you actually have to change them yourself
― Andy Warhol
“Want a drink, Hon?”
She’s one of those country bargirls I figure is supporting a lazy boyfriend—and judging by the lines around her eyes, she’s close to forty.
“Naw, I’m kinda between gigs.”
She pushes back a stray wisp of blonde hair and I can see she looks pretty.
“I didn’t ask you for a job application—it’s on the house—what’s your poison?”
I smirk, “In that case, how about a C. C. Rider?”
She slants me a baleful look. “I take it you mean Canadian Club—won’t take it any other way—and you got rich taste for a honky tonk country singer.”
I smile my charming smile and she slaps down a tumbler and pours two fingers of the good stuff I rarely get to drink.
“And don’t go flashing those pearly whites—I’m just being kind cause Cal—well, Cal can be real mean, you know?”
I nod and look repentant—that pose is my one-two punch—gets them every time, if they’re interested, that is.
But she may be kind-hearted cause I see her splash a little extra in an old guy’s drink at the end of the bar.
He looks up bleary-eyed and smiles, “Why thanks, LeAnn!”
I’m not sure that’s her name or he figures she looks like LeAnn Rimes—but if that’s the case, he’s dead wrong—she’s prettier.
Cal finally waddles out from the office in the back—he’s got to be three hundred pounds and has a mean streak more ugly than the jagged scar down his cheek—I’ve seen those tracks and I know broken beer bottles do that.
He sits down beside me wheezing and motions for LeAnn to drop him a drink. He’s sizing me up all the while.
“Caught your set at Hoots Hollow the other night,” he deadpans.
“Don’t say—how’d you like it?”
“Music’s okay, but voice is kinda pitchy—know what I mean? You’re the type doesn’t hit the notes—sort of sing between the keys,” he starts to wheeze and laugh.
“Ha ha, you kinda fall between the cracks in the piano keys.” His eyes are watering.
“Is that a fact? Well, that’s my way—and I like it.”
He looks at me quizzically as Blondie drops his drink. “How’s that?”
“You see, I sing it real. I sing between the cracks because that’s where the truth settles, like dirt that gets under your finger nails.”
I watch Blondie’s eyes and see her repress a grin.
“So, you’re just like all these old boys around here—not afraid of the soil?”
“That’s me,” I smile.
He tilts his head in my direction and Blondie drops two fingers of CC in my glass.
“Hell, is that what you’re drinking, boy? You’re going need to sing a lot of country blues to pay that bill.”
“I’m available for the week.”
He gets up and grabs his drink. “You’re hired. Tell LeAnn to advance you a coupla hundred and we’ll settle up on Saturday night.”
LeAnn flashes me a thumbs-up. I think I’m going to like it here.
I get a deal on a motel room for the week—Cal’s got some arrangement with the owner.
I spend the morning driving around Bill’s Corners—well, actually, the countryside. The town consists of one stoplight and a few hundred residents, but it’s a truck stop on a busy secondary road, and at night it’s hopping.
After a while the towns all look the same—and the people too. That’s when I start pointing my F150 in the direction of The Big Smoke and Bonnie, and wend my way home.
The way I live is not for everyone—watching towns fade into dust in a rearview mirror. Bonnie hates it, but she’s stayed faithful down through the years. We’ve been going on ten years now and she keeps waiting for me to grow up—but it’s not just the music—it’s the travelling and the road that’s got my soul.
Besides, I don’t know how it would work—going home. I realized the other day all my memories are melodies—and photos with the GPS turned off.
I’m flying under the radar in more ways than one—leaving women my cell number on rolling papers and not answering when they call.
The women are either wild or sweet like LeAnn, but I always go home.
What I like best though is writing my songs and hanging out with other musicians.
Most people think country singers are cut-throat—like they’d drive over you in an eighteen wheeler if you got in their way—but it’s not like that.
Sometimes we sit around till three or four in the morning jamming and playing our songs—and when I play something good they’ll get thoughtful and cry, or laugh along and be as proud as if it were their own.
That’s the side of country I’ve seen. But lately, I’m getting tired of all the honkytonks and bars and women whose names I forget the moment I leave.
Maybe It's time for a change, but what's it going to take to make me go home?
I wonder if I even can.