“Mind if I read you a poem I wrote?” she asked.
I wanted to say no, but I didn’t want to be rude. After all, she’d just cooked my dinner. She couldn’t have been nicer.
“Sure,” I said.
“I call it ‘Lonely’—
“Lonely comes ’round like an uninvited guest
At the end of every day
Lonely sits right down on my bed
And promises not to stay
Lonely says he’s just passing through
He won’t bother me for long
But when morning comes I can still hear
Lonely singing this lonely song.”
Without thinking, I reached for Jill’s guitar and started singing what I heard as the chorus to the song. I don’t know where the words came from. They just flowed.
Lonely in my heart, lonely in my soul
Lonely in summer’s warmth
Lonely in winter’s cold
Lonely until I can find
Someone to love me true
Lonely as I wonder,
Could that someone be you?
Jill looked at me in wonderment. “How did you do that?” she asked. “How did you know that was just what I wanted to say?”
“I’m . . . I’m really not sure . . . the words just kinda spilled out . . .”
She leaned over and gently took the guitar from my arms, pressed herself against me and put her mouth on mine. Her lips were moist. I could feel the swell of her breast and the throb of her beating heart.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. But I’ve got to go.”
Before she could protest, I was up and gone.
—
I’m writing on gray paper ’cause gun-metal gray is the color of war. There was a war inside my head. If I could find paper the color of camouflage, I’d use it to show how I tried to hide from the warfare. But there was no hiding. The battle was on.
One side said stay away from Jill. Jill was trouble. Jill was like Marla. She was eager—way too eager—to get with me. Maybe she wasn’t as aggressive as Marla, but she sure as hell made it plain that she was mine for the asking. And also like Marla, she claimed to be connected to my music. Okay, maybe Marla hadn’t written poems the way Jill wrote poems. And sure, that “Lonely” poem touched my heart, and yes, I wrote the chorus in a way that felt . . . well, magical . . . but maybe it was black magic. Maybe women like Marla and Jill had a way of putting a spell on me. Maybe that’s how they used me. And then abused me. And then left me high and dry.
But on the other side, Jill was beautiful, Jill was sexy, Jill had Vicky and Vicky was precious. Spending time with Vicky and Jill was the most fun I’d had in months. They were warm and welcoming and made me feel wanted. They were almost too good to be true. I wanted to trust that good feeling, but could I? Was I just being set up for another big fall?
The mental warfare was making me a little crazy. And when I went back to work the next day at the Ford dealership, I had a hard time concentrating on the few customers who wandered in to look at used cars. I half expected Jill to come over to the lot and say something to me, but she didn’t. Well, why should she? Wasn’t I the one who owed her an apology? Yet I didn’t know what to say. So I avoided her.
That evening, when I got back to the apartment above the antiques store, I saw that Meg Newberry had slipped a note under the door. The note shocked me. It said Marla had been trying to reach me and left a number where I could call her. How did Marla know where to reach me? And what did she want? I wasn’t sure I cared. Besides, I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t want to talk her anyway. That night I barely slept.
Next morning, I went to work. I was sitting in the little trailer office that looked over the used car lot. No customers in sight. The phone rang.
“Vernon, it’s Jill.” Her voice wasn’t angry but it also wasn’t sweet. She sounded matter-of-fact when she said, “Marla is calling you. She’s on line two.”
“Oh” was all I could manage.
“Do you want to talk to her?” asked Jill.
“I don’t know. I guess I should.”
I stared at the blinking red button for a few seconds before I finally pressed it.
“Hi,” I said. “How’d you know I was here?”
“It’s a small town.”
“Where are you?”
“Nashville.”
“Why are you calling?” I asked.
“I’m flying to Reno to get our divorce. There’ll be papers for you to sign. Where should I send them?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
“It does matter. I want this thing over.”
I gave her the address of the Newberrys’ antiques shop.
“That’s all I want,” she said. And with that, she hung up. I held the phone to my ear. The dial tone seemed like the ugliest sound I’d ever heard.
The next thing I knew, I was walking over to the main building. I went into Ryan’s office and told him, “I’m sorry, man, I really am. But this job isn’t right for me. I’m no salesman. I’m sure you’ll find someone a lot better than me.”
“I understand,” he said. “Maybe you just weren’t cut out for normal work. Maybe you should just stick with your music.”
“Maybe. Anyway, thanks, Ryan, for trying to help me out. See you around.”
On the way to my car, I heard someone calling my name. It was Jill running after me.
“Where you going?” she asked. “What happened?”
“I quit.”
“I figured you were going to quit. I mean what happened on the phone with Marla?”
“Do you really care?”
“Yes, I really care.”
“She said she’d be sending me divorce papers.”
“And that surprises you?”
“That just makes me feel like I need to be alone.”
“Sorry for butting in.”
Before I could say that I was sorry for hurting her feelings, Jill turned around and walked away.
—
After that, the mental warfare got worse. I hated myself for getting down about the divorce. Shouldn’t I be glad? Why did I have to see it as such a failure? Well, because it was a failure. I had failed at the only real relationship I’d ever had with a woman. I’d misread her completely. I’d been blind, stupid, deaf and dumb.
Holed up in the apartment above the antiques store, I withdrew for days. I kept the lights off, the shades drawn, the door locked. I stayed in bed, covering myself in darkness. I tried busting through the darkness by picking up the guitar and playing Skeeter’s song—Easygoing when it’s good, easygoing when it’s bad, easygoing when you happy, easygoing when you sad—but it wasn’t easy. It was hard. The long nights were endless. The days dragged on.
Concerned about my welfare, Meg and Tom offered me a job in their store. But if I couldn’t sell used cars, I sure as hell couldn’t sell used furniture. I thanked them but declined. Meg brought me a couple of meals, but I had no appetite. Tom asked me whether I’d ever thought about working in the oil fields in West Texas. I said I hadn’t. I said not to worry. I’d be fine. I’d figure out something to do. But I didn’t. I stayed down. I was lost.
—
White paper ’cause light broke through.
A week into this darkness, I heard a knock on my door. It was a Saturday night. It was Jill. She looked different. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She looked great.
“Do you know what I think?” she asked before I could ask her in.
“No.”
“I think you’re feeling sorry for yourself. I think you’re drowning in an ocean of self-pity—that’s what I think.”
I then said something that surprised me. I said, “I’m glad to see you, Jill.”
“You are? I didn’t
think you ever wanted to see me again.”
“I’m sorry if I gave you that feeling.”
“You ran from my house.”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?” she asked.
“Of you,” I said.
“So why are you glad to see me?”
“I don’t feel scared anymore.”
“Does that mean you’re gonna invite me in?”
“Sure. Come in. I wish I had something to offer you.”
“I don’t need anything. Well, actually I do. I need you to listen to me.”
“I’ll try.”
Jill came in and sat on a folding chair. I sat across from her on a broken-down couch.
“Where’s Vicky?” I asked.
“Funny you ask ’cause she keeps asking, ‘Where’s Vernon?’ Vicky’s with my mom. Look, Vernon, Vicky saw something in you. I saw something in you. The thing we both saw is real. It’s called goodness. You’re a good guy, and you’re a talented guy, and you need to do better than beat yourself up for choosing the wrong woman. Choosing the wrong mate is the most common mistake in the history of the world. I made that mistake. My sister Cynthia made that mistake. Who hasn’t made that mistake?”
“’Cause everyone does it, doesn’t make it easier.”
“But it makes it more understandable. You can do something foolish without branding yourself a fool for the rest of your life. Which brings me to my main point—the rest of your life. What are you going do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. You’re gonna get outta here and sing, and write, and bring people pleasure by performing in front of them.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
At this point, in spite of myself, I found myself smiling. I couldn’t resist Jill’s attitude.
“See that,” she said, “you’re feeling better already. And you’re gonna feel even better when I tell you about a friend of mine in Austin. He just bought a bar on Guadalupe Street, just down the street from the university. He wasn’t gonna have live music, but I’ve convinced him he needs it.”
“How do you know this guy?”
“He’s an old boyfriend.”
My heart sank. I saw her old boyfriend becoming her new boyfriend.
“I don’t need to get mixed up with your boyfriends,” I said.
“Former boyfriend. Very former. Now he’s very married. Good guy. He told me to bring you down so he can hear you play tonight.”
“Tonight? I don’t have a band.”
“He doesn’t want a band. He doesn’t have room for a band. Just you and your guitar.”
“I’ve never done that before.”
“You did it last week in front of me and Vicky.”
“That was different.”
“You’ll do fine. Let’s go.”
“What songs am I gonna play?”
“You have dozens.”
“Dozens written for the band—and for Marla or Willard to sing.”
“Do you know the lyrics?”
“Sure, I wrote them.”
“Then you’ll do great. Hurry.”
“I need to change,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’m wearing jeans and an old work shirt.”
“The perfect uniform for a college bar,” said Jill. “Grab your guitar. Let’s go.”
We took the twenty-five-minute drive to Austin in Jill’s Country Squire Ford station wagon.
“Why the big car?” I asked.
“Ryan let me have it for practically nothing. It’s a good car for the long road trips Vicky and I like to take.”
As Jill described some of those trips, I zoned out. My head was filled with nervousness. Thinking of the songs I wanted to play, I couldn’t remember the lyrics. I wasn’t even sure I knew the melodies. I didn’t see myself as an artist who could sit on a stool and sing songs for an hour. I was just the guitarist, the guy in the background. I had no business being out front. This was all wrong.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Jill as we entered the Austin city limits.
“I’m worried,” I confessed.
“I’m not.”
When we pulled up to the club, my stomach was in knots. For a second, I thought of bolting. Then I looked up and saw the big bright blue neon sign in the window: SKEETER’S.
I couldn’t believe it. Could it be the same Skeeter that I’d known?
“Vernon,” said Jill as we walked through the front door, “meet Bobby Marks. This is his bar.”
“Why’d you call it ‘Skeeter’s’?” was the first thing I asked.
“For an old guitarist and family friend. He died last week,” said Bobby. “He was the first guy to introduce me to music. He was a famous instrument repairman here in Austin. Could have been a famous guitarist, too, but he was afraid of playing in front of crowds.”
“He was my teacher,” I said, stunned by his connection to Bobby.
“Well, that’s beautiful,” said Jill. “Proof that positive forces are bringing us all together tonight.”
“If Skeeter was your teacher,” said Bobby, “I know he must have taught you the blues. Maybe you want to start off tonight with some blues.”
What a great suggestion! What a great feeling to know that Skeeter’s spirit was with me!
Jam-packed with college kids, the place was bigger than I’d expected. There were actually two bars, one along the back wall and one on the side. Practically everyone was drinking Lone Star or Pearl beer. Lots of loud talk, lots of young guys and pretty girls. You could feel the sexual energy. I wasn’t sure how a solo singer would go over, but looking over at that SKEETER’S sign in the window, I realized my own energy was pretty high.
There was no bandstand. A stool was placed in a corner next to the back bar. I plugged in my amp. I was given a mic. There was no spotlight, which was fine with me. There was no introduction, also fine with me. I took Bobby’s suggestion and broke out with a blues, one of the first blues Skeeter had ever taught me—Elmore James’s “Dust My Broom.” That got the attention of a few guys who wandered over to see who was playing. I stayed on the blues ’cause the blues were warming me up. At first, my singing voice sounded a little unsure, but when I heard Jill shout, “Sing out, boy! Say what you got to say!” I broke out in a big smile. My voice got louder. I actually liked the sound of my voice. Singing these old blues brought Skeeter to mind. I pictured him out there, standing among the college kids, nodding his head and cheering me on. I hit notes I’d never hit before, sang songs I’d never sung before, felt feelings I’d never felt before. The small circle surrounding me grew larger. The cheers after each song got louder. When I broke into Jimmy Reed’s “Bright Lights Big City,” some of the kids started dancing. The only percussion was my foot stomping the floor. No one seemed to care. The music was getting over.
After a half hour or so, I turned to my music, songs like “Faith” and “Dreamin’ in Blue” and “Cheatin’ Days.” By then I had the crowd in the palm of my hand. When I sang my slow songs, the place got whisper quiet. When I sang the rockers, everyone got to dancing. When I’d sung for well over an hour, Bobby came over and whispered in my ear, “Keep going if you like. The tip jar’s overflowing.”
By the time the place closed down, I’d sung three sets and cleared two hundred dollars. Bobby wanted me back for next Friday and Saturday.
“Okay, Mr. Crabbypants,” said Jill, “what you got to complain about now?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
On the way back to Round Rock, the highway was covered in moonlight. I felt like the moonlight was meant just for me—and Jill. When we got to the antiques store, she parked the car. We stayed silent for a long while.
“Well?” she asked.
�
�I’m not tired,” I said. “I’m still bouncing off the music.”
“Me too.”
“Wanna come up?” I asked.
“Thought you’d never ask,” she answered.
“What about Vicky?”
“Mom’s staying over.”
“Your mom doesn’t mind you being out all night?”
“Mom’s used to my wild ways. She tried to turn me into a sorority girl like my sister Cynthia, but soon saw it wasn’t gonna work. She gave up trying to reform me long ago.”
We got out of the car. I followed her up the narrow staircase to my tiny apartment. I’m not sure what I was feeling—happy for the great gig at Skeeter’s, grateful that Jill had coaxed me into it, uneasy about what we were going to do. I’d never been with any woman other than Marla. In bed, Marla had lots of quirks and demands. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Jill was the same. My wondering didn’t last long.
Jill’s only concern was pleasing me.
“You’ve had it rough,” she said. “But I’m here to show you not all women are users. Some actually like men—and like supporting them.”
My mind said, I could use all the support I can get—but my mouth didn’t speak the words. I didn’t have to speak. Jill sensed how I felt. She knew that my soul was wounded and my body was hungry for love. She provided that love in ways that were beautiful. When morning broke and sunlight flooded my little bedroom, the hunger had lifted. Finally, I was a man at peace with the world.
—
After that, everything fell into place. There was a natural rhythm to my new life with Jill and Vicky. I went over there every night for dinner. It felt like family. After a few weeks, I began spending the night there. That made Jill even happier, not to mention me. Thanking Meg and Tom Newberry for their kindness, I moved out of the apartment and in with Jill, Vicky and Toby. Skeeter’s turned into a five-night-a-week gig, meaning I was making decent money.
In her own determined way, Jill kept encouraging and pushing me. She got someone at the Austin newspaper to write about me. The reporter actually owned the two Good Friends albums and said he’d been wondering what had happened to the guitarist. His article was flattering. That led to work at a folk club in Houston close to Rice University. No band, just me. By this time, I was comfortable up there on the stool, just singing my songs.
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