A Guitar and a Pen

by Robert Hicks

  3:05 P.M.: The door to Jesus Jones lurched open. There in the doorway, blocking almost every bit of late-afternoon Nashville light, stood, somewhat tentatively, J. C. Doubletree. All five foot seven, three hundred and thirteen pounds of him. One of Nashville’s legendary songwriters. Just ask him.

  “OWEN-BY-GOD-LOVE!!!!!!! Szat you? Shit! I been missin’ you! Hey! Esther! Whut color panties you wearin’? Never mind. I’ll find out later. I think I’d like two cheeseburgers, double fries, and a pitcher of Bud. Just a little somethin’ to hold me over till Mama puts dinner on the table. Hey man! You hear ’bout them finding a box with Jesus’ brother’s bones in it? Jesus’ brother!? That’s like bein’ Frank Sinatra Jr. on steroids! Haw haw haw haw!”

  Owen had grown used to the “Doubletree entrance.”

  “Hey, Tree. What up? You look a little crispy.”

  “Man! You ain’t agonna believe this shit. Hey Esther, ya better gimme a bowl a chili while I wait.”

  “You need to slow down, J.C. You’re sweatin’ right through your overalls.”

  “Too much fun, my brutha, too much fun. Me ’n’ Bumpus was writin’ yesterday and we couldn’t come up with shit so we decided to take a li’l break. Man! I ain’t even been home yet. Momma’s gonna have my ass! Anyway, me and Bumpus got higher than Hitler’s gas bill, I tell ya! HAW HAW HAW!!!!!!!!!!!”

  J.C. absentmindedly started pulling fries off of Owen’s plate. When he reached for the last two bites of Owen’s burger, Owen very deftly rapped J.C.’s kielbasa fingers with the back of his knife. J.C. hardly reacted. He just started ladling steaming hot chili into his still-conversing mouth. Owen was in awe of the way J. C. Doubletree could consume just about anything. Owen recalled coming off of the Garrisons third farewell tour a few years ago. He had spent the good part of an afternoon observing a pair of hummingbirds at his window feeder. There they were, floating in air at the little plastic-flower feeding tube, relentlessly sucking down prodigious amounts of sugar water. What had amazed Owen the most at the time was the fact that these teeny little hummingbirds were shitting while they were eating. Shitting and eating. Eating and shitting. Simultaneously. Owen thought if he were Hindu he might suspect these were rajahs reincarnated as hummingbirds to set their gluttonous cosmic balance sheet straight. By this time J.C. was into his second cheeseburger, tearing off Herculean bites. Oblivious to the fact that a righteous river of ketchupmustardmayonaisehotsauce was starting to well up in the folds of his overalls bib.

  “By the way, Tree, congrats on your latest number one.”

  “Love, I amaze myself sometimes. I really do. Course it’s my first hit in about three years, but lemme tell you, my brutha, my goal is to die unrecouped. HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  Suddenly J. C. Doubletree started coughing and hacking uncontrollably. Bits of cheeseburger went sailing through the air. The empty Bud pitcher was knocked over and landed with an unbreakable-glass thud. Owen started beating J.C. on his round blubberized back.

  “Whoa back there, J.C.! Yer gonna have a stroke right here! Chill out. Here. Esther brought you some water. Drink some.”

  “Water! Fish fuck in water!”—gurgle . . . cough . . . cough—“Gimme a beer!”

  As quick as J.C. was seized by choking, it was over.

  “Well, gotta go. Momma’s havin’ pork chops for dinner. I got to go to my AA meeting tonight. Makes Momma proud. Guess I’ll be pickin’ me up another one of them white chips again. I swear, I got enough of them to have me a poker game. HAW HAW HAW! I’ll check out yer panties later, Esther. By the way, how you doin’, Owen?”

  “Well Tree, I’ll tell ya. Not so goo—”

  “Well, got to go. I believe I might get me some pussy tonight. I haven’t seen my dick in three days. HAW HAW HAW . . . Hey! Them are the best cheeseburgers on the planet! I believe I’m gonna write a song about ’em.‘Cheeseburger Boogie!’ HAW HAW HAW HAW!”

  And with that, J. C. Doubletree was gone.

  Owen used to court Katie with cheeseburgers from Jesus Jones. It was better than flowers as far as Hack was concerned. Katie had acquired the name Hack from the deeply prodigious cough produced by her frequent asthma attacks. Katie always came home depressed after a visit to her asthma specialist, but a Jesus Jones cheeseburger could raise her spirits. For a while anyway. The doctor said Katie’s asthma was quite dangerous and needed constant monitoring. The problem was Katie hated doctors. Ever since third grade and Dr. Kaufman, Katie hated doctors. Owen had just gotten his first cell phone. He had stopped going out much, but sometimes he just had to get out to breathe living air. Somehow the kind of amp he would be using on the next tour didn’t seem to matter as much as before. The cell phone was big and clunky, but when he went out he wanted to make sure Katie could always reach him. They had a game they would play when Katie was feeling good.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey hotshot.”

  “You okay, Hack?”

  “Awesome, fabulous”—cough—“never better. Baby needs something.”

  “What does baby need?”

  “She needs it hot. She needs it now.”

  “You want fries with that?”

  “No. Just the burger. Extra mustard. Hurry.”

  “Yeah? Well if you kick off before I get there, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Ya know, if you ever get tired of playing music, you have a huge future in comedy.”

  “Mocking me, eh? Somebody’s feeling better.”

  “Hurry up, hotshot.”

  Owen was so very angry at Hack for dying. He could barely forgive her. So unnecessary. So very fucking unnecessary. There she was. On the floor in the kitchen of their rented home in Sylvan Park. Lying there like some giant child’s discarded Barbie doll. A look of surprise on her still-open gray-green eyes. No soul left but still the reflection of another’s. A mango-colored rescue inhaler under the kitchen table. The telephone receiver lying close by.

  After the funeral they all gathered at Jesus Jones. Katie’s parents even came. J. C. Doubletree and his plump bank-teller wife, Carol Ann, were there, and all the girls from Katie’s Pilates class, Katie’s gay brother Jeremy, and another half-dozen close friends. Nikki had even threatened to come. She said she had written a song for the occasion and she wanted to premiere it at this event. J.C. had somehow convinced Nikki that a larger venue would be more respectful of her work. Once Nikki agreed, she had suddenly begged off paying her respects to Owen and showing up altogether.

  Owen had ordered a cheeseburger but never took a bite. It was like he had gone deaf. Like cotton had been stuffed in his ears. And his heart. People came up to him to say their regrets and he responded, but it was automatic. He was under water. It felt like the time he and Katie had gone diving in Bonaire. Her asthma prevented her from diving, but not Owen. He’d been down a little too long and had gotten narced. He had felt queasy, a little dizzy, disoriented, and somewhat stoned. That’s how Owen felt that day at Jesus Jones. Sitting there wearing his best black Manuel suit, staring at his cheeseburger and talking under water. It would be two years before he could cry. Today was the day.

  J.C. had been gone about ten minutes. Owen felt it coming. Like a rainstorm in the distance. Heavy weather approaching. He could feel it in his face. An ache. A bitter taste in his mouth like some kind of metal. First an odd sort of smile and an odd laugh. Then came the tears. Big, round, salty tears. They rolled down his face and soaked his T-shirt. He did not try to hide them or wipe them away.“You Can’t Stop the Rain.” One of J.C.’s songs. Well, the fat fuck was right, Owen thought as he let two years’ worth of sadness, loneliness, and regret out into the world. Regret that reached beyond Katie’s casket; beyond all the missed opportunities, the blame, the resentments, Rachel/Nikki, that lost twenty-six-year-old guitar player with a big future ahead of him. The shit. All of it. Owen sat there staring it all down. Tasting it. Finally feeling it.“So let it in and let it out,” like the Beatles had said. And it felt good. Right there in Jesus Jo
nes. It felt good.

  Esther, being the consummate professional bar maid that she was, knew there were times you let your patrons alone and times when you didn’t.

  “You okay, Owen?”

  “Ah . . . yes and no. Kinda sorta. Yes and no. Mostly yes, I guess.”

  “J.C. step on your toe?”

  “Naw.”

  Esther wiped her small hands on the greasy bar towel as she regarded Owen Love.“Life’s a bitch and then ya die.”

  “Oobla Dee Oobla Da.”

  “Some days you eat the bear and some days the bear eats you.”

  “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

  “Oh shit, Owen. I never met anyone that can speak in song titles like you.”

  “Well, it could be worse. I could be a mime with Tourette’s.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Even I don’t know what that means.”

  “Well then, is there anything I can do for ya, darlin’?”

  Owen looked into Esther’s thousand-year-old eyes. He glanced around the elegantly wasted interior of Jesus Jones. A four-second eternity passed. Then he turned back to Esther, heaved a big sigh, and said,

  “Yeah. Put some money in the jukebox and gimme a CHEESEBURGER.”

  Bob DiPiero

  Originally hailing from Ohio, Bob DiPiero graduated from Youngstown State University’s Dana School of Music before uprooting for Music City on Halloween night over twenty years ago. After sharpening his songwriting skills, he acquired a writer’s deal with Atlantic Records.

  His early writing credits include Reba McEntire’s “I Can See Forever in Your Eyes” and the Oak Ridge Boys’ “American Made,” which received numerous awards and was used in major ad campaigns.

  A two-time recipient of CMA’s Triple Play Award, DiPiero has gone on to craft over thirteen number-one hits recorded by country music legends including Vince Gill, Reba McEntire, Shenandoah, George Strait, Jo Dee Messina, Martina McBride, and Faith Hill. In 2000, he was named Songwriter of the Year by Sony/ATV, Nashville.

  In 1987, DiPiero established Little Big Town Music Group with Woody Bomar and Kerry O’Neil, and created American Made Music as a copublishing company. And in 1998, he founded Love Monkey Music through Sony/ATV Tree Publishing Company.

  As a performer, Bob DiPiero toured with Garth Brooks, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Hank Williams as part of the group Billy Hill, best known for the hit single, “Too Much Month at the End of the Money” and a rendition of the Temptations hit “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” In recent days, DiPiero has entertained Music City locals at Nashville’s infamous Bluebird Cafe. Live renditions of several DiPiero performances and unforgettable stories from the Bluebird are featured on his album Laugh. You can visit his Web site at www.bobdipiero.com.

  A Burning Bush Will Do

  Marshall Chapman

  The night Ellie Greenway broke up with her boyfriend she took a chainsaw to her queen-size four-poster bed. The bed was an antique that had been in her family for generations. The chain saw belonged to Bob, a graphic designer who lived down the hall. A part of her knew there’d be hell to pay if any of the members of her family ever found out about what she had done, but she was too upset to care. Besides, it felt too good. That chain saw moved through those mahogany posts like a hot knife through butter. One, two, three, four—and then the whole canopy came crashing down on her mattress.

  Bob had heard them fighting that night, and when everything had quieted down it seemed like no time at all before Ellie was standing there knocking at his door. He knew it was Ellie because he knew her knocks. She had different knocks for different things. It was well past midnight and he knew that this knock meant business.

  “I need your chainsaw,” she said.

  Bob was taken aback. He’d known Ellie for two years now and he thought he had learned always to expect the unexpected from her, but this was new. She had never asked to borrow his chainsaw before.

  “Alex and I had a fight,” she added as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

  Bob had never liked Alex. He thought Alex was an untrustworthy egotistical bore and couldn’t for the life of him understand Ellie’s attraction. He secretly hoped that she had killed Alex during their argument and now she needed his chainsaw to cut Alex’s body down to manageable sizes for flushing down the toilet. That would serve him right. What an asshole! These thoughts were running through Bob’s head as he moved across his living room to the chainsaw in the closet. He lifted it out of there and handed it over to Ellie.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Bob stood there in a daze as he watched her walk out the door. She was halfway back down the hall before he could think to ask her if she needed any help.

  “Hey! Do you need any help?” He felt stupid the minute he said it.

  “I’ll manage,” she said, and Bob knew that she would.

  The chainsaw had made so much noise that Ellie thought she might get arrested or at least evicted for disturbing the peace, but neither of these things happened. What happened was nothing, and that’s what made her crazy. She was standing there all alone in the most silent silence she had ever known. Without the chainsaw she began to hear herself think, and that was the last thing in the world she wanted to hear: Now what are you going to do? Where’s Alex? Is he okay? You don’t care so why are you asking? Oh my God would you look at this mess! And your bed? Why, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will never get that bed back like it was. For a minute the dialogue stopped and there was only a strange noise. Ellie thought it might be the sound of her own heart breaking and that’s when she knew she had to get the hell out of there. She needed noise and she needed speed, so she decided to kill two birds with one 1968 Pontiac Catalina. She decided she was going for a ride.

  As soon as she was out on the interstate, Ellie reached for the radio, punching in the local college station on the far left-hand side of the dial. Gram Parsons was singing with raw emotional power:

  In my hour of darkness

  In my time of need

  Oh Lord grant me vision

  Oh Lord grant me speed

  With that, she cranked up the volume as loud as it would go, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands—elbows straight—so that the vibrations of the road moved through her body like a jackhammer, shaking her down until she and the car became one moving mass of gasoline and adrenaline. Ellie pressed on harder and harder, wondering just how fast the old car would go before it blew up or something. She was about to break her old speed record of ninety-five miles an hour—a record that had been established the summer she was fourteen years old. She and Lucy Dow and Monte Pringle had taken her grandmother Danny’s brand-new 1963 Cadillac up to Ocean Drive Beach for the afternoon. Danny had gone out to play bridge with some friends and wasn’t due back until six o’clock that evening.

  For as long as Ellie could remember, everybody had called her grandmother Danny. That was her nickname. Her real name, they joked, was Dangerous. Danny was always having wrecks on account of her poor eyesight and vodka consumption. The South Carolina State Highway Department had tried taking her driver’s license away, but she had given them so much hell that they finally gave up and left her alone. So every year she had to buy at least one new Cadillac, and every year it was the same color. Black. Danny always said there were three things in this world that should always be black: your Bible, your phone, and your Cadillac.

  Meanwhile, Ellie could barely see over the steering wheel and her toes barely reached the accelerator as she, Lucy Dow, and Monte Pringle went careening down the King’s Highway like a bat out of hell, trying to make it back to Pawleys Island in time for Danny’s return from her bridge game. Ellie had made a choice that afternoon. Do I break the law and risk my own life and the lives of my two best friends? Or do I suffer the wrath of Danny? The answer was easy. She knew instinctively from years of good breeding that it was okay to risk your life to save face. They had mad
e it. They had not been caught, and the excitement of the drive kept her up half the night listening to the ocean out beyond the sand dunes.

  The memory of that summer got Ellie to thinking about how much simpler life was back then. Back before boys. It was the summer the Angels sang “My boyfriend’s back and there’s gonna be trouble, hey-la, hey-la . . .” Ellie thought about all the boyfriends in her life and how much trouble they had been. Not trouble for other people on her behalf, but trouble for her. Boyfriends had always been her trouble.

  Now she glanced down at the lit-up speedometer where the needle was vibrating at 105 miles an hour. Ellie acknowledged this new speed record by pressing down on the horn and holding it. Then she began to scream at the top of her lungs. The radio was already going full blast, so you can imagine how it was. That ’68 Pontiac should have blown up, but there was a delicate balance at play here between the wind pressure outside and noise pressure inside that actually held the car together. Later on, Ellie would come to realize that sometimes it takes a little noise and speed just to keep life from caving in on you. Life could crush you down to nothing in a second if you let it.

  THEN ELLIE saw something that made her stop screaming, let go of the horn, and take her foot up off the accelerator, all at the same time. What looked like a sea of flashing blue lights was waiting about a mile up ahead on the interstate. And in the rearview mirror, there were more blue lights coming up behind. Then a funny thing happened. Ellie took in a long, deep breath and let it out real slow. A relaxed resignation settled down on her and she was not afraid. In fact, she had never felt more calm. She didn’t even touch the brakes. She decided to let the Catalina just wind on down to a stop on its own. They were still winding down to the tune of about eighty miles an hour as they blew right past the flashing blue lights that’d been up ahead only seconds before. Meanwhile, the blue lights in the rearview mirror had caught up and now a patrol car was breathing down her tailpipe. Ellie turned off the radio. Then she heard a voice that sounded like it was coming through a loudspeaker.“Pull over,” it said.“Pull your car over to the right. We repeat . . .” Ellie decided it was time to apply the brakes. She then eased the Catalina off the interstate and brought it to a complete stop.