Waylon

by Waylon Jennings

  Sometimes the endings weren’t as happy. Over the holiday week that Jessi first came to Phoenix to visit me, we were playing at J.D.’s. It was traditional for us to celebrate our homecoming right before or after Christmas, and we had just finished our show for the night. The place had cleared, it was about one-thirty, and I was getting ready to head for the front door.

  “Chief!” yelled Jimmy Gray, who played bass for me at the time. “Don’t come out here. There’s a man with a gun!”

  I had my black limousine parked by the entrance. Ben Dorsey was driving it. Ben Dorsey. I couldn’t leave the band. Sure enough, a man was standing there waving a pistol, and he poked it toward me.

  I thought I could talk to him. He wasn’t listening. He told me to get Ben out of the car. Ben just sat behind the wheel, frozen. He had all the doors locked and wouldn’t let anybody in. The guy pointed his gun at my head. “You tell him to open the door or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  I said, “Ben, maybe you might open the door.” Ben didn’t move. “Ben, get your ass out of there!” He moved even less.

  Finally the guy waved us back into the bar. I’d seen him hanging around after the show, over in the corner, in an area where people usually didn’t sit. J.D.’s served food there during the weekend afterhours, but this was midweek and it was closed. We walked all the way back to the stage area. It seemed like we covered miles. One time I started turning around and he pushed me a little bit. I could feel my anger rising. “Wait a minute,” I said, and he aimed the gun toward me. I thought, that ain’t gonna work.

  When I get in a panic situation, time slows down for me. I can get scared as bad as anybody in certain situations, but I’ve always been able to calm down and try to figure a way out. We turned toward the dressing room. It was constructed of nothing more than Sheetrock; you could put your hand through it, a door in the drywall, and that was it. I stared at the guy with the gun. He looked high, and scared, and that made us even more frightened.

  “What the hell do you want?” I asked him.

  “I want your money” was his reply.

  “I haven’t got any money.”

  “You mean you’re going to die for nothing?” he said. That’s when I knew that if somebody made a wrong move, this sonofabitch would kill them.

  I smiled at him. I didn’t even mean it; I couldn’t think of anything else to do. He regarded me quizzically, confused, uncertain, and lowered the gun. As he did, I spun into the dressing room, slamming and throwing the bolt shut on the door. He didn’t know what was in the room, or that he could just pop up against the wall and bust it down.

  “Your ass is mud now,” I hollered over the partition. “I’m going out the side door here and get the cops. They’re going to be all over this place in two minutes.” Of course, there was no side door. I was trapped.

  The guy grabbed Jimmy Gray, throwing him to the floor and holding the gun to his head. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could tell Jimmy’s voice wasn’t normal. “Chief…” he called.

  “Is that you, Jimmy?”

  “Uh, yeah…Chief, you can come out now. He’s gone.”

  Jimmy Gray’s brother, Paul, had been killed in Atlanta about six months before. He had been slated to come out on the road with us and had been shot after a party. “Jimmy, it looks like it’s going to wind up like your little brother, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he choked back.”It’s all right. Open the door!” Which told me the guy was still out there, telling Jimmy what to say.

  “I know you haven’t left, you bastard. I gave you a chance. Now I’m leaving.” I slammed the couch down like I was shutting a door. He fired at the dressing room. The bullet went through the wall.

  In the meantime, Richie had left early with a girl. He had stopped to get something to eat, and found the keys to the band’s station wagon in his pocket, so he headed back to the club. He saw the limousine in the front of the club, with Ben locked inside, not moving, and didn’t think anything of it. Ben was like a statue. All he was missing was the pigeon shit.

  Richie walked into the bar. The door was open. An old man was over in the corner downstairs, mopping. Upstairs, the long bar stretched along the right. He saw a cluster of people down at the other end. Richie had just smoked a “doobie,” and his heart started pounding when he saw the guy with the gun.

  He ducked down behind the bar and slithered along its length. He ran into James D. Jr., holding a pistol, crouched behind the Lone Star tap. When he got to the other end, he looked around the corner and saw Jimmy lying on the floor, with the gun to his head. Their eyes met. Jimmy looked terrified. Richie pulled back in disbelief.

  While I distracted him slamming the door, Richie ran for the exit. The guy saw him and took off after him. We all piled out. I grabbed James Jr.’s gun and fired a shot at the top of the door. There were sirens in the distance. James Jr. slammed the front door, locking him outside. The guy raced back and forth, caged, and then took off for the rear fence. Cops spilled out of their cars. There was gunfire, and he fell, sprawled in the parking lot, paralyzed. Later, they searched his car and found a pair of baby shoes in the back. That hurt me worse than if he’d shot me.

  Ben got out of the car when the newspapers started coming around. I was standing there, trying to get my composure back and figure out what had happened, and Ben comes over. “Tell ’em, Chief, tell ’em.”

  “Tell ’em what?”

  “Tell ’em how I jumped in front of you and saved your life.” He turned to the reporters. “I did. The guy was fixin’ to shoot him, and I was going to take the bullet.”

  Ben is The Road, and everybody who’s ever “road” a highway has a Ben Dorsey story. He worked for me then. He works for Willie now. Sometimes people come up to Ben and think he’s Willie and take pictures of him. They don’t know it, but they’ve gotten a souvenir snapshot of one of the most exasperating and lovable characters who ever wore a backstage pass.

  He’s what used to be called a band boy. A valet and driver. Over the years, Ben brushed the clothes and steered the wheel for the likes of Hank Thompson, Faron Young, Ray Price, Denver Pyle, and even John Wayne. He’d learned the tricks of the trade, and if you were hungry at four in the morning, Ben could go out in the quietest town and bring you back a six-course chicken dinner. Whenever we thought something was impossible, we’d think, “Well, Ben Dorsey could’ve done it!”

  That didn’t mean you didn’t have to watch him all the time. He was a little squirrely, with a million excuses on why he wasn’t where he should be when, and talking these tall tales driving down the freeway eighty miles an hour. I’d tell him to watch the road, and he’d say, “I am watching the road—through the rearview mirror!”

  Once, in Vegas, these two women took a fancy to Ben. We were playing at the Nugget, and he walked in, one on each arm, though it looked like they were holding him up. He was even skinnier than usual. I told him if they ran him any more ragged, he’d be nothin’ but head and ass. “You know what, Chief,” he said. “They’ve got me down in that motel room, and all they let me have is buttermilk and oysters.”

  Good Doctor Ben Dorsey, he called himself. He’d follow me around, eleven steps behind. Once I stopped short and he ran right into me. He was great to wind up. When Willie’s wife threw the ashtray at the Wagon Wheel and hit Ben, Faron Young came over and told him he was going to call a lawyer. “We’re going to get you a lot of money,” he said.

  Ben, with a bandage on his head, goes to Faron’s office the next day. He sits there while Faron’s lawyer makes a phone call. “Mr. Dorsey will settle for nothing less than a million dollars. This man will never be the same.”

  Ben sat in eager anticipation. The lawyer shouted into the phone. “What do you mean? He’s wounded and hurt. We will not take nine hundred thousand dollars!” He slammed the receiver into the cradle.

  Ben was shocked. “You should’a took it. You should’a took it!”

  The next day the lawyer called again.
“We’ve considered your nine-hundred-thousand-dollar offer and … you’re not going to give that much? Five hundred thousand dollars?” Ben is flinging his arms about, shaking his head.

  “Take it, goddammit!” He’s screaming.

  The lawyer says no. “Mr. Dorsey is not used to being treated this way. We’d rather sue.” Ben slumped in the chair.

  The offer was down to ten thousand dollars after a couple of days. Ben was in turmoil. The phone call is made. “You’re offering us nothing!” Ben hears. “And you’re going to sue us?” Ben buried his face in his hands, going “Oh, no, no, no …”

  I see him these days whenever Willie and I tour together. And sometimes, during the course of the evening, whenever Ben starts helping out too much, introducing me to his wife, Mary, for the fourth time, or handing me a sheaf of business cards that people have slipped to him for some scheme or another, I’ll shoot Willie a glance. “Ben?” he’ll say.

  “Ben,” I’ll say. And that’s all we need to say.

  It’s a lot quieter for me on the road these days. It wasn’t always that way. I’d never trade a moment of the memories I’ve stored up, but I wouldn’t want to go back and live it again. Hell, I was lucky enough to live through it the first time around.

  I’ve had my share of “Rainy Day Women.” Most of them have pretty wonderful lives now, without me. There’s no need of messing that up. Traveling from town to town to town, especially in my early years, I craved companionship. You never see a “rainy day woman” when things are good. You run into her when there’s a problem, and stay with her until you lose your problems in her arms.

  I did very little damage. When you’re in the public eye, there’s always women who want to sleep with you because of who you are, but I never worried about what they were thinking. I only cared about what they were doing. I would run from one to another in hotels, and a lot of them probably never even knew I was there.

  Like Richie. Sometimes he needed help with his girls. They used to call him Short Stroke. I’d go step on his back when he was in the sack, and the girl would say thank you.

  One of the funniest things that ever happened to me was when I was younger and on the road in L.A. with a certain well-known female country artist. No names, please. We were mostly friends, but one night she was alone, and I was alone, and we started circling each other. We finally wound up in a room, talking. One thing led to another and then another until we had climbed between the sheets. We were both a little embarrassed, dropping the “em.” “I ain’t never done this before,” she told me.

  “Well, you ain’t never done it yet,” I said, as I climbed out of bed and headed for the door. We laughed about that for a lot of years after.

  I’ve always respected women. Not to brag, but I’ve had most races, creeds, and livestock. A lot of performers, if they go to bed with a woman on the road, they think of her as a slut. As a person and a man, what does that make them then? Lowlife or high living, you give as good as you get, and I don’t think women’s sex lives have a thing to do with the kinds of human beings they are. I learned that from knowing Sue Brewer, who was one of the most gracious people that ever walked the face of the earth, and loved being with men. The way she put it, “The worst I ever had was wonderful.”

  It’s far more touching to me to look out at the audience and see a little girl who is finding in my music the key to her life’s trials. When I was playing at J.D.’s, there was a woman named Topper who came every night. All she did was sit at a table and cry at some of the songs, because her heart had been broken. The music helped her express her feelings. There was nothing between us, and wasn’t going to be. We never needed to take advantage of that friendship.

  Looking down at some sweet young thing in a pair of tight jeans and a half-undone blouse screaming in the front row, things haven’t changed much. Without wiggling my ass, I still know how to push her buttons. All it takes is a look.

  “Sit down,” I’ll tell her when she’s at her wildest. “I’ve got boots older than you.”

  We played for President Carter at Freedom Hall on the night he tried to rescue the hostages from Iran. He couldn’t make the show, but the First Lady, Rosalynn, came out, and we walked down the receiving line of U.S. Senators before we went on.

  The Secret Service was a little nervous about Deakon and Boomer. They kept coming up to us and asking politely how we were doing; we knew they had metal detectors. “Why don’t you ask them if they’ve got any guns, and put that detector away?” I asked. They didn’t look amused.

  It was a fun show, though I can’t imagine what they would have thought if they looked in the back of the maintenance tent and saw the crew chopping out lines of cocaine for whoever needed a quick pick-me-up.

  I liked Carter a lot, and I got a lot of flack for ignoring him that one time. I didn’t do it on purpose, though he worried that I didn’t like him. He had asked Buddy, “Where’s your dad? Is something wrong?” and Buddy could only shrug and say “He’s just not here.”

  Later when Shooter was about a year and a half old, Jimmy and Rosalynn invited us for lunch. They sent a car, and sat Shooter, bottle and all, in the President’s seat in the Cabinet Room. She was smart and savvy, and I thought Jimmy Carter was probably too good a man for the job.

  We went back to the White House when President Reagan was in office. Shooter was studying about the government in school, and I made some calls to see what we might visit in Washington, D.C. We got all the way to the Oval Office. It was a different me than the last time I had been a presidential invitee; I was clean, for one.

  Maybe because I was so late for so many years, I’ve become very punctual. If I say I’m going to knock on your door at quarter to one, you’ll hear me knocking at twelve forty-four and fifty-nine seconds. I don’t like to keep people waiting, and I don’t like it when people keep me waiting. It’s a waste of time for both of us.

  When we arrived, Reagan was out in the garden with the Israeli prime minister. We were supposed to meet at eleven. Shooter knew how I was. I will leave.

  Shooter had on a suit and tie, and shoes that were too small. His feet were hurting. He said, “Dad, Ronald Reagan told us we could go in there at eleven o’clock. It’s eleven o’ five now. Are we staying or leaving?” The Secret Service guys cracked up.

  The party’s over. Time to head out of here.

  Hey, it’s been good to meet-and-greet you, too. I ain’t been up in this neck of the woods for a while. I think we’ll be back in the summer, or this fall. Or maybe next week. Sometimes I don’t know if we’re coming or going. I have to look at the itinerary.

  Let me know how you’re making out, and if there’s anything I can do to help. Say hi to your wife/cousin/momma/best friend/bandmatebusinesspartnerbrother-in-law for me.

  We’ve got a long way to travel tonight. They say the road is closed before the state line so we might have to go the long way around. Mississippi floods have washed out some of the bridges from Milwaukee. There’s construction west. A six-vehicle pileup outside of town. Speed traps. Traffic.

  Thanks for stopping by. Be seeing you.

  Where do we go to from here?

  CHAPTER 13

  THE FOUR HORSEMEN

  Inside the vocal booth. Ocean Way Studios, Hollywood:

  “You look like the guy who picked up the check for the Last Supper.”

  “One more mistake, and out you go.”

  “Willie tuned me out so long ago, he can’t hear what I’m saying. Look, he’s pretending to listen to us.”

  “Everybody turned everybody off.”

  “Want to do that one all over again?”

  “I’ll do it all over you.”

  “I don’t give a shit. When you figure out I really don’t give a shit, the world will be better for you.”

  “Could you move it over a little bit, so I don’t have to stare at your ass?”

  “We’re gonna make a hillbilly out of you yet.”

  “Kris, tell them to k
iss my ass.”

  “I may look like I wasn’t paying attention but I am.”

  “You gotta put your headphones on, or should I kick you when you’re supposed to come in?”

  “Aren’t you glad you’re you?”

  “Make it up if you want to.”

  “I’d like to do it in another key.”

  “I’d like to slow it down.”

  “I got behind and never caught up.”

  “This song is getting slaughtered in here; everybody’s got a different idea.”

  “There went my one shot for the record.”

  “You’re the one starting it out there, Cochise.”

  “I’m not singing the line before so it’s never me.”

  “I’ll be there to help you when you need it.”

  “I ain’t got a word in edgewise for twenty minutes.”

  “‘Been waiting’—is that Been Dorsey waiting?”

  “Every time I think … fortunately, I don’t do that often.”

  “John, we’ll get back there in the repeat, godammit.”

  “The truth may set you free. These days you know the truth and the truth will leave you.”

  “I couldn’t find my ass with a bull fiddle.”

  “I’ve played everything but an extension cord.”

  “Are you going to wear the same T-shirt all week?”

  “I guess it’s true people get to look like their pets.”

  “You hear the one about the dog named Sir Francis Bacon? It was a strange name for a dog, but it was a strange dog. He screwed pigs.”

  “I don’t like anything I can’t pronounce. I hate France.”

  “What do you mean, Waylon? They’ve got fine wine, beautiful women, and five hundred kinds of cheese.”