Pretty Paper

by Willie Nelson

  “I don’t know about that. All I know is that I need a drink.”

  “The drinks are on me, buddy,” I said. “That’s the least I can do.”

  MAN WITH A MONOCLE

  Two things I love about Memphis, Tennessee:

  The first is how the fragrance of sweet barbecue is always in the air. And the second is the Peabody Hotel, where every day at eleven in the morning the elevator opens and a line of five trained ducks files out to the tune of “King Cotton March” and waddle over to splash in the elaborate fountain that sits in the middle of the lobby.

  I wasn’t staying at the Peabody—Howard Johnson was more my speed—but a promoter who’d heard me and my band at a Beale Street club invited me over there for a late breakfast.

  Experience has taught me to view promoters skeptically. They’re big talkers with big plans who sometimes turn out to be big thieves. This particular promoter, Geoffrey Jerguson, intrigued me ’cause he wore a monocle, dressed in wool tweeds in mid-May and spoke with a British accent. He wanted to impress me with all the big shots he knew in the music business. He loved to gossip. He claimed to be friends with Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager. He claimed to be friends with everyone.

  When I arrived at the Peabody, the lobby was lined with tourists on two sides, clearing a pathway for the mallards that were exiting the elevator and heading for the fountain. As the ducks were quacking, children were squealing with delight. Looking over the crowd, on the other side of the lobby I noticed a sexy lady in a short black leather skirt. Her breasts were practically busting out of her form-fitting green blouse. Her hair was curly blond, her lipstick the color of fresh blood. Damn if it wasn’t Marla! It was Bambi Love!

  “Miss Love!” I hollered.

  I don’t know if she heard me, but at the very minute I moved to approach her, the ducks had started their march. I couldn’t risk stepping on one of those creatures, so I had to wait till they waddled by. Unexpectedly, one of the ducks turned around and headed back to the elevator. Their trainer, the Duck Master, had to correct the fowl’s course and point the little guy back to the fountain. This took a minute or two.

  By the time I could get to the other side of the lobby, Bambi was gone. I went out on the street, looked in every direction, but no sign of her. Back inside, I asked the clerk behind the desk whether a Bambi Love was registered at the hotel.

  “She just checked out,” said the clerk.

  “If you are inquiring about the charming Miss Love, I can tell you all you want to know,” said Geoffrey Jerguson, who happened to be standing next to me and overheard my question.

  “How do you know her?”

  “I’m promoting her in England.”

  “I’d like to hear more about her,” I said.

  “And you will. Let’s proceed to the dining room for tea and crumpets.”

  “Or bourbon and barbecue. This is Memphis.”

  “Indeed.”

  Turned out I had corned beef hash and Jerguson had a mushroom omelet.

  “They like country music in England?” I asked.

  “We adore it. As we speak, Roy Orbison is out touring with the Beatles all over the U.K.”

  I had heard some Beatles songs. They hadn’t been to America yet, so I didn’t even know what they looked like. But I did know that Roy Orbison had heard my demo of “Pretty Paper” and was considering singing it. I couldn’t have been happier. Roy Orbison was a great singer and big star. But with this strange Englishman sitting across from me, I really wanted to hear about Bambi Love.

  “When did you first hear Bambi?” I asked him.

  “Same time you did, I presume. The single. ‘Cheatin’ Ways.’ When it reached number one, I recalled how, some years back, Teresa Brewer, another American female country singer, was very big in Britain. I immediately saw the same possibility for Bambi. So I booked a flight and came to see this chap called Slick.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  “The name fits him rather well.”

  I didn’t mention my run-in with Slick last month in Nashville. What would be the point?

  “I was hardly surprised to see that Slick’s involvement in Miss Love’s life involves far more than producing and managing her,” said Jerguson.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “For the past few nights they have been sharing the presidential suite of this very hotel. When they invited me up last night for cocktails, they were quite cozy with one another.”

  “Is Slick still here?” I asked, wondering if the madman might be stalking the lobby.

  “No. He went back to Nashville early this morning and will meet Miss Love later in the week in Atlanta.”

  “What were they doing in Memphis?”

  “They suggested I meet them here rather than Nashville. Slick said he’d promised his star a little getaway, a celebration for the great success of her newly released album.”

  “I didn’t know it was out.”

  “I happen to have a copy in hand.” And with that, he reached down into his oversized case and fished out a copy of the LP. No doubt about it, the cover shot was a stunner: Bambi in a let-it-all-hang-out scarlet-red dress. She was all smiles and, for obvious reasons, shot from the side. I stared longer than I needed to. I flipped it over and saw that the credits read, “Produced by Jack Walters. All songs written by Jack Walters.”

  “But enough about Miss Love,” said Jerguson. “Let’s talk about you and the delightful prospects of introducing you to a world of potential fans across the pond.”

  For the next half hour, Geoffrey Jerguson talked about Club Mustang, a nightspot that he and some other fellow were opening in London. The idea was to bring over American country-and-western artists. While I was pretty well known in Texas and was building a reputation in other parts of the country, I’d hardly call myself a star. It was hard to believe that I could draw much of a crowd in England.

  “Some of your songs are big hits over there,” said Jerguson.

  “Songs sung by other artists,” I reminded him. “Ferlin Husky, Ray Price, Patsy Cline. Those are the artists you should be booking.”

  “They’re a bit out of my price range.”

  “But no one’s heard of me in England.”

  “I can stimulate interest. I can garner press coverage.”

  “When are you thinking about?”

  “Miss Bambi Love will facilitate our grand opening the second week of June. We’d like you to follow her.”

  Why not? I figured. What did I have to lose?

  When we started talking turkey, the deal became even more attractive. His offer was exactly double of what we’d been getting playing dance halls in Texas and Tennessee. He sealed the deal when he said, “Given your great curiosity about Bambi, I’d be delighted to fly you over a day early so you can catch her last show.”

  —

  I should have seen it coming when we were booked on a fly-by-night, no-frills, no-food airline with a six-hour stopover in Reykjavík, Iceland. When we finally arrived in London, there was no one to greet us. So we took a cab to the address on our itinerary, which turned out to be a fleabag hotel across the street from a burnt-out warehouse. Starving and jet-lagged, I fell asleep for twelve straight hours.

  When I woke up, it was Saturday morning. That night was Bambi Love’s last show at Club Mustang. I planned to arrive early and finally have a chance to ask her some questions. My band didn’t open till Monday, so there was time to recuperate from the long flight. Our other two bandmates were still sleeping when Brother Paul and I went out to grab some grub at a corner café. We were both glad to see ham and eggs on the menu.

  I happened to look down and on the floor saw a copy of the Daily Mail, one of those splashy English tabloids. I don’t know what made me pick it up, but I did. The big news was how the old minister of finance was caught pants-dow
n with a young high-priced hooker. As I turned the pages, seemed like it was nothing but scandals. I was about to give up on British journalism when I came to a story that stopped me cold.

  “CHEATIN’ WAYS” MANAGER ATTACKS LOCAL PROMOTER FOR CHEATING

  In an instance of life imitating art, the manager of American country-and-western singer Bambi Love assaulted British promoter Geoffrey Jerguson, proprietor of Club Mustang, the West End nightery where Miss Love has been performing. Her song, “Cheatin’ Ways,” is currently number one on Melody Maker’s list of country-and-western hits.

  The manager, Jack “Slick” Walters, being held by London police, told a reporter, “Jerguson is a slimeball huckster who promised us payment in advance but never came up with a plug nickel. If this is how you Brits do business, I say shame on the lot of you, and that includes your queen.”

  Mr. Jerguson was taken to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital where, according to a spokesman, he is suffering from a concussion.

  Said an eyewitness at the scene, “The crowd was whistling and stomping because the singer was two hours late coming out. Then off to the side of the stage, right where I’m standing, some lout goes after this gent wearing a monocle. He starts choking the gent and beating his head against the wall. The lout doing the beating is pounding so hard that a black wig flies right off his head. It would be funny, except for the poor gent, who’d be dead if me and some others hadn’t pulled the lout off him.”

  A publicist for Club Mustang said the club, which opened only a fortnight ago, will be closed until further notice.

  WARM TEXAS NIGHT

  The comforts of home are great. Texas is my home, and it’s always a comfort to return there, especially after getting burned so bad in Merrye Olde England. Texas promoters might not be a hundred percent honest, but compared to Geoffrey Jerguson, they’re saints. My ol’ pal Crash Stewart had lined up a bunch of dates for us all around the state, keeping me busy with one-nighters from July through October.

  I’d left London with a bad attitude. I’d actually gone by the hospital where Jerguson was laid up with the idea of maybe, just maybe, getting some money out of the man. Turned out, though, that Slick had broken his jaw. Jerguson couldn’t speak. And even if he could, what was he gonna tell me? It was a lost cause.

  I wondered what had happened to Bambi. With Slick in jail, where had she gone? I considered trying to find her, but by then I was fed up with the chase. What was the point? My so-called mission—of getting to the bottom of Vernon’s story and helping him out—had led to a dead end. If I hadn’t been so distracted by my mission, I would have seen through Jerguson’s bullshit and never left the country. My mission was clouding my judgment and keeping me from seeing people for who they really were. Slick, Jerguson, Marla-Bambi—the whole lot of them were no good. Liars and scammers, they used each other and anyone else they could con. Their enterprise was corrupt to the core. Thinking I was onto something, believing I could make a difference, all I’d done was chase my own tail. It was about time to face the truth—I’d been a fool.

  When there was a problem with our return plane tickets, I had to call my Nashville publisher to wire me money. That was the last straw. Now Vernon Clay and the mysteries surrounding him were officially part of my past.

  My present was this long trek through Texas. I’d started out in Houston and worked my way up the state to Waco and Dallas and was now playing the Stagecoach Ballroom in Fort Worth, one of the bigger venues for live music in the city, where it was nice to see that I could still draw a crowd.

  After the big Saturday-night show, I was glad to see Big Bill come up to the bandstand to say hello.

  “Who’s tending bar?” I asked him as I leaned over to shake his hand.

  “Couldn’t miss your show, ol’ buddy,” he said. “Glad to see you’ve come up in the world.”

  “Not as far up as you’d think. Still singing for my supper.”

  “You around tomorrow?” asked Bill.

  “Yes, sir. We don’t head out for Wichita Falls till Monday.”

  “Well, come by tomorrow night. I’ll buy you a drink and some of that chili rice you’re so crazy about.”

  “You got a deal.”

  Didn’t think that much about it. It was always fun to shoot the shit with Big Bill. And I could practically taste that chili rice. Be nice to say hello to Chester and Essie.

  I have to confess that Vernon Clay did enter my mind. Maybe he’d moved back in. Maybe they knew his whereabouts. Maybe . . . but no, I was through chasing down Vernon. Just give me some chili rice.

  —

  We’d forgotten that Chester and Essie were closed on Sunday. So much the better. It was enough to sit with Big Bill, who grilled up a couple of burgers, and hear the local scuttlebutt. Nutsy Perkins, cleared of all charges, was back on the street and stronger than ever. Him and Ranger Roy Finkelstein were now headquartered in Denton, a little college town just north of Fort Worth, and had expanded their burgeoning bookie operation to Arkansas and Oklahoma. As for Barbara Lou, the cutie who had her eye on me, she’d finally left her old man and found work at a beauty shop just around the corner. Did I want the address?

  “Better not,” I said. “I got enough problems in that area.”

  “Care to explain?” asked Big Bill.

  “Rather not.”

  “Enough said.”

  —

  Heading back to my hotel, I left Big Bill’s with a slight beer buzz. It was a warm Texas night. A yellow moon hung low in the sky. Crickets were making a racket. A mutt was chasing a black cat down an alleyway. Someone’s radio was blasting Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” Seeing that the lights were out at the Chili Rice emporium, I walked on by. In the distance, walking toward me, was a black woman carrying a big shopping bag. When she got up close, I saw it was Essie.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she said with a big warm smile, “just the man I been looking for. I called you, but that number you gave was no good.”

  “We moved to Nashville a few months back. Let me help you with that bag.”

  “Don’t mind if you do. Just came from my sister’s. She helps me grate the cheese and grind the meat for the coming week. Come on in. I got something for you.”

  “Seen Vernon?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Haven’t seen him, but we heard from him.”

  We went around back to the outside staircase that led up to their above-the-store apartment.

  “Look who I got with me,” Essie told Chester, who was sitting next to the radio listening to a baseball game.

  Chester greeted me warmly before asking, “You come to get your package?”

  “I just bumped into him on the street,” said Essie. “He don’t know nothing ’bout that package.”

  “What package?” I asked.

  “That one,” said Essie, pointing to a stack of paper on the kitchen table.

  I walked over and recognized the same multicolored paper stock Vernon had used in the first batch I’d read. I took a quick glance and saw that it was his handwriting.

  “Came in the mail,” said Essie. “The note said that you’d probably be coming by, and when you did, this is yours to read.”

  “Was there a return address?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “What else did the note say?”

  “Only that he was missing me and Chester, but not to worry about him.”

  “Well, are you gonna read it?” asked Chester.

  “You bet,” I said. “Gonna read it tonight.”

  —

  The Western Hotel had seen better days, but the price was right and the electricity worked. I sank into a saggy easy chair that faced the window. Eerily, the window looked out on Leonards. That big ol’ department store was sitting there, right across the street. I could see the exact spot where I first encountered Vernon last winter.
>
  The floor lamp next to my chair held a dim bulb that cast a pale yellow glow on the paper in my hand. My eyes glued on the words before me, I picked up the first page and didn’t stop reading until the last . . .

  I left off with bright yellow paper and I’m starting off with bright yellow ’cause yellow’s the color of the sun. Skeeter used to say, “Every time the sun comes up, you got reason to be hopeful. Another day, another song.”

  I stopped writing my story when Skeeter had taught me his “Easygoing” song ’cause I wanted to end on an upbeat note. The whole point of writing was to lift my spirits and sing my blues away. I wanted to leave off when my attitude had turned from sad to glad and I felt I had a reason to live.

  Well, that might have been the happy ending of that chapter, but there were other chapters that weren’t very happy. I thought I didn’t need to write about those chapters. I thought I could forget them. During the day, I could beat back those memories. But when I fell asleep, the nightmares were always there. The memories became the nightmares. Now I want the nightmares to stop. And I figure the only way to do that is to write out the rest of my story.

  —

  This is light blue paper, not dark blue, ’cause even though I was still down after losing Marla, my mood wasn’t completely dark. I found a way to keep going.

  I moved back home to Round Rock, where I was known as Joy Goodson’s grandson. In Round Rock there were folks who cared about me. Two of those folks—Meg and Tom Newberry—were friends of my grandmother’s. They were good people who’d known me my whole life. They owned a small building that housed their antiques store on East Austin Avenue. They said I could stay in the apartment above the building until I got back on my feet. God bless Meg and Tom. For the first week or so, I hardly went out. I had my guitar and kept playing Skeeter’s “Easygoing” over and over again. I do believe that song got me through the worst of it.

  One Sunday morning, Meg and Tom asked me to go to church with them, the same church that Grandma had attended. I wasn’t all that eager to go, but, given the Newberrys’ generosity, how could I refuse?