise me darling, your love in

return.

After the last note, the crowd rushed the stage and began hugging each other. I handed Willie his bass back and found a seat off in a corner, shaking my head in utter astonishment.

I guess I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was back in my car, outside my apartment near the old Sanger Heights Elementary. My bass was nowhere to be found. I get stiffed for dinner, don’t make a dime for the evening and someone runs off with my only bass guitar!

Well, merry, merry Christmas to me.

It was a bright and sunny Christmas morning and the neighborhood kids were already running around, shouting and laughing, showing off their new toys.

And that’s when it finally hit me, when the last wisps of the Christmas Eve fog were burned away:

John Marshall Alexander, Jr. — Johnny.

John Marshall Alexander, Jr. — Johnny Ace!

That was Johnny Ace!

Wait a minute, I think to myself. Johnny Ace … he’s dead. In fact, all of those guys are dead, even Wilson Pickett and Ike Turner. They’re all gone.

What was it about Johnny Ace … he accidentally killed himself with a handgun. Or maybe it was Russian Roulette. Backstage at the Houston City Auditorium. In 1954! On Christmas Eve!

Johnny Ace! The original rock ‘n’ roll ghost!

I revved the engine and frantically drove back over to 1001 Clifton Street.

Nothing.

A vacant lot with a bare concrete foundation and some stray bricks and bottles. No Walker’s Auditorium. I got out and walked around. Nothing.

Well, nothing but a box in the middle of the overgrown lot.

And on that box, my name neatly printed, “Jack ‘Jaco’ Storrow,” followed by the words, “Thanks for everything, Johnny.”

Inside the box, a brand new bass guitar. Top of the line Fender Jazz Bass. It was beautiful. I still have it.

And that’s why I come back to 1001 Clifton Street in East Waco every year just before midnight on Christmas Eve, officers.

Would you care to join me? I have a Johnny Ace CD on the car stereo and another Thermos of hot chocolate in the back seat …

… and it’s just a couple more minutes until midnight …