Who's Your Daddy?

I always said that since I grew up without a father, I got to choose my own.
And oh, I flirted with this father-figure and that one but when it all boiled down to the essence of who I would want my daddy to be, I chose B.B. King.

Okay. I realize this is sort of weird. I mean, B.B. plays Lucille as if she were a lover, not a daughter, but when he says, "Who loves ya, baby?" I take him at his word.
When I first heard "Nobody Loves Me But My Mother (And She Could Be Jiving Me Too)" that was it for me.
Done.
Tore, ripped, signed, sealed, delivered.

And he's playing in Tallahassee tomorrow and I do not have tickets. Why? My fault. My own damn fault. The cost was high and I just...didn't do it.
I've gone all the way to St. Pete to see B.B. I've gone to a freaking festival to hear him. I've seen him three times in Tallahassee and one of those nights was one of the best nights of my life. Hank and May went with me and Mr. Moon and we had second row seats and we danced our white people asses off and I was wearing a red dress.

If I had a bucket list (and I do not) the first thing on it would be to make a meal for Mr. King. Not to HAVE a meal with him, but to cook one for him. For him to take the food I made into his body.
How's that for love? How's that for religion?

Because that's what I see when I see Mr. King play. He loves his audience like a father loves his daughter. With respect and with everything he has. Like music is his religion and that, babies, works for me.

He's 87 years old. How many chances do I think I'm going to get to see him? Why didn't I get tickets? What was I thinking?

Maybe that I wasn't worthy. Maybe that I' a crazy-depressed woman who can't dial a phone and say, "Tickets, please!"
And now I feel so bad. Not so much that I won't see him and receive his who-loves-ya-baby blessing. But that he won't see my face out there. My white, craving-a-daddy's-love face.

I won't see the way he makes love to his instrument. The way Bugaloo, one of his horn players, tosses his head from shoulder to shoulder when he's not playing, the way his guitar player who has to be one of the most unattractive white guys in the world plays behind him.
The way his manager comes onstage and says, "The king of the blues, Mr. B!B! King!" stretching those few syllables out into infinity.

The way Mr. King says, "Who loves you, baby?"

No. I won't be there and it's all my own damn fault.

"I gave her seven children," Mr. King will wail, "And now she wants to give 'em back!"
And he'll sock his fist into his palm and then he'll cradle Lucille and make her sing and I won't be there to see it, to hear it, to laugh at the old joke, to bow my head in prayer to the blues as this man who was born to play them delivers them.

I didn't get tickets to church. I didn't get tickets to see my daddy.
I hope he forgives me. I wish he knew how sorrowful I am.

I hope he knows how much I love him; how many times he's saved my life.

Let's tell the truth. He has no idea.
But I do.

And I'm not jiving one bit when I tell you I love him.

Mr. B.B. King. King of the Blues.
My daddy.