Can’t Keep a Good Girl Down: Chapter 5
After a couple hours of drinking and swapping stories, someone comes up with the wise idea to Robert’s to hear BR5–49. “Smilin’” Jay McDowell recently joined the group. They play for tips every Wednesday through Saturday from 8 p.m. ’til midnight. A year into this steady gig, the hip hillbilly band had built up a huge following. Because John and Jay were buddies from before either of them moved to Nashville, he turned me and his friends onto the band early on. Now, it seemed like everyone knew about BR.
Robert’s is packed when Warren and I, along with at least 10 others from #302, walk into the dingy bar. Bartender Mattie — deeply wrinkled, painfully thin, smiles saved for regulars — cracks open cans of cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon as fast as her long, weathered fingers will allow. Rows of dusty boots line the walls (for sale if you want a pair) while a crude, smoke-stained Patsy Cline painting looks out over the antics below. The combined smell of smoke, stale beer and pork chop grease knocks you back and sticks to your clothes. When your head’s splitting from a hangover the next morning, you have a potent reminder of where you were the night before.
Most of our group seems to think a Robert’s outing is a fantastic idea — “It’s what John would want.” Maybe he would, but it’s not what I want. When John first brought me here, our relationship was still relatively new and all lovey dovey. So not only am I hesitant to go now because of the memories this trip will stir, I’m also anxious about going out in public, especially to a crowded club.
It was only last night that Stacey tapped on my bedroom door and told me about the fall. I’m still an open wound that, if exposed to strangers, could very well absorb their unpredictable behavior and mixed energy like a sponge. Shit. I seem to be the only one feeling this way, so I go along with the plan.
Instantly, memories of John hit me stronger than the smell that permeates the bar. His spirit is everywhere– his presence is in every wood chair I have ever sat in, every dingy square of tile I’ve stepped on, every stray beer bottle. I feel like he’s standing next to me, handing me a beer from the bar, like always.
We take over three round tables and at least a dozen barstools at the very back of the room. While folks get settled and make their respective trips to the bar, I realize what I must do.
BR5–49 takes requests. They usually play songs that are part of their regular repertoire, but they’ll occasionally play an unusual cover for a special occasion or person. They usually play requests from generous tippers. They will not play “Freebird.” They will play a Hank Williams song for Marty Stuart.
Near the end of “Eighteen Wheels and a Crowbar,” I make my way through a bunch of warm bodies to the front of the stage. Jay sees me coming. He got word about John only this morning, and here he is on stage. He’s not smiling, but as a consummate professional, he plays his role through the night. He nods “hello” as we lock eyes. When the song ends, he leans down to grab my hand while I ask Chuck to play “Hickory Wind.” I stuff a couple dollar bills into the tip jar. They play it next. Wow, I’ve never had a request honored so quickly!
But now when I’m lonesome, I always pretend
That I’m getting the feel of hickory wind…
BR’s Gram Parsons cover is my favorite song the band plays, the song that I wait for every time I hear their set. Gary’s croon absolutely aches through Parsons’ bittersweet verses, performer and songwriter both longing for what was. When Gary cocks his head to the side and cries “calling me home,” his voice catches a little, and I melt to the floor.
As soon as I’d hear Gary sing “In South Carolina…” I’d give John my most convincing pout in an attempt to pry him away from his beer for three minutes. If successful, we would shuffle/dance to the rest of the song. If unsuccessful, I would continue to pout and listen to the beautiful song.
But tonight, my partner isn’t here. All I have is my memory of his hand in mine, obliging my romantic notions with a slow dance. I know as soon as I hear the words “in South Carolina…” the persistent slow leak in my emotional inner tube will break loose to something worse. I don’t care. I want to hear my song.
I walk over to Blair at the first strum of Gary’s acoustic guitar. Blair takes my hand and walks me to the small dance floor in front of the stage. We dance as friends would — not like a moving hug, but with our right hands held to the side, up near our shoulders, as typical in most ballroom and other partner dances.
It’s hard to find out that trouble is real
In a far away city, with a far away feel
But it makes me feel better each time it begins
Callin’ me home, hickory wind…
— Gram Parsons
I’m breaking down. I can’t look at Blair or anyone else. Maybe I needed this release, and hearing “Hickory Wind” was a way I knew I would get it. Or maybe the song symbolizes how much I loved John, and the longing in Gram Parsons’ words conveys my own ache for what is gone forever. I lay my head down on Blair’s shoulder, smearing makeup on his vintage maroon suit coat. We finish the song this way. I’m not sure what Blair’s doing, because I can’t look at him. I hope he doesn’t notice my foundation stained his groovy jacket. I hope he doesn’t notice how stupid I look when I cry.
When the song finishes, I quickly pull it together a bit, wipe my cheeks and look for Jay and Chuck to say “thank you.” Jay acknowledges me with a watery eyed nod. Shit, what have I done?
And then, in an instant, Jay flips around his upright bass to show me a Xeroxed color photo of John he had taped to the back of his instrument. He’s had it there all night, keeping John with him through the band’s long set. He was with me for “Hickory Wind” after all.
Seeing that color printout, and the touching way Jay chose to honor his friend tonight, takes me aback. Jay could easily be as screwed up as me — trying to control a slow leak so the grief won’t escape all at once. I, for one, have lacerated the inner tube and the tire, so I don’t know how much more of this place I can take.
With the emotional “Hickory Wind” drama gradually rolling into the distance like a tumbleweed through the Mojave Desert, the rest of the night plays out like a typical Robert’s Friday. Empty beer cans fill the tables. BR5–49 plows through set standards such as “Little Ramona (Has Gone Hillbilly Nuts),” their trucker song “18 Wheels & A Crowbar,” and the Bettie Page tribute “Bettie Bettie.” The crowd favorite (but not one of mine), a kitchy take on Andy Griffith’s Mayberry called “Me n’ Opie (Down By The Duck Pond)” starts out with “Don’t tell Andy don’t tell Aunt Bea, they’ll come lookin’ for Opie and me…” If I recall, Opie smokes weed down by the duck pond.
After I make my way back to an empty stool at one of our tables, Dana slides up to close to me. “Warren is having a really hard time with this,” she says, glancing with a wrinkled brow at Warren, who looks quite stoic amongst all the drinkers in the room. If Warren and I don’t want to be here, why are we here?
I slouch on a stool and bide my time until Blair, my ride, stops talking long enough to cart me out of here. As the clock veers toward eleven, our now-tipsy mourning group finally splinters as folks make their way home. Blair and I say our final goodbyes and head back to Big Red, where my old Nissan waits in the gravel lot. My fuel-efficient four-door drove John, Stacey, and me to New Orleans this past New Year’s Eve. It got its window busted this winter while John and I were barhopping until 2 a.m. one night. It also got its busted window replaced the next morning. A hungover John called around and found a reliable auto glass repair shop in his ‘hood. But I digress…
I let the Nissan idle a minute as I relax in the driver’s seat and mentally assess my level of intoxication. I could walk okay and nothing looks swimmy, so I turn the ignition.
I’ll go to work tomorrow, I decide, despite the three beers tonight and the; well, everything. I’m not sure I can manage a full day at the studio, but I’m going to try. What will I do at home? Mope? I’m not one to just sit still for very long. I have to do something. Another day planted on Warren’s sofa just seems too sad and lethargic. Routine will be healthier for me. So I point the Nissan onto I-40, reasonably alert and mindful of all traffic laws, and let the floodgates open.
What is it about driving that causes our minds to relax just enough so that after maintaining composure all day, we fall apart at the wheel? Is it the solitude of the auto? The fact that no one can hear or see us? The fact that we finally have 15 minutes with only ourselves and ’70s soft rock? Whatever the reason, I sob the whole way home. I’m sure this won’t be the only time. In public, I can enjoy the party and act friendly and seemingly happy. But once I shut the driver’s side door of the Nissan, the façade vanishes into the fumes.
Note: To get a sense of what this is all about, please read previous chapters one, one part 2, two, three and four. Claps, comments, follows, referrals to agents and book publishers (!!) all encouraged.
