by Thomas Cobb
“Goddamn…”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes. Goddamn it, yes.”
“Good. Now listen. I’ll get you a good backup band. I promise. You’ll have the best available. You’ll be billed in all the ads that run from now on. Be at the coliseum by twelve noon for rehearsal and sound check. Check with Ralphie. He’s Tommy’s road manager. He’ll have everything set up for you. You getting all this?”
Bad looks at the stub of burned match. “Yeah, right. I’m getting all this. Have Brenda send me an itinerary.”
“Don’t mess this up.”
“Jack,” he says, tired now, “I told you. I’ll do it. Have I ever backed down on a promise to you?”
“No, Bad. No, you haven’t. And you’ll do a good show. And it’s going to come off well. I know you. Have a good time, Bad.”
“Right. It’s like I get great seats for a Tommy Sweet show, right? And I get to go backstage and meet him in person and everything?”
“You’ll be great. I know you will.”
“You bet your sweet ass.”
“So how are things in Santa Fe, anyway?”
“I’ve got a piano player. He’s good. He’s fucking good.”
“A piano player? That’s nice, Bad. That’s real nice. Listen, I have another call on the line. I’ll be talking to you.”
“Right.” When the line is dead, he hangs up the phone. Tommy Sweet, Jesus Lord, you got me opening for Tommy Sweet.
He has opened before. He has opened for Ray Price, Jim Reeves and Roy Acuff. When he was still in Louisville, the Kentucky Bluebirds opened for Hank Williams. He shook Hank Williams’ hand, he took a drink of bourbon from Hank Williams’ bottle. Hank Williams, a skeleton in a Nudie suit, said to him, “You can pick some guitar there, Slim.” Now he will open for Tommy Sweet, who used to back him.
Chapter Five
After he picks up his laundry, folded and wrapped in brown paper, his suits, red, yellow and orange, under clear plastic, he drives into the middle of town. The streets are narrow and lined with cars. The Palace of Governors is a long, flat building built from mud and braced by cedar posts. Along the sidewalk, under the portico, Indians display their jewelry, baskets and trinkets on blankets. There must be some joke here, Bad thinks. How the white men got so much away from the Indians by giving them beads and trinkets, and here they are trying to get some of it back by selling the white folks from Iowa and Connecticut and Pennsylvania beads and trinkets. When he looks closely at the faces of the old Indian women, he decides there is no joke here of any kind.
Down from the palace is the cathedral, hundreds of years old, built by Spanish monks. He walks around the garden, marveling at what these people were able to accomplish with mud and cedar. On impulse, he opens a side door and walks in. Inside, the cathedral is huge and empty, except for pews and altar. It is painted in earth tones, tan, pink and turquoise. Rows of columns support a vaulted ceiling of pink squares edged with thin lines of turquoise. At the front is the altar, behind a cedar railing. On one side, a large white marble Virgin; on the other, a crucifix with a twisted, tortured Christ. His Baptist upbringing has never prepared him for this graphic representation of Christ in agony. Around him, the columns begin to soften and slowly bow. The vaulted ceiling trembles and begins slowly to lower. The outer walls follow the ceiling, leaning in at the top, down toward him, until the whole church is beginning to lower around him, to enfold and smother him. His heart begins its awkward race, missing beats here and there, and his breath comes in hard, wheezing gasps. He is cold, and his shirt is wet with sweat. Around him, the bright room darkens. He is suddenly outside, in bright sunlight, unsure what has happened, struggling to control his breathing. The wall of the cathedral behind him is cool and solid against his wet back. He lurches away from it, and into the garden.
East of Santa Fe, he revives. He is less than twenty miles out of town, on a plateau of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, overlooking the Mora River sliding slowly past, fifty feet below him. Also below him, cars wind past on the snaking blacktop. From the top of the plateau, he hears only wind pushing through the leaves of scrub oak. His boots crunch softly through dirt and dry brush as he walks past. Ahead of him, a jay scuttles from bush to bush, quietly watching him, tilting its head from side to side.
He has his heartbeat under control, his breathing is regular. The sweat has cooled and dried on his face and neck. He squats and plucks blades of dry grass, braiding them together. Once in 1967 in Nashville, he went to the wedding of one of Lee Stoner’s sidemen. Before the ceremony, he felt the eyes of Jesus, twisted on the cross, unlock from their upward imploring and take hold of his own, augering into him, until he had to brace himself on the pew in front of him, locking his elbows and gritting his teeth, straining not to be pulled straight forward and up toward the bleeding Jesus for some accounting he was not, would never be, prepared to give. Then the cross and body started to torque, twisting loose from the marble base to come at him and for him. Christ twisted at the horizontal arms of the cross, trying to wrench it free, to free himself to get at Bad, and Bad pushed his way down the pew and into the aisle, running past ushers and guests to get to the fresh air and sunshine, where he fell on his knees, breath coming in long gulps.
Until today, he has not been in a church since. The churches of his boyhood, the plain and simple white wooden shells filled with wooden chairs, where the sermons of damnation were smoothed over and softened by the singing of dozens of voices in praise and thanksgiving, have given over to the tall, angular structures of blame and redemption. Bouquets of wildflowers have been replaced by statues of Jesus, racked and bleeding, looking upward as if asking who has done this to Him. As soon as he walks into one of these churches, Bad can feel Jesus’ eyes break loose in their plaster sockets and swivel toward him, claiming, I know. What a friend we have in Jesus.
The wind picks up. To the south, over the tree-topped hills, gray clouds are starting to build. The wind has an edge to it. If he doesn’t look down toward the river and road, but off toward any horizon, he can see only trees and sky. Voices rise around him and he is lifted into the rhythm of singing: “With my Jesus on high, / Where we never shall die, / In the land where we’ll never grow old.”
The Friday night house is nearly full. Sureshot has been playing for over an hour when Bad, wearing black slacks, white shirt and black hat, climbs up onto the stage. While the band is working through a verse of “Last Cheater’s Waltz,” Bad crouches behind the amplifiers, plugs in and checks his tuning. As Rocky Parker begins the chorus, Bad walks up behind him and sings a bass harmony. From the bar, there is scattered applause. He tips his hat. At the end of the chorus, he simply joins the band for the rhythm. It has been months since he has enjoyed playing enough to just walk up and join the band before his own set begins. He plays two more numbers with them, trading licks with Wesley Barnes on “Funny, How Time Slips Away,” and then leaves the stage to the band until they are ready for his set.
He sits at the bar and while the band plays “Every Time Two Fools Collide,” he sips his drink, nodding and smiling to customers who catch his eye. No one comes up to shake hands or talk. As the band breaks into the final number of the set, “Rocky Top,” he impetuously slides off his barstool, takes the hand of a woman at the table next to him and leads her onto the dance floor. They do a quick, nearly graceful shuffle with lots of spins as the tempo of the song increases incrementally. By the time the song is over, he is huffing and wheezing, dizzy, his face burning from the exertion. Around the bar, people stand and clap. Bad and his partner bow to each other and the audience. He is actually having fun.
During the break, he gets surrounded, handshaken, patted and pounded. Across the room he catches a glimpse of Jean, but people crowd toward him, blocking his view. Behind him on the bar, half a dozen drinks are lined up for him. He takes a couple of sips from each before it is time to hit the stage.
“Thank you, Santa Fe,” he says from behind the light. “My G
od, what a beautiful place you’ve got here.” He moves into “A Cheatin’ Night Tonight,” and the first set moves by quickly. A woman in jeans and T-shirt brings a beer to the bandstand for him. “Darlin’,” he says, “that’s just real sweet, but I just can’t drink that beer.” He turns sideways, so they can see his profile. “I got to protect this fine figure I worked so hard for.”
Drinks keep appearing through the break. Bad keeps chatting with people who come up to meet him, and he manages to get only a couple of mouthfuls down. He keeps looking for Jean, but he can’t find her. When the stage lights are on, his vision is obscured by glare and dark; when the house lights are on, people are up and milling around.
“What do you all think of Sureshot?” he asks to open the second set. When the audience breaks into applause, he says, “Aren’t they a fine bunch? I think so much of them, I think we ought to kick out the play list this set and play a little Stump the Band, don’t you?” More applause. “What would you like to hear?”
“Slow Boat” comes up several times, a couple of other standards, before Bad hears the oddball he has been waiting for. “Sir?” he asks. “Did you really call for ‘White Lightnin’’? Do you know that’s George Jones’s song? Do you know I’m not George Jones?” The guy keeps grinning and clapping. “Do you know which side of you your chair is on?” The guy grins and claps. “Well,” Bad says, “I guess he’s passed the sobriety test, and I guess we better do ‘White Lightnin’.’” The drummer gives him the tempo. “Hold it, hold it,” he says. “We didn’t rehearse this, but if we’re going to wing it, let’s really wing it.” He counts the beat back to the drummer, sped up by half.
In the song, he forgets the last verse, but in the chorus he pulls the “White Lightnin’” refrain up basso profundo, and in the break, he and Wesley just start to cut. He plays runs he hasn’t played in years, and Wesley keeps pushing him, finding new phrasings of the melody that demand answers. All in all, they stretch the song to over five minutes.
After “White Lightnin’,” the crowd begins asking for odder, and faster, stuff—Elvis, Hank Cochran, Jerry Lee Lewis, Hank Thompson. By the time they get to Bare’s “Marie Laveau,” he has the audience whooping into the chorus with him. After the song, Rocky Parker surprises him, telling him they have only ten more minutes to get offstage before last call. They bring it down on “Slow Boat.”
“Wait,” he says. “One more, let’s do one more.” Then to the band, “‘Satisfied’?” Wesley Barnes nods and leads it off. “I got that old-time religion,” Bad sings, “that old-time religion, / And that is why I’m satisfied.” Wesley Barnes has moved into boogie, and the audience, bewildered at first to hear gospel in a bar, has begun to clap along with the band. “I’m satisfied, / No trouble will ever get me down. / When my eyes are closed in death, / With my Jesus, I’ll be at rest, / And that is why I’m satisfied.” He follows with a double descending run, going suddenly and surprisingly sharp on the last note, and he is out. “Thank you, good night, and God love you all.”
He is packing up, winding the guitar cord, hand to elbow, stowing it in the back of the amplifier, when she moves forward. “That was wonderful,” she says. She is at the edge of the bandstand in a straight white dress cinched at the waist by a concho belt. She looks different, more handsome than he remembers.
“Hey,” he says, “more questions?”
“A couple, if you don’t mind.”
He picks up the guitar and amplifier. “Which one do you want?”
“Since I have a choice, let me stick with the guitar.”
“Drink?” he asks again when they get to his room.
“Sure.” She unpacks her recorder and sets it on the dresser.
“That’s a real nice dress.”
She smiles, starts to respond, then begins again. “Why did you do that?”
He stops pouring the bourbon. “Do what?”
“Sing that gospel song. I mean, a gospel song in a bar.”
“Did you like it?”
“Of course. It was wonderful. But I’ve never heard anybody do anything like that. It was terrific. I mean, how did you know you could get away with something like that?”
He lights a cigarette. “I knew. I knew I could get away with anything tonight. I just decided to do it. Sometimes it works. Maybe it’s you, or maybe the audience, or the stars or vibrations or whatever the hell you think it is. Sometimes it just works. Tonight it worked. ‘Satisfied’ is a great song. It’s not a great gospel song, it’s a great song, period. It feels real good. I felt good, so I did it.”
“Are you religious?”
“I was. Maybe I still am, I don’t know. I don’t go into churches if I can help it. I don’t say my prayers at night anymore. But I guess I believe there’s a God, and I guess I believe He keeps track. If that’s religious, I’m that. You religious?”
She shakes her head.
“But you liked the song. See, it doesn’t make any difference, it’s a great song. It’s sort of the way with country music. There really isn’t any forbidden territory. You can sing about anything. I mean, we got all these drinkin’ and fightin’ and lovin’ and cheatin’ songs. As long as it’s something that people feel, it’s O.K. for country music. So it’s O.K. to sing gospel in a bar. I felt happy, and it’s a happy song that makes other people happy, so I wanted to play it. I don’t say this stuff very well. Maybe you can fix it up so it makes sense in your paper.”
“I think you did O.K.”
“You know I don’t know much about books and stuff. I know movies, mostly. But books and movies, they make life glamorous, you know? Lives come out better, or bigger, than they are. But in books they write about special kinds of people. Country music is about people who aren’t real special, who are never going to be. They grow up, work, get married, slip around, and they die. And the music is the glamour of that kind of life. Maybe slipping around on your wife or husband ain’t the best thing in the world, but for a lot of folks, it’s what they got. And the music, it helps.”
“What about your songs?”
“I try.”
“I mean, where do you get them?”
“Out of living. Where else? What else can you write about?”
“Like ‘Slow Boat.’ Where did that come from?”
“Marge. My second wife. The one that run off. That’s her song.”
“Did you write songs about all your wives?”
“All my wives and a bunch of others.”
“Like which?”
“Songs or others?”
“Songs.”
“Well, let’s see. ‘Love Came and Got Me,’ that was with Evelyn, my first wife, then ‘It’s Strange’ was Kathryn, number three, and ‘Love Like That’ was for Suzi, my last wife.”
“Number four.”
“Number four, the last. It’s the same thing.”
“It’s funny. You know, those are all happy songs, real love songs. Yet you’ve broken up with four different wives. Didn’t you write any of the sad ones?”
“Hell yes, only you’ve never heard them. I only recorded a couple of them. I don’t write those songs very well. I do a lot of them—‘Faded Love,’ ‘Please Release Me,’ ‘Crazy Heart,’ things like that. But the ones I wrote just don’t work. Hank Williams wrote better about endings than beginnings. With me it’s just the opposite. Hank’s songs are really pretty. Mine are like endings—ugly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe this has happened to you. I hope it hasn’t. But there are times you are in bed, you know, I mean making love, and something’s wrong, and then you realize that for the other person, this is just practice. I mean, I can’t make a song out of that.”
“That means you’ve tried?”
“Yes. Yes, that was Suzi. She was twenty-three and I was forty-six, forty-seven, and she started out thinking I was something pretty wonderful—a genuine country-western star. It didn’t take her a whole lot of time to figure out what she had was a broke
-down singer and picker who wasn’t ever going to take her to Hollywood or New York City.”
“I don’t know. You don’t seem that broke down.”
He looks at her, really looks at her. Besides trading in the jeans and denim shirt for the dress, she is wearing her hair down, and a trace of makeup. She looks younger than last night, softer, and she smiles, not more but more fully. “Is this what you really want to talk about?”
“No. I guess not.”
“You got a baby-sitter tonight?”
She nods her head. “He’s with a friend.”
“You stay?”
“If you still want me to.”
He moves toward her, and she meets him halfway. As he starts to put his arms around her, he realizes he has a drink in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. Somehow, in all the years, this has never stopped being awkward. By the time they break their kiss, he has dumped ashes in his drink, and she has dribbled hers down the back of his leg.
“That pretty white dress,” he says, “would still look pretty on that chair there.”
After the urgency of snaps and buckles, hooks and zippers, comes the urgency of unfamiliar skin and contours. When she is naked, he can’t let go of her and holds her close while she tries to get his clothes off. She unsnaps his shirt and works it over his arms, works his belt buckle open, then tugs down his pants and shorts, only to realize he is still wearing his boots.
“Let me,” he says. His pants are around his ankles, and he can’t bend down to the boots without losing his balance and falling.
“Here,” she says, and pushes him back until he is sitting on the bed. Then she begins to wrestle off the boots. He does his best to help her, trying to straighten his foot so the boot will slide off. But that only raises his instep, wedging it tighter in the boot.
She had begun gracefully, bending over to tug at the boot. He had watched the soft sway of her breasts. Now she is doubled over, not tugging, but pulling at the boot, turning and working her arms around it, like a pipefitter working on a froze-up valve. She swings one leg over his and pushes at the boot, then swings the other over and keeps pulling until it slides off, and she ends up on the floor, sitting facing him, legs spread, arms full of cowboy boot, hair in her face, and a smile of triumph.
