birthplace of the blues

'Now if you folks look out to the left, that's the very house where the infamous Tale of the Magpies began one years ago yes'm.'
'No!'
'Yes'm.'
'Can we stop?'
'No Ma'am, we gots to keep movin.'
'Why?'
'We just gots to. But right there in the basement of that there house with no number is where it all began - One table. One piece of paper. One 40 watt lamp. One half-chewed yellow pencil. One crazy lady. Dang!'
'Crazy?'
'Crazy as a vagabond stew with too many vegetables. Well look whats it become. Dang nearly a hunnerd cars stoppin' by at a last second deadline. Even from India. Dang! Traffic tied up. Horn honkin.' Droppin' sealed envelopes most likely full of barely de-sife-er-able man-u-scrips down a metal pipe in back. Lady with black eyes loose in their sockets sittin' at her desk knifing them open nicking herself bloody sortin' and linin'em up on a cork board snappin' photos for all the blazin' world to see. Even from India. Dang. Right there in that basement. What she oughta do is throw'em in the fireplace for warmth.'
'I heard she has a place in the country, driver.'
'Of course, yes'm. Some Manor way out in the willows. They say she rides in and out only at night on her '56 Schwinn wearing her flight cap and goggles just like...what's the name of that poor lady that got lost at sea?
'Amelia Earhart?'
'Yeah. Yeah. Could be her according to my brother-in-law. He delivered some pizza bread there once. I think people drop stories down that pipe at all hours just to see if'n true.'
'Have you seen her?'
'No one ever'n see her.'

The car slows two blocks up, hesitantly pulls into a driveway knocking over a metal trash can, dogs barking, car backs out and stalls, restarts with a black smoke backfire, drives by once more, slower, necks craning.