Old Denny Southe’s Last Jive
The year was 1950, and the dusty streets of Mulberry Junction simmered under the relentless Midwestern sun. You could fry an egg on the porch rail, some folks said—not that anyone ever tried.
Life moved slow here—except when the juke joint came alive on Friday nights. That’s when the footfallers—a group of dancers with boundless energy and sharp, rhythmic moves—took to the wooden floor of Shirley’s Hall, and jive music spun like gold through the air. It was the kind of night Old Denny Southe lived for.
Denny sat on the splintered bench just outside the hall, his crooked leg stretched awkwardly before him. He wasn’t much for dancing anymore, not since the tractor accident back in ‘32, but the rhythm still pulsed through his bones. His weathered Fedora tilted forward, shielding his sharp eyes from the late-day sun. He kept up in his own way—he clapped his hands and stomped his boots softly on the ground as his raspy voice humming along with the saxophone and bassline.
Inside the joint, young folks swirled and twirled to the music with boundless energy, shaking the floorboards beneath their feet. Denny remembered a time when he’d been the first one out there, pulling moves sharp enough to make the ladies blush. But that was another life, another Denny, one whose leg still worked and whose days didn’t revolve around fixing broken radios or tinkering with his ’36 Ford coupe.
That coupe—his "old gal"—stood just behind the bench, gleaming in the evening light. He had rebuilt her from the ground up after the accident. She wasn’t pretty, with patches of mismatched paint and a grille held together by wire, but she ran better than most. Denny always kept her tank full, just in case. “You never know when you’ll need to cross a border,” he’d say, though no one really knew what borders he meant.
Tonight, though, something tugged at him—a kind of restlessness he hadn’t felt in… hell, maybe years. The saxophonist’s wild solo made Denny’s fingers twitch. He leaned on his cane and pushed himself up with a groan, his leg protesting with every step. “Just one dance,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he meant on the floor or out on the road.
He limped toward the hall, but before he reached the door, a voice called out behind him.
“Denny! That you?”
Turning slowly, he saw Big Earl, the town’s mechanic, swaggering toward him with a grin wide enough to swallow the prairie. Earl was younger, heavier, and always carried a bottle of something stronger than soda pop.
“Evening, Earl,” Denny said, adjusting his hat.
“What’re you doin’, old man? Thinkin’ of showin’ these kids how it’s done?”
Denny chuckled, low and gravelly. “Reckon I might. But first, I need to clear my head.”
Earl’s grin faded a little. “That wanderin’ itch again?”
“Maybe,” Denny replied, glancing at the coupe. The engine spluttered and then roared to life, as if it was ready to go.
“Well, if you’re leavin’, don’t do it on an empty stomach. Shirley made fresh peach cobbler in there.” Earl clapped him on the back and sauntered off toward the hall.
Denny stood there a moment, the night air cooling as the sun dipped below the horizon. The music swelled again, pulling at him like a tide. But there was a need to move on, to see the road ahead. He shuffled to the coupe, opened the door, and slid inside.
“Alright, old gal,” he murmured, stroking the wheel. “Where to tonight?”
The engine startling a couple of teenagers who had been necking near the fence. Denny smiled as he shifted into gear. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew the road would have rhythm. The coupe rumbled down the dirt path, kicking up dust as the jive music faded behind him.
Old Denny Southe might not have danced anymore, but he’d found his way to keep moving. And as long as the tank was full and the music lived in his soul, the borders didn’t matter—only the journey did.