by Steve Brewer
A moment later the guy’s mouth opened like a yawning dog. What followed was a pleasant surprise, relatively speaking. A single oyster, still intact, popped out of the man’s gaping maw and landed on one of Eddie’s Durangos. Eddie didn’t miss a beat. With a deft flick of his boot, Eddie launched the oyster back at the guardsman, missing his mouth by mere inches. The man wobbled a bit then, wearing an oyster eye patch, landed face down on the table. Eddie just kept singing about how he fell into that burning ring of fire.
This wasn’t the worst gig Eddie had ever played but it ranked. He’d been playing bars like this one throughout the South for the past seven years, paying his dues. He hoped to move up to the relative glamour of the Mississippi Casino circuit and eventually to Nashville, but his immediate goal was to finish this set, get his money, and get the hell out of there. Eddie had decided he was going to do whatever it took never to have to play at a Mr. T’s again.
Eddie lived in Hinchcliff, up in Quitman County in the delta, the birthplace of the blues, but he was a serious student of all things country, especially Nashville fashions, grooming habits, and music trends. He subscribed to Country Music Weekly, Billboard Magazine, and had his satellite dish aimed plum at TNN. It was all part of Eddie’s plan to become a country music star.
In the meantime Eddie worked and took classes part-time at Quitman County Junior College. At twenty-seven, he was the oldest guy in his class. He’d taken a few years off after high school and had resumed his education only after figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. Eddie was a good student, taking business courses with an emphasis on marketing. He could have taken electives in composition or music theory down at Delta State but the way he figured it there was more to becoming a superstar than playing the guitar or being a good songwriter. You could hire people for that sort of thing — ‘outsourcing’ is what they called it in his business management class. There were talented people who supplied those services, helping make stars what they were. And those people in turn depended on the stars for their own livelihoods. It was symbiotic like many host/parasite relationships, though in the music business it was sometimes hard to tell who was which.
Eddie had picked up the guitar pretty quickly and, thanks to some lessons, he was good and getting better. He practiced daily, though he tended to use practice as an excuse to avoid doing the things he didn’t want to, like getting what his wife called a regular job. But that wasn’t to say Eddie didn’t work. He brought in money from his singing gigs and from working part-time for nearby property owners. He helped out on the Hegman farm during harvesting and, during the spring and summer he tended a small peach orchard owned by the Lytle family. But, to his wife’s eternal aggravation, Eddie was far more dedicated to his dream than to hers.
Her name was Tammy, and lately all she wanted to do was start a family. But that hadn’t always been what Tammy said she wanted. Before they married, she had promised to support Eddie until he made it as a singer. “I believe in you Eddie,” she used to say.
Eddie took Tammy at her word and, over the past seven years, he had hustled together a string of clubs in Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, and Arkansas where he performed on a semi-regular basis. He was also hot on the college circuit, playing frat parties at every university in the Southeastern Conference. He was especially popular at Ole Miss and Auburn. His repertoire was limited but smartly chosen. In addition to some catchy originals, Eddie played the classics from the pop and country charts. He had a good voice too. It didn’t make you bolt up and marvel at its distinctive qualities, rather it was a country-lite tenor, perfectly suited to the songs he chose.
But the folks at Mr. T’s didn’t care about any of that. Eddie was just background noise for their Saturday night. Most of them talked straight through his sets and nobody was afraid to yell out their order to the bar in the middle of a ballad. It was the sort of thing that usually pissed Eddie off but tonight he was past caring. He’d done this for too long and was too good to have to put up with this kind of shit any more. He finished his song and got off the stage as fast as he could, heading for Mr. Talby’s office to get his cash. He’d been counting heads for four nights and by his reckoning was due at least three hundred dollars.
“Hey, Eddie!” a familiar voice called out.
Eddie turned and, for the first time that night, saw a friendly face, the one he’d missed earlier. It was Jimmy Rogers, a freelance writer he knew from Jackson. Jimmy had reviewed several of Eddie’s shows. “Hey, how you doin’?”
“Not bad,” Jimmy said with a shrug, “I heard you were playing down here so I convinced The Hattiesburg American they should hire me to write a review.” Jimmy had been following Eddie’s career for several years and had become something of a fan. “Lemme buy you a beer?”
Eddie looked towards Mr. Talby’s office. “I’d like to but I’m driving back home tonight. Can I get a rain check?”
“Sure, no problem.” They shook hands. “I’ll send you a copy of the review.”
“Thanks, man. Say nice things about me.” Eddie turned and headed for Mr. Talby’s office. It was a cramped space with liquor boxes and broken stools stacked around the perimeter. Mr. Talby was sitting behind a desk in the middle of the room looking every bit like the fat sixty year old mean-ass backwoods cracker that he was. He was pouring whole milk into a glass of ice and scotch when Eddie walked in. Next to the glass was the tray from a cash drawer, a rotary phone, and a .38. Sitting on the edge of the desk was a bouncer who answered to the name Hummer.
Mr. Talby looked up at Eddie standing on the other side of the desk with his guitar case in hand. “I suppose you’re here for some of my money.” There was nothing friendly about the way he said it.
“Just what I’m owed,” Eddie said. “By my count it’s about three, three-fifty, somewhere around there.”
Mr. Talby’s head jerked backwards. “Three-fifty! You must be seein’ double or something.” He took a gulp off his drink and winced. “Hummer, what was your count?”
Hummer shook his head. “More like two hundred.”
“That sounds more like it.” Mr. Talby peeled ten twenty dollar bills off a stack and held it out to Eddie.
“Two hundred?” Eddie couldn’t believe it. He looked at the money, then at Mr. Talby. “That’s not right. Can’t be.” He pointed out toward the main room. “I counted every night.” He pointed at the cash register tray. “It’s at least three.”
Mr. Talby put the two hundred dollars back in the stack. “Well now, what’re you sayin’ son? You callin’ me a cheat? ‘Cause I don’t take that kinda bullshit from faggots like you.” He slid his hand over to the gun, pulled it towards him. “You want the two hundred or you want Hummer to show you the fuckin’ door?”
3.
Quitman County, Mississippi
Eddie and Tammy Long lived in northwest Mississippi, in a small two bedroom brick house not far from the Tallahatchie River. The living room was appointed with a rent-to-own sofa, love seat, and press board entertainment center. There was a faded ‘God Bless This House’ needlepoint on the wall by the front door. Over the sofa was an unframed watercolor of a cow in a cotton field done by Eddie’s Aunt Theda who lived down in Greenville. The master bedroom was given over to Tammy’s grandmother’s four-poster bed, a dresser, and a vanity, all in naturally distressed pine. The window unit air conditioner worked non-stop from May ‘til mid-October.
The kitchen, which was also the dining room and the laundry room, was tighter than the skin on a sausage and slightly less attractive. It was all mismatched appliances and bad lighting. The avocado green fridge pressed against the rust brown stove. The washer and dryer were squeezed over by the back door, preventing it from opening all the way. The dishwasher was on wheels and hooked up to the sink faucet. A large heavy table and four chairs were wedged into the corner forcing you sideways to get past.
Eddie was in the kitchen and was in a good mood for the first time in a coon’s age. It had been three months s
ince he got ripped off by Mr. Talby, and he hadn’t had much work since then. But he’d just received a good news phone call that made him feel like writing a song. Eddie sat on the edge of the kitchen table with his feet on the seat of a chair. He hunkered over his pride and joy, a Gibson SJ-200 Reissue. It was an instrument of unrivaled beauty both in looks and sound. And that beauty hadn’t come cheap. Eddie had dropped nearly three thousand dollars on this baby. Its gleaming body of solid flamed maple and spruce lent instant artistic credibility to whomever held her close.
Eddie focused on the bound Madagascar rosewood of the fingerboard and the creamy dollops of rainbow radiating from the mother-of-pearl inlay. He rearranged his fingers and tested a new chord. Six strings of honey. He tried his newest lyric, “I’d cross a double yellow line to get to your heart.” Chord change. “You know I’ve loved you like that right from the start.”
Eddie smiled and pulled the pencil from behind his ear. As he wrote the lyrics on the pad of paper at his side, Tammy shuffled into the kitchen in her pale green housecoat. She stared at the dirty dishes stacked near the sink, then made a production out of sighing. “I thought you was gonna do these,” she said.
Eddie peeked up from under his cowboy hat. “Hang on, Sugar Britches. I think I got one here.” He looked back at his lyric sheet. “Uh, get to your heart, right from the start, uh. . . let’s load the cart. . . I need a spare part. . .I want your cherry tart. . .”
Tammy muttered, “Who gives a fart?” She turned on the water full blast and threw the dishes in hard enough to chip one of them.
Without looking up, Eddie gestured at the sink with the head of his guitar. “Just leave ‘em, Sugar, I’ll get at ‘em later.” Eddie didn’t see Tammy turning a nasty shade of red but, the thing was, he didn’t need to see it to know it was happening. It seemed to happen a lot lately. He knew it would pass just as soon as. . . a plate whizzed by his head and shattered against the wall. “Jumpin’ Jesus!” Eddie looked up just in time to see the second plate leave her hand. He twisted his torso to shield his precious Gibson from the flying dish. “Ow! Shit! That hurt, Puddin’.”
“You don’t know about hurt, buster!” Tammy set her jaw and squinted in a way that only rural women can. “I’ll show you hurt!”
“Whoa, Sugar, let’s talk about this. . .” Eddie scrambled off the table and ducked behind the solid backed chair. “. . .whatever it is.”
Eddie and Tammy had been high school sweethearts with no long-term plan. They were just young and ultimately incautious. As Eddie’s Aunt Theda had said, they’d been eatin’ supper before saying grace, and sure enough Tammy pulled up pregnant the summer after graduation. So they got the Justice of the Peace to tie the knot before Tammy’s dad found out and tied a knot around Eddie’s sweet neck. A few weeks later Tammy miscarried. That was three years ago. Things had been tense as a D string ever since.
With her long blonde hair and dreamy, half shut eyes, Tammy had always been languid and slinky, but ever since her ‘misfortune,’ she carried herself like a dying succulent, a thirsty blonde houseplant with a terminal case of the vapors. So it surprised Eddie more than somewhat when she managed to throw the heavy serving bowl across the kitchen like she did. Crash!
“Sugar, wasn’t that the bowl your Cousin Minnie gave us?” Eddie had an easy going Southern country accent, not too twangy, not too flat.
Tammy began screeching. “Shut up, Eddie! I am sick of you and your songs and having to do all the work around here, and bringing in all the money in this house on top of it all! If you don’t take that job Daddy offered you, I’m gonna pack my bags and move right out and then who you gonna find to pay your rent? Huh?”
Tammy’s daddy owned The Dollar Store in town and was ready to give Eddie what passed for a decent job in this part of the country. Eddie would never say it, because he liked the old man, but the truth was he’d rather have a catfish bone stuck in his throat than put on one of those idiotic polyester vests with the smiley-face button on it. Eddie knew you didn’t become a country music sensation standing on the sales floor of The Dollar Store in Hinchcliff, Mississippi. “Sugar, I thought we settled this before we got married. You promised me. . .”
Thwick! A steak knife lodged in the wall behind Eddie. “That’s right, you just keep throwing that in my face,” Tammy hollered. “I got the right to change my mind if I want, especially after what I went through.” When it suited her needs Tammy used the miscarriage as an excuse for neglecting everything from her appearances to the promises she had made. “I gave you all the time you needed,” she said. “You just ain’t done it, and you ain’t man enough to admit that you ain’t got what it takes to make it in Batesville, much less Nashville.”
“Now, Sugar, let’s be fair,” Eddie said in his sweetest voice, “even Elvis had to leave Mississippi to get discovered.”
“Elvis?” Tammy raised her voice a notch. “You ain’t Elvis, Eddie, and you never will be! Do you even hear what’s comin’ outta your mouth? You got a perfectly good job just waitin’ for you and instead of takin’ it, you’re hiding behind the kitchen table comparing yourself to the King. When are you going to give up on this nonsense and do right by me?”
Eddie poked his head out from behind the chair. “Sugar?” Another plate flew by, knocking Eddie’s hat off. He ducked back behind the chair wondering how come his life had turned out so bad. He put up with Tammy the best he could but he was running out of patience. Episodes like this one made him want to slap her clear into Coahoma County but his long-term plans prevented him from giving into that temptation. Eddie picked up his hat and held it out to see if it would draw fire. A plastic John Deere coffee cup flew past and bounced off the wall. Eddie knew he had to calm Tammy down before she ran out of dishes and went for the gun, even if it was just a .22. He pulled the Gibson into playing position, strummed a familiar chord, more slowly than it was usually played, and sang in his softest voice, “Stand by your man . . .”
“Stand by where?” Tammy shrieked. “In the damn welfare line?” She hurled a small cast iron skillet Eddie’s way. “I’ve had about all of this I can take, Eddie. It’s time for you to start taking care of me the way a man’s supposed to.”
“Tammy, sugar, that was a real good throw. Now listen, I was going to surprise you with the news tonight, but I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you. . .”
Tammy had another steak knife raised over her head ready to throw. “Tell me what?”
Eddie strummed the guitar, flamenco-style. He spoke like a big city radio announcer, rising slowly from his crouch as he spoke. “Starting this Wednesday at the Gold Coast Extravaganza Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, for five straight nights, ladies and gentlemen, the next superstar of Nashville, Tennessee — Mr. Eddie Long!” He ended with a flourish on the guitar.
A second passed as the news sunk in. Suddenly Tammy squealed and began hopping on one foot. “Eddie!!!”
“I’m talkin’ regular paychecks for six weeks, Sugar. Playing the casinos from Biloxi to Lula.” Eddie pushed up the brim of his hat with his index finger. “What do you say to that?”
There was a pause as Tammy put her hands over her mouth in amazement.
“Careful with that knife,” Eddie said.
Tammy slid her hands from her mouth to her cheeks. Her voice took on a sudden sweetness as her eyes went wide. “Eddie, how much?”
Eddie strummed the Gibson. “Three-fifty a week.”
Tammy laid the steak knife in sink, real gentle. “Before or after taxes?”
“That’s take-home, sugar. I’ll be sending most of that back to you.” Eddie picked a couple of notes and improvised a lyric. “I’ll be sending you the money, ‘cause I love you so much honey. . .” Eddie put the guitar down and crossed to where Tammy was standing. There was one more thing he knew she wanted to hear, even if he didn’t want to say it. “And I tell you what.” He pulled her close. “You come up when I’m playing the casino in Lula and we’ll get started on making those b
abies.”
Tammy squealed again. “I knew you were going to make it, Eddie! I told you I believed in you, didn’t I? Haven’t I always said that? You are going to be such a star!” She kissed Eddie’s neck while hopping around squealing. Then she suddenly stopped. Her mouth opened wide. “Eddie, I just had the best idea! Let’s drive up to Memphis and go to that Chinese restaurant I like. I think we need to celebrate!”
Eddie thought about it for a moment before a smile crossed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “That’ll work.”
4.
Lee County, Alabama
It was three o’clock on a stifling afternoon. The air wasn’t moving. The oppressive heat was battling the humidity to see which could do the most damage. Sheriff Bobby Herndon of the Lee County Sheriff’s Department was driving north on county road 147 with his windows sealed and the air conditioning chilling the cruiser. Having lived in this part of Lee County all his life Sheriff Herndon knew the 147 was lined on both sides by cotton fields even though he couldn’t see them. All he could see was the tall bushy shrubs the Highway Department had planted along the property lines most of the way between Auburn and Gold Ridge.
For the past hour Sheriff Herndon had been testing the new UltraLyte Laser gun but traffic had thinned out and everybody was doing the speed limit so he switched the gun off, sat back, and tried to enjoy the drive. He was gazing down the road thinking about where he was going fishing that weekend when his peripheral vision suddenly picked up some movement in the tall shrubs on his right. As he turned to look, a bright red 1995 Massey Ferguson 8150 with the big 18.4R 42 duels in the back came roaring through the bushes, hellbent for crossing the road about thirty yards ahead.
