by Mitch Albom
Each weekday morning, he would walk up and down the Nashville business streets, stopping in stores to inquire about a girl named Aurora. Many asked if he had a picture.
“No,” he’d say, “but she talks funny. With a British accent.”
“Son, you talk funny, too,” they would answer. Still, no one could recall her. Pretty soon, having exhausted the businesses, he began to knock on house doors, asking mothers or old ladies if they had seen a blond girl his age. He took the job at the Cadillac dealership and told everyone he was from Spain, hoping someone might get word to Aurora. Surely she would be curious about a guitar player from that country.
As the weather turned hot, Frankie noticed other teens in convertible cars, heading to amusement parks or lakes. He felt pangs of loneliness. Hampton was nice, but he was old, his children scattered, and his wife had passed away. And no one at work really spoke to Frankie. Only the hairless dog gave him hope for happier days. Frankie played constantly with that creature, rolling on the ground and scratching behind its ears.
Of course, when he was truly sad, Frankie came to his guitar. Hour after hour. Day after day. Practicing, playing, practicing some more, honing the blues progressions that he heard in the clubs on Jefferson Street. For my disciples, the map is simple. All lonely roads lead back to music. I embrace you. I forgive you.
I will never leave you.
Can humans say the same?
One day, Frankie was standing out in front of the dealership, singing a gospel tune that Rutland was particularly fond of called “By and By.”
Temptations, hidden snares
Often take us unawares,
And our hearts are made to bleed
For a thoughtless word or deed;
And we wonder why the test
When we try to do our best,
But we’ll understand it better by and by.
A car pulled up and a tall thin man in a cowboy hat stepped out of the passenger’s side. He drank from a flask, then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Frankie noticed his ears, which pushed out, and the strangely thin line of his lips, which seemed drawn from one end of his cheeks to the other.
The man rested his arms on the hood of the car and nodded along with Frankie’s song.
“Ya coming?” the driver asked.
“Y’all go on in, see what they got,” the man said. “I’ma listen to the music.”
The friend went inside to talk to Rutland. Frankie finished his tune. The tall man clapped.
“Heck of a job, playin’ in a car lot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Y’all take requests?”
Frankie looked around. There were no other customers.
“Yes, sir, if I know it.”
“Play me the saddest song you got.”
Frankie hesitated. It was hot, and he felt sweat running down his temples.
“Why do you want to hear a sad song?”
The man took another swig from the flask. “They’re more true than the happy ones, don’tcha think?”
“Happy songs can be true, if you’re happy.”
The man snorted a laugh. “Where you come from, son?”
“Spain,” he answered, thinking about Aurora. He checked to see if Rutland was looking. “This is a sad song where I come from.”
And he played “Lágrima,” the composition by his namesake, Francisco Tárrega, the one his mother hummed, the one he heard Segovia play, the one that Tárrega himself wrote because he was feeling homesick.
The one that means “teardrop.”
The tall stranger listened intently, staring at the asphalt as if there were a hole that he was gazing through.
When Frankie finished, the man scratched above his eye.
“Well, son, that was fine, just fine.” He looked up. “You do know you’re too good to be working here, right?”
“Please don’t tell Mr. Rutland I played that,” Frankie implored.
The tall man smiled wryly. “Your secret is safe.” He approached Frankie. “Can I have a spin on that guitar?”
Frankie glanced inside the store.
“It’s all right, son,” the man said. “Your boss won’t mind.”
Frankie handed it over.
“Sturdy instrument,” the man said, examining it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good wood. Strong neck. Label’s covered up, though. How come?”
“I don’t know, that’s the way I got it.”
The man shrugged. “Okay, then. This is the saddest tune I know.”
He sang a song called “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” It spoke about a train whistle, and long nights, and birds crying, and the moon going behind a cloud. Each verse ended with the singer saying how lonesome he was, until, by the end, Frankie felt ready to cry himself.
“Whatcha think?” the man asked after the final chord.
“Did you write that?”
“I surely did.”
“It’s sad.”
“Told ya.”
“Who did you write it for?”
“My wife. But she ain’t my wife no more.” He coughed. “You got a girl?”
“I’m waiting for her.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“You might be waitin’ awhile.”
“You’re a really good singer.”
The man cackled. “Son, you don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No, sir. Who are you?”
The man looked into the store, waved at his companion, then looked back at Frankie and grinned.
“Luke,” he said, offering his hand. “Luke the Drifter is my recording name.”
“You make records?”
“Sometimes.”
Frankie shook his hand. “I’m Frankie Presto.”
“Wanna help me pick out a car, Frankie Presto?”
Suddenly, Rutland came rushing out of the store, his smile bigger than Frankie had ever seen it. He looked like a child, Frankie thought, his short, fat legs skipping toward them.
“Ho-leee!” he exclaimed, grabbing for the man’s hand. “I can’t believe this! Mr. Williams, it is an honor! I mean, I am a follower—a devoted follower of your music. You are the greatest recording artist of our time! Yes, sir! Oh, my! Oh, myyy! Hank Williams!”
The tall man turned to Frankie and winked.
“I am thrilled—honored—I said that already, didn’t I?—but it’s true,” Rutland gushed. “I am honored to sell you a car, sir! A Cadillac, of course! The best we have!”
The man adjusted his hat. “Whatcha got in blue?”
Soon they were walking down the rows of vehicles. Rutland never stopped talking, asking about this song or that song, “Hey, Good Lookin’ ” and “Move It On Over” and “Cold, Cold Heart” and something called “I Saw the Light,” which Rutland said his church choir had tried singing.
“Wonderful tune, Hank, so full of the spirit!”
The man in the hat ran his fingers along the hoods of each car, until he came upon a baby blue model and stopped.
“Whoo, now, she’s sweet,” he said.
“She could be the one,” his companion said.
“Can’t do better, Hank,” Rutland quickly agreed.
“What do you think, Frankie Presto?” the man asked.
Frankie felt them all looking at him. He spun his guitar over his back and put his hand on the hood. He felt something cold and scary and his face dropped. He pulled back as if shocked.
“What is it, kid?” Luke—or Hank—asked him.
“Don’t get this car,” Frankie mumbled.
“What’s that now?”
“Don’t get this car. There’s something bad about it.”
“Oh, Lord, what does he know, he’s
just a stupid teenager,” Rutland said, shooting Frankie a scowl. “Today’s his last day, anyhow. Get on back to your post, boy.” He pushed up a smile. “So sorry, Hank. I’m sure we can make an excellent deal for you. She’s a fine car. Cadillac. Only the best.”
The man in the cowboy hat shrugged at Frankie, and Frankie walked away slowly, the guitar on his back.
An hour later, their paperwork done, the two men emerged from the office and returned to their vehicle. Frankie was alone in the sun, strumming chords and trying not to cry. He didn’t want to lose this job. How would Aurora ever find him?
“We’ll be on our way now, Frankie Presto,” the man said.
“Did you buy that car?”
“Yep.”
Frankie looked down.
“It’s just a car. Your boss gave us a good deal. And a good deal’s hard to come by. I might not need the money, but the people I owe sure do.”
The man chuckled at his own joke. Frankie said nothing. The man reached in his pocket for a small vial of pills. He swallowed one and washed it down with whatever was in his flask. Then he slid into the passenger’s seat, closed the door, and hung his arm out the window.
“Mister?” Frankie said.
“Yeah?”
“Who are you, really?”
The man scratched his nose. “You wanna keep making music for a livin’, son, you’re gonna have to be a lot of people. Some you’re gonna like being more than others.”
He jerked his head back toward the store. “Don’t leave before gettin’ an envelope your boss got for you.”
The car drove away, a small puff of smoke coming from its exhaust. It was suddenly very quiet. The sun baked down without a cloud to soften its heat. Frankie played a little longer. When it turned six o’clock, he entered the office, where Rutland, clearly upset with him, handed him an envelope and told him he didn’t need to come back.
“I shouldn’t even be givin’ you this,” he said. “Y’all almost cost me that sale. You’d best learn some respect, you expect to work anyplace again.”
On the walk back to Hampton’s house, Frankie stopped and sat beside the road. He felt sick. He was afraid of what Hampton would say about his firing. He should never have talked to Hank or Luke in the first place.
He peeled open the envelope and his mouth dropped. In it, he found $107, the commission on the sale of the Cadillac that Hank Williams had insisted be paid to Frankie and no one else. It was more money than Frankie had ever seen in his life, more than he would have made in half a year at the car lot.
He also found some song lyrics, scribbled on a piece of paper:
Sunflowers waiting for the sunshine.
Violets just waiting for dew.
Bees just waiting for honey
And honey, I’m just waiting for you!
Underneath were the words, “Good luck waiting on your girl,” and it was signed “Hank Williams.”
Six months later, in the wee hours of New Year’s Day, 1953, Hank Williams, his bloodstream laced with morphine, died quietly in the backseat of that baby blue Cadillac. The driver, trying to get Hank to a performance, pulled into a gas station and discovered the singer, cold and unresponsive, beneath a blanket, dead at age twenty-nine.
What Frankie felt on the hood of that car was what I foresaw, what I wanted him to convey, that death awaited, that the singer needed to mend his ways, slow down, stop the drinking and the medication. Do you think me meddlesome? Why? I have told you I love my disciples. I have told you my saddest visits are the ones that come too early. I have told you I can see all futures. Is it beyond me to share this power now and then? Should I always do nothing and let the music die?
30
1969
* * *
IT WAS DARK NOW AND FRANKIE STUMBLED THROUGH THE WOODSTOCK CROWD until he could no longer see the woman’s purple van. It had rained and his feet sloshed. He shifted the guitar on his back. The stage. He had to reach the stage. Where was it? How did he get so lost? He heard howling laughter and turned to see a group of young people sliding into pools of mud and squealing as it splashed up on them.
“I’m the Mud King!” a young man screamed.
Frankie lumbered on, past a man handing out bologna sandwiches and a group sharing a jug of water. Gnats engulfed his head. He swatted at them with the egg carton, swerving as if navigating a strange, bumpy planet, passing makeshift tents and rows of sleeping bags and a naked mother washing two children in a pond.
He saw a long line of people and, his mind still cloudy, took a place at the back of it, figuring someone at the front could steer him.
“Who do you have to call, brother?”
“Huh?”
A freckle-faced man was grinning at him. He was shirtless with thick chest hair. The belt around his jeans pushed his flabby waist over the sides.
“It’s a phone line, man. Who do you have to call?”
“A phone line?”
“Yeah. They’re letting us use the pay phones for free. I gotta call my old lady. I was supposed to be back yesterday.”
Frankie felt the sweat on his face. He moved his jaw around. Whatever that woman’s green pill was, it was having its effect. His bones seemed to be disconnected from one another.
“You trying to get home, too, brother?”
“The stage.”
“You’re playing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Far out. Far out!”
The man squinted. Frankie squinted back.
“Hey, brother?”
“Yeah?”
He pointed over Frankie’s shoulder.
“The stage is that way.”
31
1953
* * *
“The stage is right behind this door,” Hampton whispered.
Frankie nodded.
“You get in there, you just make your music. They can’t say no to you, fast as you play that guitar.”
It was a hot day, in a brisk 2/4 key signature, and the tempo was vivace—lively, but sostenuto, prolonged. Hampton and Frankie were standing outside the Grand Ole Opry, waiting to audition. Frankie, now seventeen years old, had learned a great deal of country music since arriving in Nashville. He had also grown two inches and looked less a boy than a young man now. Hampton told him, “I reckon you ready for the biggest stage of all.”
He’d dressed Frankie for the audition in a gray cowboy hat and a white sports coat with lace trimming. It cost Hampton a week’s pay. I should note that the mechanic had asked to be Frankie’s manager, and, while Frankie didn’t really understand the position, he’d quickly said yes. He liked Hampton. And seeing that he was feeding Frankie and letting him listen to his radio, Frankie couldn’t really refuse.
“Just play the way you played up in Detroit. No way they say no.”
“Okay.”
“You the fastest thing anyone ever seen.”
“Okay.”
Hampton seemed nervous. Another hour passed. Frankie wanted to knock on the door, but Hampton refused. “We don’t want to seem pushy. They’ll come get us.”
Eventually, with the sun beginning to set, a man in a suit came out the front door. Frankie ran up and said, “Excuse me,” and asked if someone would be greeting them soon.
“Auditions wait at the south door,” the man said. “Around the corner. But they’re gone now. Y’all need to come back next week.”
Frankie glanced at Hampton, whose mouth fell open. Frankie turned back to the man in the suit.
“Sir . . . can I get something that says we were here? For next time? So we can be first in line maybe?”
The man looked him up and down and grinned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.
“That’s all I got, young fella.”
The man walked away. Hampton curs
ed and shook his head. The wrong door?
“It’s okay, Hampton,” Frankie said. “We can try next week.”
But the old man kept grumbling, upset by his mistake. He was sweating heavily. On the ride home, he banged the steering wheel many times. Then, after turning at a traffic light, he gripped his arm and fell against the door as the car veered to the curb.
“Hampton!” Frankie screamed, grabbing the wheel and steering wildly. “What’s the matter? Hampton! Hey!” He threw his leg over the man’s legs to brake the car with a screech.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” Frankie implored. He pulled open Hampton’s collar. His eyes were rolled back. He was moaning. Frankie screamed out the window, “Help! Where’s a hospital?”
Minutes later, he was pulling Hampton through double doors, his arms wrapped around the old man’s chest. He kept saying, “You’re all right, you’re all right,” but once inside he again screamed, “Help!” A nurse ran out to assist him, but a doctor with close-cropped hair and a barrel chest raised his hands.
“Hold up,” he said. “Y’all need to take him to the colored hospital.”
“Please!” Frankie yelled.
The doctor shook his head. “The colored hospital will take care of him.”
“But he’s in trouble!”
“Then you better get moving.”
Frankie’s breathing quickened. He squeezed his eyes closed. And something inside him snapped. Perhaps because of Baffa, or El Maestro, or never finding his mother, or any of the many precious things that had been taken from him in his life, he felt a force surging, a noise between his ears, like an angry glissando from one end of the keyboard to the other.
He would not lose Hampton, too.
“Now you listen,” he said, raising to within inches of the doctor. “I just came from the Grand Ole Opry. So did he. This is an important man.”
The doctor snickered. “Y’all came from the Opry?”
Frankie pulled the business card from his pocket and slammed it in the doctor’s palm.
