Chapter 11: October 20, 2002

VA Hospital, East Orange, NJ -- Shooby's New York Times photo op. Lensman Timothy Ivy snared the assignment. (The story is being written by Marc Ferris.) By the time I arrived (with Jeff Winner along for a return visit with Shooby), the VA's public affairs specialist, Mary Therese Hankinson, had rearranged furniture in a small 5th floor lounge to accommodate the session. Shooby sat in his wheelchair beneath a huge framed-under-glass American flag, as Tim checked lighting and snapped test shots.

I joked with Shooby while explaining to Hankinson the nature of the man's music -- never an easy process to the uninitiated. She was genuinely intrigued. Tim asked if Shooby had sung blues. I said "no," and Shooby loudly exclaimed, "I scatted with EVERYTHING -- country, gospel, jazz .!"

"Mozart," I interjected. "Yeah," Shooby replied, "Mozart!"

"Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, Babs Gonzales, Johnny Cash," I added. "Only none of them knew it."

Shooby asked if I'd posted songs from the Johnny Cash tape on the internet, as he'd urged during our previous get-together. Told him I didn't have a chance to transfer that cassette to CD. He asked my opinion of the Cash material, and I candidly -- and honestly -- teased him that it wasn't his best. His performances vary in quality, I pointed out, with some better than others. The Johnny Cash stuff was interesting, but his scatting was not necessarily well-suited for each song. Whereas the Miles, the Charles Earland, and the Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis tracks were "pure genius."

Hankinson's curiosity heightened, and she seemed delighted at learning of this patient's colorful past -- and that in his twilight years, he was earning recognition for his talents. She suggested that Taylor's music could be played during patient recreation periods. I cautioned her that Shooby's recordings might be harder for some patients to take than their meds: "Many people might not understand or appreciate it." I promised to send along a CD, and advised that she audition it before any public airing. I'm not sure how well the "You Were Only Fooling" intro -- "Story of my life. You lied, you bitch!" -- would go over in patient rec. Or, for that matter, Shooby's relentless vocalese over "Folsom Prison Blues."

As Ivy began the serious photography, I witnessed Shooby undergoing an interesting metamorphosis. The scatman sat -- poised, confident, at ease, staring down the camera. Didn't say a word. His head positions and facial expressions were portrait-ready, as if having his picture taken by the New York Times was a most natural occurrence. Or perhaps something he'd waited for his whole life, and he was basking in cosmic justice.

Tim snapped 50 or 60 pics of Shoob, then directed me to stand behind the wheelchair as he clicked off another 10 or 12. I returned the favor, snapping a few of Shooby with Tim, Jeff, and Mary Therese.

Chatted after the session. Asked Shooby if he was watching the World Series. "No!," he proclaimed. "I'm too busy! Very busy." His recent schedule included a movie screened for patients the previous evening (he couldn't recall the title), church services on Sunday morning, going outside to smoke cigarettes, diagnostic tests, more cigs, and such. I told Hankinson that during a recent four-hour dialysis hook-up, Shooby had gotten "bored" after two hours and demanded to be unhooked. "I wasn't bored," he clarified. "I was just restless, and irritated." In fact, it was this behavior that alerted the physician to the infection that occasioned his hospitalization. No one had any idea how soon before he'd be released back to the nursing home.

It was time to clear out, so we slid the furniture back in place and shook hands with Shooby before he was wheeled back to his room.

As Jeff and I headed for the elevator, we encountered a burly young hospital aide in scrubs. The gent glanced in Shooby's direction with an amused look. "Y'know that guy?," I asked. "Sure," he smiled, and said something, the gist of which was that Shooby's a real character. Was he aware of the musical angle? He nodded affirmatively. The aide didn't know the specifics, but tacitly acknowledged that Taylor's heyday was generations ago, a propos of which he added, "We've got one of the original Ink Spots upstairs."