Pretty Paper

by Willie Nelson

  I don’t know whether Reverend Olan had been told about my circumstances, but his sermon seemed directed right at me. The topic was “Overcoming Misfortunes.” He said that misfortunes are temporary. You get past them by turning lemons into lemonade. I could have easily written that off as a cliché, except that Grandma was always saying that very same thing. Sitting in church, I felt closer to my grandmother than I had since she’d passed that Christmastime. Now I was glad to be there.

  The gladness didn’t last long, though. When we stood to sing the closing hymn, I felt heat on the back of my neck, as though someone was staring at me. I turned around and, two pews back, I saw Cynthia Simone. Our eyes met. She offered me a small smile and I tried to smile back.

  After the service, I walked out with Meg and Tom. Cynthia was waiting. She was with Ryan Smith, a guy we’d gone to high school with, her big sister, Jill, and her mother, Virginia.

  “I didn’t know you were back, Vernon,” said Cynthia.

  “Just kinda passing through,” I said.

  “You remember Ryan, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Hey, Ryan.”

  “And my mother.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Simone.”

  “Hello, Vernon. I’m glad you’re back home.” I was surprised at the kindness in Mrs. Simone’s greeting. I thought she’d still be angry about how Cynthia had once joined my band.

  “Ryan and I are engaged,” Cynthia was quick to say.

  “Oh, well . . . congratulations.”

  “I’ve taken over my dad’s Ford dealership,” said Ryan. “We’re looking for a salesman on the used car lot, just in case you’re looking for work.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’d be too good at that.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Cynthia. “You’ve always had a great personality, Vernon. Everyone likes you. And given the tough times we’ve both gone through with those horrible people and that crazy music business, maybe this is just what you need. Something to bring you back to earth.”

  “I’m grateful for the offer,” I said. “I really am.”

  “I work there, I’m the office manager,” said Jill, in a sweet and alluring voice. I’d met Jill before but really didn’t know her. She was older than Cynthia by two years and, at least to my eyes, much prettier. Her long brown hair was straight and shiny and fell practically to her waist. She had big bright eyes and a cute little nose. She was petite—no taller than five-foot-five—with a slender, well-proportioned figure. When she smiled, her whole face lit up. She had a sunshiny disposition that was hard to ignore.

  “Well, think about it,” said Ryan. “I’m there all day, every day.”

  “I do hope you come by, Vernon,” said Jill. “Whenever my sister talked about the nightmare she went through with the band, you were the only one she said nice things about.”

  “I was lucky, I got out in time,” said Cynthia, “but you didn’t deserve what you got. You deserve better.”

  That night I thought about what Cynthia had said. Maybe I did deserve better. Maybe I needed to forget this music thing—at least for a while—and try something else. My savings were slowly dwindling and I couldn’t live on the kindness of Meg and Tom forever. Besides, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity was getting me nowhere. Bottom line: I needed a job.

  —

  Pink paper ’cause I woke up early Monday morning in time to see the sunrise light the sky a soft shade of pink. I put on the only suit I owned, the one Grandma bought me for my high school graduation, and drove out to see Ryan Smith.

  Smith’s Round Rock Ford dealership was a big operation. New cars were sold in the main showroom flanked by a big service center on one side and a two-acre used car lot on the other. I found Ryan sitting in his office in the showroom.

  “Hey, Vernon,” he said, “glad to see you, buddy. You didn’t have to dress up in a suit.”

  “Figured if I’m applying for a job . . .”

  “Hell, man, you got the job. Our used car salesman showed up drunk and we fired him. You’re right on time.”

  “You’re gonna have to show me the ropes.”

  “Selling is easy. The key is sincerity. And I sincerely gotta tell you, man, how much I hate that prick Willard. I hated him back in high school, I hated him when he pulled the wool over Cynthia’s eyes, and I hated him for what he did to you. That’s why I’m happy to help you out. Any enemy of Willard’s is a friend of mine.”

  Gaining Ryan’s goodwill just because I’d been screwed over by Willard felt strange. But who was I to argue? I hardly had any qualifications and was lucky to be offered a job.

  Ryan spent that first morning with me on the lot, going over the inventory of used cars and trucks. He pointed out which vehicles represented the biggest profits and how all the prices were marked twenty-five percent higher than he’d be willing to take.

  “That leaves lots of room for you to negotiate,” he said. “I’m sure you’re a good negotiator.”

  Actually I wasn’t. When my first customer showed interest in a used pickup priced at four hundred dollars but then hesitated, I immediately blurted out, “You can have it for three twenty.”

  “All I got is two hundred bucks.”

  “Let me see if my boss will take that.”

  Ryan wasn’t thrilled. “That’s fifty percent off, not twenty-five.”

  “I know,” I said, “but that’s all he’s got.”

  “He can pay more. Customers can always pay more. Tell him three hundred.”

  I told him and he walked. By the end of the day, I’d fumbled two other negotiations.

  I was leaving the lot just when Jill was leaving the showroom.

  “You look down,” she said.

  “I struck out,” I admitted.

  “This was your first day. First days don’t count. You’re just getting used to it.”

  “Not sure I ever will.”

  “You hungry?”

  Her question took me by surprise. “Well . . .”

  “I take that as a yes. I’m cooking dinner for my kid. And I always cook too much.”

  “I didn’t know you had a kid. Didn’t know you were married.”

  “I’m not. Truth is, we don’t really know anything about each other, do we?”

  “You know about Marla . . .”

  “Marla’s a bitch. Anyone could have told you that. But you look for the good in people. You’re a trusting soul, and that can be a problem. So how ’bout it—do you trust my cooking or not?”

  I had to say that I did.

  —

  Purple paper, ’cause purple reminds me of pain. Jill’s interest in me, kind as it was, had me thinking of the last woman who was supposedly interested in me, the woman who was still officially my wife.

  I went back to my place above the Newberrys’ store to shower and change. I was beat. The tension and frustration of the day had gotten to me. I really didn’t want to go over to Jill’s. Accepting her invitation had been a mistake. I wasn’t ready to spend time with a woman. Jill said I was a trusting person. Well, maybe. But when it came to females, my trust had been smashed to pieces. Jill was pretty. Hell, she was beautiful. But the way she came on so strong reminded me of Marla. No, going there was a bad idea. I decided to call her and tell her that, but looking at the slip of paper she’d given me, I saw an address but no phone number. I’d have to tell her in person.

  I put on Levi’s, a T-shirt and sneakers and drove over. She lived in a tiny wooden house on a lonely farm road only a few miles from where I’d grown up at Grandma’s. When I knocked at the door, my speech was all prepared: “I’m really sorry,” I was going to say, “but this isn’t a great idea. Hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”

  When the door opened, though, I didn’t see Jill standing there. I saw a little girl holding a puppy
in her arms.

  “This is Toby,” she said. “Toby’s a boy. You want to hold him?”

  “Well . . .”

  “He won’t bite. He’s nice. He’s still a baby.”

  Toby was a small ball of white fluff. I held him up to my face. As I looked into his dark eyes, he licked my nose.

  “He’s kissing you,” said the little girl. “That’s how puppies kiss.”

  “Vicky!” shouted Jill from somewhere inside the house. “Did you invite Vernon in?”

  “Toby kissed him, Toby likes him.”

  “Everyone likes Vernon. Have you introduced yourself?”

  “I’m Vicky.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vicky,” I said.

  “Mama’s in the kitchen. She’s making chili rice. She only makes chili rice on special nights.”

  “I sure can smell the chili,” I said.

  The aroma was overwhelming. Naturally it brought back memories of Grandma.

  “I actually got this recipe from your grandmother,” said Jill, who was standing over the stove and stirring the pot. She was wearing black jeans and a thin black sweater that showed off her figure. “I knew she’d won first prize at the county fair. Her chili rice is legendary around here. So one day I asked her if she’d share her secret. She not only shared it, she came over and took me through the process, step by step. Hope it measures up.”

  “Wow” was all I could say. Thoughts of turning around and leaving had vanished.

  “Do you want to play with me and Toby out in the yard?” asked Vicky.

  “Sure,” I said. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

  Vicky ran outside, with Toby scampering behind.

  “Vicky’s six going on sixteen,” said Jill. “She stopped watching The Mickey Mouse Club on TV ’cause she said it was too silly. Now she watches Father Knows Best and keeps asking where’s her father.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable question,” I said.

  “He was not a reasonable man. That’s why I never married him. And that’s why when he learned I was pregnant, he ran off and joined the navy. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  “You had to be young when Vicky was born.”

  “Too young. Still a teenager.”

  “Well, you have Vicky,” I said. “And she’s a little sweetheart.”

  “Vicky makes it all worthwhile. Whatever bad thoughts I have about her dad, they go away when she looks up at me with that smile of hers.”

  “Mommy!” Vicky ran in the house crying. “Toby’s run away.”

  “Vernon, can you chase after the puppy? I’m still cooking.”

  The backyard was enclosed by a short rickety wooden fence with holes at the bottom big enough for a puppy to slip through.

  “He ran that way,” said Vicky, pointing to one of the holes.

  I leaped over the fence into a wide woodsy expanse. The damn dog could be anywhere. Fortunately, a full moon provided some light, but all I could do was call out the dog’s name and hope for the best. On the other side of the fence I heard Vicky crying.

  I started surveying the area when I heard the howl of a coyote. My heartbeat quickened. I had to get to the puppy before the coyote did. I started calling out louder and louder. The more time passed, the more desperate I became. I started running—first this way, then that way. I was running in circles when I tripped over a fallen log and, flat on my face, heard a yelp. Inches away from me I saw these little beady eyes staring out from behind a bush. It was Toby. “Come here, boy,” I said. Toby ran over to me, licked my nose and turned over on his back for a belly rub.

  When I returned to the house with Toby in my arms, Vicky embraced me. Her eyes were filled with tears of joy.

  “You’re gonna have to keep Toby inside until someone wires over those holes in the fence,” I said.

  “I should have done that already,” said Jill.

  “Maybe Vernon can do it,” Vicky suggested.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Now that you’ve won over my daughter’s heart,” said Jill, “let’s see how my chili rice measures up to your grandmother’s.”

  It measured up. The white rice had just the right texture. The salsa had just the right kick. When Jill placed a slab of melting butter on the rice before sprinkling on the chopped onions and freshly grated cheese, I couldn’t help but break into a big smile.

  “You haven’t even tasted it yet,” said Jill.

  I took a bite. My mouth had never been happier.

  “Oh, boy” was all I said.

  “Presume that means I got it right.”

  “You sure did.”

  During dinner, it was Vicky who did most of the talking. She brought out her dolls and told me each of their names. She showed me the drawings she had made at school. She asked whether I’d watch her dance with her Hula-Hoop.

  “You bet,” I said.

  “After dinner, Vicky,” said her mother.

  “Do you like Elvis?” Vicky asked.

  “Everyone likes Elvis,” I said.

  “Good. Let’s listen to Elvis records.”

  “Vernon’s a singer,” said Jill. “Wouldn’t you’d rather hear him sing for us?”

  “Yes!” Vicky exclaimed.

  “Don’t have my guitar,” I said.

  “Use mine,” said Jill.

  “Didn’t know you played,” I said.

  “I fool with it. Don’t know much except some real basic stuff. Like Jimmy Reed.”

  “I love Jimmy Reed,” I said.

  “I’ll fetch the guitar.”

  Maybe it was the fact that I’d found Toby. Maybe it was ’cause the chili rice was so delicious. Maybe it was Vicky’s sweet disposition. For whatever reasons, I was in a great mood. I took Jill’s acoustic guitar and, sitting down on the couch, I played “Faith,” the song inspired by my grandmother. Jill was next to me. Vicky was seated on the floor at my feet.

  “I like that,” said Vicky, looking up at me. “Can you sing any other songs?”

  “Sure thing.”

  As I sang a couple of songs, Vicky never took her eyes off me.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” said Jill after my third song, “time to turn in. You get one story and that’s it.”

  “Can Vernon tell me a story?”

  “Not sure I know any,” I admitted.

  “Well, you sure know songs,” said Vicky.

  “Can Vernon sing me another song, Mommy?”

  “You’re wearing him out, Vicky.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said.

  —

  Pink paper ’cause Vicky’s bedroom was painted pink. Her blanket was pink, with drawings of blue and gold angels.

  I sat at the edge of her bed. Toby leaped up and sat on my lap. The song I sang Vicky was the lullaby my grandmother had taught me as a child.

  All night, all day,

  Angels watching over me, oh Lord

  All night, all day,

  Angels watching over me

  Sun is setting in the west

  Angels watching over me, oh Lord

  Sleep my child, take your rest

  Angels watching over me

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  Angels watching over me, oh Lord

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep

  Angels watching over me

  When I was through, Vicky reached out to me with open arms. She hugged me tight and said, “Will you come back tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “I’ll get Mommy to invite you.”

  “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” said Jill, tucking her in and kissing her good night.

  Jill and I went back to the kitchen, where she said, “Looks like you made a friend.”

  “What can I say?”


  “You can say whether you want a cup of coffee or something stronger.”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  While Jill made coffee, I sat back down on the couch and softly strummed her guitar.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “Just black.”

  She placed the mug of coffee on an end table and sat next to me. She was close enough to where our knees touched. That made me uncomfortable.

  “Can I make a confession?” she asked.

  “Not sure how to answer that.”

  “Well, I’ll confess anyway. When Cynthia was going with Willard and joined your band, I used to come to your shows. I used to stand there and think, Wow, Vernon Clay is not only a cool-looking guy, he’s a damn great guitarist. I was always waiting for you to sing, but Willard and that Marla did most of the singing. I always wondered why.”

  “I liked being in the background,” I admitted.

  “How come?”

  “It’s where I could focus on the guitar.”

  “But on that first record, that song you sang for us tonight, you did the singing. You sang ‘Faith.’”

  “Well, that was different.”

  “It was also a hit, wasn’t it? At least around here they were playing it on the radio all the time.”

  “It did pretty good.”

  “But it didn’t prove to you that you should sing?”

  “Back then I wasn’t really thinking about singing. I’m still not.”

  “How ’bout if I gave you something to sing?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The thing is, Vernon, I’m a bookkeeper by day and a poet by night. I’ve always written poems, ever since I was a little girl. Some of them sound like songs to me, but I can’t sing and can barely play this guitar. Maybe you can hear a melody in these poems. What do you say?”

  If I told the truth, I would have said that I wanted to leave. The more intimate things got, the more uncomfortable I felt. The way Jill had invited me over, the way she’d prepared my favorite dish, the way she sat close to me, the way her knee kept touching mine, the excitement in her voice when she discussed my music—all this was telling me that I could have my way with her if I wanted. And I did want her. Yet I didn’t. I didn’t want to get involved with a woman, any woman, especially a woman I’d just met. And especially a woman who came on strong, the way Marla had come on strong. And especially a woman two years older than me and probably a lot more experienced.