by Bill Noel
Burl laughed. “My job’s to not give up on anyone, although I reckon you might be right about little hope for you two. Truth be told, I wanted to sit a spell and enjoy a cold brew.”
Cal tipped his Stetson. “That’ll be a lot easier to rustle up than throwing out my demons.” He smiled. “Bud, Bud Light, or Miller?”
Cal’s range of drink offerings included three beers, and an equal number of wines: red, white, and pink. If he was pushed, which he seldom was, he could find you a glass of water or a Coke.
Burl patted his ample stomach and smiled. “Better stick with Bud Light to maintain my shapely figure.” He pulled a chair to our table and lowered his shapely body on it.
Cal returned with the beer and held up the bottle before giving it to Burl. “Preacher, I hear rumors you preach about the sins of, what do you call it, the Devil’s juice. Don’t get this old washed-up singer wrong, I ain’t trying to talk you out of sipping this brew and adding to my massive fortune. I’m wondering if this ain’t what you preach against?”
Burl nodded. “Brother Cal, you’re right … and wrong.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “That explains it.”
Burl chuckled. “I preach against excess, Brother Cal. Excess.”
“Too much beer,” Cal said, as if he needed clarification on the meaning of excess.
“Brother Jesus wasn’t above sippin’ wine. Heavens, if he was in here today, I believe he’d be tasting one of these.” He held his Bud Light bottle in the air. “Moderation my friend. Moderation is the key to the good life. Excess is the work of the Devil. It includes this stuff.” He hesitated and pointed at the bottle. “Or whiskey, or lovin’, or speeding, or even consuming too many M&Ms. Excess, my friend.”
“Got it, Preacher,” Cal said. “Now if the theological lesson’s over, can we commence drinking?”
“I can’t help myself. To paraphrase Descartes, ‘I preach, therefore I am.’” He chuckled and turned to me. “Brother Chris, my misquoting that French philosopher reminded me of our friend Brother Charles and the way he’s always quoting presidents. Have you heard from him and Sister Heather?”
I was stuck on Burl knowing Descartes quote enough to paraphrase it, and asked him to repeat his question.
“Heard from them lately?”
I shared what I had told Cal, and Burl asked if the agent I didn’t trust had found Heather any paying gigs. Heather’s pilgrimage to Nashville had begun a little over four months ago, when she had been performing during Cal’s weekly open-mic night. A man named Kevin Starr said he was in town meeting with record executives at the Tides Hotel and had walked to Cal’s to get away from the boring discussions. He heard Heather, asked her to join him after her set, and told her he was an agent and owner of Starr Management, based in Music City. He offered to represent her and said he could get her appearances in Nashville’s top venues for discovering talent. That was all it took. A few days later she had packed her belongings lock, stock, and guitar, and she and Charles had moved 560 miles to find her fame and fortune in the country music capitol of the world.
Burl sipped his beer and nodded or shook his head during my update on them. “Now I know Brother Charles and Sister Heather are your good friends, Brother Chris. I hope you don’t take offense at what I am about to say. Umm …, I’m no expert like our friend Brother Cal here. From my untrained ears, I don’t detect the qualities in Sister Heather’s voice that would lead her to music stardom. Am I incorrect?”
Cal leaned closer to Burl. “If all those words mean you think Heather’s singing sucks, you smacked the truth right on its noggin.”
My phone rang before Cal could continue with his in-depth analysis of Heather’s vocal talents.
I looked at the screen. “Speaking of the Devil,” I said. “Figuratively speaking, Preacher.”
2
“Is this Chris Landrum?” asked the voice on the phone. “You know, the aging, retired, guy who’s bored because he went and shut down his photo gallery.”
I grinned and thought of how much I missed my friend. “You got Chris Landrum and retired right. Hi, Charles.”
“Nope, I got all of it right. As James Garfield said, ‘The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.’”
Telephone courtesies and greetings like hello are a thing of the past, or so it seemed. Instead of hitting the End Call button, I repeated, “Hi, Charles.”
He mumbled, “You’re no fun,” followed by a moment of silence, and, “Okay, enough foolishness from you. I called to tell you about an epiphany I had in the middle of the night. Think it was brought on when Heather kicked me in her sleep, anyway, here it is—”
“Epiphany,” I interrupted. “Who took possession of Charles Fowler’s vocabulary?”
“Heather spends her time singing. I spend mine reading and grabbing a new word every once in a while; need them to talk to the intellectuals here. Stop knocking me off track, you want to hear my epiphany or not?”
I wanted to say “not,” yet wasn’t ready to incur the wrath of Charles; besides, I did wonder what could possibly have come to him because of being kicked. “I’m waiting.”
“Good. It struck me that since you deserted the gallery you’ve become a retiredaholic.”
“Have you thrown that word around those intellectuals?”
“Saved it for you. Stop interrupting. The point is you’ll burn yourself out spending all your time retired—day and night, night and day, 24/7. After Heather kicked me awake, we talked about your precarious situation and came to a decision. You ready?”
Cal and Burl stared at me. I sighed. “Sure.”
“You need to get away from retirement for a while and take a vacation. Hang on a sec, Heather’s trying to say something.”
I stared at the phone and realized I hadn’t been aware how strenuous being retired was. I also realized Charles had finally gotten over me closing the gallery where he had been my unpaid sales manager. The few years it was open, the shop had done little but drain my net worth. It had given my friend a purpose in life and something he could take pride in. He was hurt, frustrated, and at times angry with my decision. The fact was, he hadn't been the one writing checks every month that exceeded the money I’d taken in.
“I’m back,” he said. “Okay, the Charles and Heather Travel Agency have it worked out. This is Thursday, right?”
“Right.”
“Take the rest of the day to pack. Tomorrow get in your little Cadillac ATS, set the handy-dandy navigation thingie for Nashville, Tennessee, and zip on over. Here’s the best part. We have an extra bedroom—well, it’s sort of a storage room. All the stuff in it can be put somewhere else, and you can sleep on the queen mattress the previous renter left on the floor. We won’t charge you a single cent to stay here. See, we’ve already saved you at least a hundred bucks a night. Now get this. On Monday night, Heather will be performing at the Bluebird Cafe, and you can go with us.”
“Charles, I—”
“I know, I know. You get a complete vacation package including room and entertainment for only the cost of gas and food. And, if you wanted to take Heather and me to supper to celebrate her Bluebird appearance, we know of a restaurant that has good food at cheap prices. We only have one bedroom left. Can we make your reservation? Besides, there’s something important, a problem, we want to bounce off you.”
Heather was laughing in the background and saying, “Please come. Please.”
Cal and Burl continued to stare at me.
“Sure.”
Heather must have been near the phone. She squealed.
Charles gave me the address to plug in my handy-dandy navigation thingie, where to park when I got there, and their apartment number. He told me to let them know when I was a few hours away. He said Heather wanted to be there when I arrived and would need time to reschedule some of her many appointments with music executives, and Charles might be at Starbucks reading a thesaurus.
I set the phone on the table, exha
led, as Cal and Burl said, “What?” They had heard my end of the conversation, so I filled in the blanks, omitting why I needed a break from being retired and Charles’s made-up malady, retiredaholic, and his real, but totally out of character, word-of-the-day, epiphany.
“You moseying over?” Cal asked.
Burl said, “You miss him, don’t you?”
“Sure, I do, Preacher,” and realized how true it was. “He’s my best friend. I told him I’d come.”
Cal headed to the cooler. “Next round’s on me. That’ll help you pay for your gas.”
Burl asked, “When are you going?”
“Tomorrow.”
Cal handed each of us a drink. “Had a thought on the way back from the cooler.” He took a draw on his beer.
I glanced at Burl and at Cal. He was waiting for one of us to ask about his thought.
Burl didn’t disappoint. “Planning on sharing it?”
Cal looked at the preacher and pointed his Bud bottle at me. “Maybe I could tag along. It’s been a bunch of years since I sauntered around Music City. I miss the good old days when I would hang around the Opry House; the real one, not the sterile one out by the hotel that’s the size of Topeka, Kansas. Willie, Roger, Ernest, Roy—ah, the good ole days. Anyway, how about me going with you?”
I enjoyed spending time with Cal. He was entertaining and fun to be with, but, truth be told, I was more a loner. I wasn’t sure I was ready to spend most of the day in the car with him, or for that matter, with anyone. And, I couldn’t imagine that Charles and Heather’s apartment had enough room for both of us. On the other hand, unless he went, he may never get back to the city that had meant so much to him.
“Sounds good, Cal.” I shook my head. “But I couldn’t take you away from your bar. I don’t know how long I’ll be there.”
He frowned and looked down at his bottle. “Guess you’re right. Wouldn’t want to deprive my loveable drunks by locking them out.”
Burl had been watching the exchange, and leaned closer to the table. “Perhaps I can offer a passable solution.”
Cal said, “What might that be?”
“I mentioned this to Brother Chris a while back, but don’t think you know, Brother Cal. Years back, when I was doing most anything—most anything legal—to make ends meet, I spent a year tending bar. I could fill-in for a week or so and you could have your part-time cook come in more shifts to fix food. Don’t think your customers’ stomachs would take kindly at me frying burgers.”
Cal pushed his Stetson back on his head. “A mighty kind offer, Preacher. Now how would it jive with your preaching. Seems like it’d cause a passel of probs.”
Burl smiled. “Can’t think of a better place to find souls needing saving.”
Cal leaned back. “Now Brother Burl, I can’t have preaching in—”
Burl faced his palms toward Cal. “Kidding. I’d be glad to watch the bar while you’re gone. No preaching, no plugging religion. Let’s call it community outreach without the church reaching.”
Cal looked at me, I shrugged, and he turned to Burl. “Sounds like a fine idea, Preacher. Not to sound rude and unappreciative, I’d take you up on it if you could do me one favor.”
Burl smiled. “I ought to hear it first.”
“When you’re tendin’ bar, would it be possible for you to refrain from calling everyone Brother or Sister. Don’t think it sets the proper tone for my customers.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” Burl reached up and removed an imaginary hat from his head. “When I’m behind the bar, I’ll take off my preachin’ Panama and put on my beer-belchin’ beret.”
Cal grinned and stuck out his hand to Burl. “You’ve got a deal, bartender Burl.”
And I had a vacation companion. To think, a mere thirty minutes ago, I hadn’t known I was a retiredaholic in need of a vacation. I also wondered what was so important, such a problem, that Charles needed to bounce it off me. I'd known Charles for nine years and knew when he said problem he meant something most people would consider to be a disaster, or some other word Charles could find in a thesaurus.
3
Cal was silent the first four hours of our nine-hour drive. When I picked him up at his apartment he had said it was his middle of the night. Nights in the bar often lasted past midnight and during his forty-plus years travelling the country and singing most anywhere that would have him, his performances often didn’t start until past dark. I was a morning person and encouraged him to put his seat back and sleep until he was ready to wake up. I didn’t have to say it twice.
It wasn’t until we were on the Interstate between Asheville and Knoxville that he showed signs of life. He stretched his arms over his head and said he was ready for a hearty breakfast. I reminded him it was noon and lunch would be more appropriate. He said, “tomato, tomahto,” as I pulled in a Waffle House near Canton, North Carolina. The only tomatoes, or tomahtoes, I saw were when Cal slathered catchup on his hash browns.
Forty-five minutes later, breakfast/lunch was finished, and after Cal had started a conversation with everyone who walked by our table, we were back on the road; this time with Cal piloting. I tried to nap, though I would have had as good a chance reciting the first nineteen amendments to the US Constitution. Cal had his left hand on the wheel. His right hand fiddled with the radio controls trying to find the nearest country music station, singing along with each traditional country artist, and complaining about the stations that had the nerve to play contemporary country and hick-hop. Yes, Cal was awake.
Three hours later, we switched drivers at an exit between Knoxville and our destination. Cal grabbed his guitar from the back seat and serenaded me with 7,395 songs in the two hours it took us to get from the stop to the Interstate exit to downtown Nashville. If a country song had been recorded, oh, let’s say, between 27 AD and 1975, Cal knew it. I’d heard what he said were the B side of many hits from that period, but when he started strumming B sides of songs he said had barely reached the top two hundred of the day, I was lost. I’m a country fan, although by the time we reached downtown Nashville, I was yearning for some Snoop Dog.
The navigation system did an excellent job of directing us to the address Charles had given me. The lot where he told me to park wasn’t as easy to find. With the aid of Cal telling me each way not to turn, pointing out the Ryman Auditorium, and getting excited about a vacant building where he said he had performed “back in the day,” we managed to find the narrow alley that led to the five-story warehouse that had been converted to apartments, and home of Charles and Heather.
I called Charles a couple of hours out and he said he’d have had Heather cancel any music appointments, except she didn’t have any, so they would be home when we arrived. I put the car in park and Charles bounded out a windowless, rusting, steel door at the corner of the apartment building. At five-foot-eight inches, he was a couple of inches shorter than me, twenty pounds lighter, and had long, graying brown hair, mainly on the sides. He and I shared a near hairless top of our head. Instead of wearing one of his trademark long-sleeve college T-shirts, he wore a charcoal-gray Bluebird Cafe T-Shirt. He hadn’t abandoned all traditions; despite being June, it was long-sleeve like his countless other shirts.
Charles had me in a bear hug before I closed the car door. If he'd attempted to shave in the last week, Heather needed to get him a new razor. Regardless of his shaggy face scraping my cheek, I was thrilled to see him. On the scale of world history, four months was merely a nano-speck. To me, it had seemed like an eternity.
Cal was feeling neglected and was on the passenger side of the car. He yelled, “Hey, Michigan, I’m here too.”
Charles peeked around my head at Cal. “I ain’t Ray Charles, I see you. Just haven’t gotten around to huggin’ you.”
Heather scurried out of the building, made a beeline for the car, and squealed, “Yeah, they’re here.” Cal had come around to where the action was and Heather managed to put her arms around him.
She was ap
proaching her fiftieth birthday and was a five-foot-six, bundle of enthusiasm. She greeted us with a wide smile and a giant hug. She’s wholesomely attractive with her curly brown hair and freckled nose. She was seasonably attired in a dark-blue V-neck, short-sleeve Bluebird T-shirt, and tan shorts.
Heather moved to the rear of the car. “Let us help you carry your stuff.”
Cal started to protest until Charles said they were on the third-floor. There was an elevator, although the old-time residents told him it worked about as often as Congress did something smart. The country crooner gave in to Heather’s hospitable offer. I carried my suitcase and didn’t start regretting it until I was between the second floor and our destination. I hadn’t realized how far it was between floors in a high-ceiling, converted warehouse.
“Chuckie saw you pulling in the lot,” Heather said as Charles unlocked the apartment. “We’ve got a great view of the parking lot from our living room.”
What more could one ask for? I thought. “That’s great.”
My friend had spent most of his adult life riling when anyone called him anything other than Charles. Chuck, Charlie, and up until Heather came along, Chuckie, were like waving a Pepsi at a Coke sales rep. My friend would still correct anyone who made such a ghastly error, unless the person’s name was Heather Lee. Love was not only blind, it was deaf.
The exterior of the building looked like it hadn’t received attention in decades. Rust battled paint for control of most exposed steel surfaces; the fire escape looked like it would struggle to hold more than one person at a time; and, the brick walls had served as canvases to numerous graffiti artists. The stairwell didn’t look much better, so I was pleased to see the interior of the apartment had a fresh coat of paint, the hardwood floors had been refinished, and from a glance in the kitchen, the appliances appeared new.