A Guitar and a Pen

by Robert Hicks

  “It’s new,” Pinky said.

  “So you’re telling me all your senses are going haywire and now your hearing and your smelling and your vision and your— ” Spoony stopped in midsentence. A look of enlightenment came into his eyes. Then they narrowed as if he might be attempting to resolve some difficult dilemma. Finally, as Pinky jabbered on, an expression of peace settled across Spoony’s face. Perhaps his refusal to cook had gone on long enough. Maybe he was being offered a way to return to the bosom of his friends, a way simply to put things back the way they were. Whatever his thoughts, they went unnoticed by Pinky. He was now going on tearfully about how his sweet wife, the love of his life, now smelled like creamed corn.

  Spoony turned to him and offered his hand.

  “Yes, yes, quite tragic,” he said, with a faint smile.“And what you said about the soup, let’s . . . forget it.”

  When Pinky returned to the TV room, he plopped into a chair and let out a long breath.“I think he bought it,” he said.

  That evening the camp cook went back to his saucepans. The members were unusually quiet as we gathered in the kitchen for drinks. All eyes were on Spoony as he began preparing dinner. But Spoony was quiet too. He tiptoed around the room as if he might be afraid of spoiling his return to the fraternity of the club. But then the Deacon began ribbing one of the newer members about not making a shot all morning. I glanced over at Spoony. He was grinning appreciatively. Soon the level of noise and laughter rose as the men relaxed into a familiar old pattern. Someone had contributed some Georgia quail to the larder, and Spoony rubbed them with rosemary and garlic and flambéed them in cognac. There were also steamed asparagus and garlic grits. When dinner was put on the table, we all went at it like starving jackals— all except for Pinky, who pretended only to pick at his plate. But when Spoony’s back was turned, he wolfed down huge mouthfuls. After a dessert of rice pudding with bourbon sauce, we pushed back our chairs. Beagle lit a cigar. The conversation turned, as usual, to weather and waterfowl. Finally, someone broke the spell.

  “Well, those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”

  The camp cook immediately stood up and started toward the door. But when he reached it, he stopped. Then, as if he had just at that moment remembered his apron, he turned, facing the men seated at the long table, and began fidgeting with the apron strings. Beagle saw him first.

  “Absolutely wonderful dinner, Spoon!” he called out, leaning back in his chair.

  “Oh, you don’t mean that,” the camp cook said, blushing with pleasure.“Do you?”

  Bob McDill

  Bob McDill is a retired songwriter and music publisher. During his long career he wrote thirty-one number-one songs, as well as songs for movies and television. His movie credits include The Thing Called Love and Primary Colors. He was elected to the Nashville Songwriters Association Hall of Fame in 1985 and is the only Nashville songwriter ever to be voted Writer of the Year by both Broadcast Music Inc. and the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.

  He has lectured on music and Southern culture at the University of South Carolina and at Lamar University and was prominently featured in Nobel laureate Sir V. S. Naipaul’s book A Turn in the South. He now works as a freelance magazine writer and has written articles and stories for several national publications.

  Bob is a member of the Coffee House Club, a Nashville men’s club that began in 1909. He sits on the William G. Hall Scholarship committee at Belmont University. He assisted in fund-raising for Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital in 1985 and 1988. He is a past member of the Nashville Board of Governors of NARAS as well as a former member of the ASCAP advisory board and a supporter of Nashville Opera and Tennessee Repertory Theater. He was named a distinguished alumnus of Lamar University in 1989. His biography appears in the 1991–1992 editions of Who’s Who in the South and Southwest and Who’s Who in the World.

  A Big Batch of Biscuits

  John Bohlinger

  When social services contacted her about the food drive, Martha dreaded the ordeal. She had to meet her caseworker once a month and that was bad enough. She hated sitting, or sometimes standing, in that crowded waiting room with all those angry women, vacuously staring at the snowy, deafening TV in the corner while their dirty children tore through the old magazines on those filthy tables, or picked up the worn blocks in the play center and lifted them with sticky, fat fingers into their drooling mouths. Martha always felt too depressed to be horrified. How did she get here? She was nouveau poor, completely unprepared for this unexpected chapter in her life. She’d spent her youth learning about art and culture. She could speak some French, scan poems, and identify the artwork of masters, but now dealing with food stamps, Medicaid, and Section Eight housing seems wildly complicated. Yet here she sits, surrounded by uneducated teenage mothers who are amazingly adroit at working through this complex labyrinth of red tape.

  She hates the other women here. Martha always brings a book to SS so she can avoid eye contact or, worse, a conversation with the other mothers. She never chooses easy books, either. Today she’s reading Paradise Lost, which seems like a perfect choice not only because of the obvious irony, but it’s a collegiate read that will show the staff, other mothers, and herself that, although she is down on her luck, she is not one of them. She is normal; a former soccer mom.

  Martha thinks about the soccer moms at her kids’ school in their new SUVs, with perfect figures and blond helmet hair. She imagines them reading about the food drive in the school flyers, walking through their enormous, clean kitchens to their well-stocked walk-in cupboards and loading cans of solid white albacore tuna, mushrooms, fruit, snow peas, and bottles of olive oil into the food-drive bags. Maybe there will be a can of baby corn, water chestnuts, cashews, and a box of rice with which Martha could improvise a nice stir-fry for the kids. It wouldn’t be quite like she used to make, but it would have to do until next month’s food stamps come through.

  The desk calls out names and women trudge to the front to collect their food. They grab their two allotted bags without a word of thanks, yell for their kids, and leave angry. Although Martha has seen this behavior often over the past months, the rudeness still shocks her.

  “SPALDING, MARTHA!”

  “Yes.” Martha sounds overly cheerful. She wants to set an example for the others, but that might have been a little too sugary.

  “Sign here.”

  “Here . . . okay. Thank you very, very much. Have a great day.”

  “You’re welcome, honey. SPEARS, JANELL!”

  Martha hoists her two bags of groceries up on her hips and heads toward the door. They’re pretty heavy— that’s good, she thinks as she shoulders the door open.

  Outside she sees bags of flour and cornmeal littering the sidewalk.“Unbelievable,” Martha says to herself.“Not only are these people ungrateful, they’re stupid. They’re too lazy to carry this perfectly good food home. No wonder they’re poor. Rich people don’t waste food like this.” She’s tempted to pick up some of the food and sneak it to her car, but there are some other women standing there and Martha is too embarrassed. She rests the bags on the hood of her Corolla, unlocks the door, and places the bags on the floor in back where they won’t fall over. Martha slides behind the wheel, fires up her car, and begins driving home. For the first few blocks she passes a slow, dotted line of mothers and children from SS. Children walk precariously close to the busy street carrying cans of food while their mothers, balancing bags and babies, languidly march until they eventually disappear into the maze of projects. Martha thanks God that she still has a car. These food-drive bags are heavy.

  While Martha drives home she thinks about what she will cook. She imagines the kids coming home to their little apartment and she greets them with some fresh biscuits. Maybe even with a little honey butter. Martha remembers how her ex used to love her biscuits. She pictures their old home, which now seems palatial compared to her current Section Eight apartment. The fifteen-minute
drive goes quickly when lost in a daydream of her former life. It really was a dream, and at times a nightmare. David was getting worse and she knew she might not be as lucky next time.

  As she unlocks her front door, Martha thinks about her Calphalon copperware and wonders where it is now. When you’re fleeing for your life, you just don’t think about pots and pans. She had to get the essentials packed for her and the kids, pick them up from school, and get out of town before David got off work. She was so worried that he might stop home for some reason, although he never had in the past. The truth is, he hadn’t even called from work for the past year. Martha now wishes she had taken the time to pack just one good frying pan and a cookie sheet, but that’s the thing about running for your life: everything but survival seems petty.

  The daydream spell breaks as Martha begins to unload her treasured groceries. Five cans of Kroger creamed corn, three cans of Kroger string beans, a forty-ounce can of spaghetti sauce, a five-pound sack of flour, a jar of grape jelly, a can of Morton salt. If she can borrow some vegetable oil and baking powder from her neighbor— they’ve spoken a little bit in passing and she does seem nice— this might be a good icebreaker. What was her name? Patty? Peggy? Doesn’t matter— she’ll borrow a cookie sheet, just a bit of vegetable oil, or margarine, or maybe butter if she’s lucky. Plus she’ll need baking powder if Peggy/Patty has it. She’ll make a big batch of nice hot biscuits and give some to the neighbor to pay her back. That might start a nice friendship; her first friend in her new life.

  As Martha opens the flour sack, she’s confronted with mealworms writhing in the sudden light. Martha jumps back, dropping the sack, and watches in horror as the bugs twist in the spilled flour on the stained kitchen counter. When the kids get home two hours later, Martha is still sitting on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. She wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, smiles, and says brightly,

  “Hi, kids, how was your day?”

  John Bohlinger

  A native Montanan and a Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Columbia University, John Bohlinger has worked as:

  a teacher/counselor in an orphanage in Honduras,

  an Alaskan cannery fish slimer,

  a pawnbroker,

  a part-time faculty member of Eastern Montana College, teaching freshman composition and deliberative writing,

  a dishwasher,

  a tree surgeon,

  a roofer,

  a waiter,

  a Ph.D. candidate in psychology,

  a census taker for the year 2000,

  a bread-truck diver,

  a carpenter,

  a songwriter,

  a musician,

  and (please forgive him) a telemarketer.

  Since 2002, John has been the band leader for the USA/NBC Network’s hit program Nashville Star. He tours nearly continuously, playing mandolin, pedal steel, and guitar for dozens of major label artists.

  John’s music compositions can be heard in several major motion pictures, on major label albums, and in over one hundred television spots. Mr. Bohlinger may be the only person currently working in television today who cuts his own hair. He and his life partner, Budzo the mixed-breed mutt, reside in Nashville.

  His latest album, Djongo Solo, is available from Farm2Market Records.

  Shiny, Like New

  Dony Wynn

  In the strange and cockeyed heart of central Louisiana is a town that is situated just north of swamps and cypress and directly south of rolling hills and pines: Alexandria. Here in this tiny blip on the map— a devoid, listless no-man’s land—two car salesmen are standing on the showroom floor of Alexandria Lincoln Mercury, admiring a brand-new 1972 Lincoln Mark IV, aqua with white leather trim, oohing and aahing over the new aerodynamic design but grumbling about the $8,400 price tag, remarking that “no one will pay this much for a car! It will never sell!”

  During the salesmen’s customary morning discourse, a caffeine-addled dismantle and harangue of the world at large, an old black man walks through the front showroom door clothed in dirty, tattered bib overalls, a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and construction boots caked with dried red clay.

  Bud, one of the salesmen, wears nothing but a tight-lipped smile and a gaudy assortment of polyester plaids. He’s color-blind and has never told anyone; everyone just assumes he exercises bad taste. It’s only a quarter of ten and Bud’s already polished off a pint of Old Grand Dad. Averting his gaze from the old black man to give full concentration to the tops of his plastic brogans, Bud belches softly and swallows some acid backwash.

  Jim is the other salesman. Lizard lipped, divorced three times, and not presently dating through any choice of his own, he chain-smokes unfiltered Viceroys that accentuate perpetual halitosis while gobs of dandruff litter the drooping shoulders of his maroon leisure suit. Blood pressure averages 190/110. A cigarette dangles from clenched yellowed teeth, blue lips pulled back in a permanent grimace. His eyes, reptilian slits, caustically watch the old black man hobble past on bowed legs.

  A bogue, a squirrel, for sure, Bud and Jim both concur, giving each other the all-knowing smirk. Figuring it to be a waste of their invaluable time, they continue to ignore the old black man and harrumph! and pshaw! and ffeu! It will never sell!

  Don, the newest salesman on the force, leaps up from his desk— a little too enthusiastically— introduces himself, and vigorously shakes a thick ham hock of a hand. Recently engaged, he’s buried with high-interest loans from both a furniture and a jewelry store to prepare for his fiancée crossing his threshold till death they do part. His family assured him it was a step in the right direction. He feels the heat.

  “Mah wife never axe for nothin’— no new dress, no popcorn or candy at the movin’ pichures, no fur or jewry stones,” the old black man says matter-of-factly.“Just some monries to put in the offerin’ plate at Sunday meetin’.” He stops and stands beside by the Mark IV.“But we pass by here the other day and she said she sho’ nuff liked this here shiny new automobile.” Old black man bends down and squints, examining the price tag taped inside the driver-door glass. Squeezing two fingers into his uppermost pocket, he says, “Manage to squirrel ’way somes after I sold mah fahm to Missir Charlie White, that developin’ man.”

  Bud and Jim watch in stunned silence as the old black man pulls wads of crumpled one-hundred-dollar bills out of every conceivable pocket in the overalls and places them in Don’s outstretched hands.

  “I wants to buy this here cah for mah wife. I loves to see her smile.”

  The old black man has the car delivered to his house that afternoon. His wife is afraid.“I don’t even have no license!” she argues. Won’t even sit in it. Instead she yelps and claps her hands and hugs her husband more times than he can count. She runs in circles until she is dizzy, but the aqua 1972 Lincoln Mark IV with white leather interior stays in the carport, odometer stuck on twenty-three.

  Old black man washes and polishes the car every now and then, tinkers with the plugs, runs the engine to keep the oil circulated, keeps the air pressure in the tires a constant.“You never knows,” he’ll say.“You might jump up ’n’ drive this cah right on outta here one day. Yessah, drives it all the way to Timbuktoo.” Meanwhile, his wife, tittering and twaddling all the while, sits in it, pretending to drive; fussing with the car’s quadraphonic radio, clicking the blinker, tilting the driver’s seat every which a way, making the tinted moon-roof glide back and forth, squealing with delight when it glides back and lets the midday sunshine flood in. Pops open the trunk with the magic button in the glove box. Inspects her flawless caramel skin in the visor’s lit vanity mirror, her face framed by soft, golden halos. Looking every bit a stranger, she is quiet, observing features in the mirror’s glow that are foreign to her. She touches her fingers to her cheeks to see if it is indeed her that is staring back. She is combustible. Eat up.

  The old black man rubs the chromed front grille in bemused silence, enjoying his wife’s antics to the bone.

  When leaves
fall and trees stand naked, resolute, and gnarled, lizard-lipped Jim suffers a fatal stroke. Two very drunk drinking buddies and his third ex-wife are the only ones to show up for the funeral. The mortician used red lipstick to infuse some life into his flattened blue lips. There is no will, which has infuriated the third ex-wife, who curses him aloud at the service. There is no headstone at the gravesite. More leaves fall and the wind blows a little harder, a little colder, laying bare all that is left in its wake.

  After traveling from one used-car lot to another, each one worse than the last, Bud still favors plaid, polyester clothes. Cheaper ones now. Is up to a fifth of any inexpensive bourbon a day. He is not frugal, just broke. One afternoon, on his lunch break, he comes home to his empty trailer on the outskirts of town, pours himself a triple shot of Drano. Keeps him in ICU for two months; his throat and parts of his stomach burned away. No one appears to care. He never has so much as a visitor from the outside world. Kate, his only daughter— divorced and living in Indio, California— sends him flowers, but never calls. Only one nun from St. Francis Cabrini comes by— just once— and finds every excuse thereafter to keep from having to do it again, feeling her faith ` black-hole dread; the nun’s faith is later brought into question, causing her eventually to leave the diocese confused. The used-car lot where he works goes belly-up while he’s recovering from his fourth surgery to rebuild his esophagus. His thoughts aren’t on I ain’t in the mood for no jickey jack, you hear! What’s your bargain basement price? Your absolute bottomest dollar?

  The Earth continues to twirl and spin and the 1972 Lincoln Mark IV, still shiny, like new, sits immobile in the garage, twenty-three miles on the odometer. A charcoal northern wind coaxes thunderheads over the Red River, into town, swallowing the last shafts of sunflower and puce emanating from an evaporating sun.

  Arm in arm, the old black man and his wife stroll along the central hallway of the Greater Alexandria Mall. Stopping to admire the glamorous window displays of Weiss and Goldring Department Store, she gazes longingly at a nondescript, beaded, black purse. Noticing the price tag, she gasps. The price is Mo’ money than some peoples makes in a month! Tugging on his arm to whisk him away, she whispers in his ear, “That there puss is the mos’ beautimous thing I ever seen— an’ the mos’ ridikulus.”