Pretty Paper

by Willie Nelson

  I wanted to do something.

  I had to do something.

  This was wrong.

  This needed to be made right.

  I was tired of the all the signs coming my way, giving me clues of what happened. I was tired of reading about the story, tired of thinking about the story. I didn’t know whether I’d been flirting with this story or whether this story had been flirting with me. Either way, I was outside the story looking in. I wanted to be inside the story. If I really cared about this guy and the god-awful bad breaks he’d gotten—and was still getting—it was sure as hell time to finally get hold of this story and bend it my way.

  It was time to get going.

  ROUND ROCK, TEXAS

  Round Rock is an easy town to overlook. Driving down I-35 from Dallas, you zip through Waco, Temple, Belton and Georgetown. If you blink, you miss Round Rock before sailing into Austin.

  I was in a hurry to get there. I’d started the trip in Dallas, where Crash had booked me into Dewey Groom’s Longhorn Ballroom over the Thanksgiving weekend. I’d been making calls to Round Rock long before that, though, with no results.

  The first call was to the Smith Ford dealership, but the operator said it no longer existed. When I contacted Lone Star Ford of Round Rock, I was told that the Smiths had sold out years ago. Information had no number for Ryan Smith. I remembered that Cynthia’s maiden name was Simone and her mom’s first name was Virginia. There were only two Simones in Round Rock—Fred and Reggie. When I got Fred on the phone, he spoke with a shaky voice. He sounded very old. Turned out he was a distant relative of Reggie, who he said was married to Virginia. At last I was getting somewhere. At last I was about to talk to people—the parents of Cynthia and Jill—who had a direct link to Vernon. But no one answered at that number. I called at least ten times. I let the phone ring and ring, but it was no use.

  —

  That’s when I decided that, the minute the Dallas gig was over Sunday night, I’d jump in my car Monday morning, head due south and see if I could get to the bottom of this thing.

  Arriving in Round Rock, I rode around until I spotted Luby’s cafeteria, remembering it as the place where Vernon’s grandmother had worked. It was lunchtime. I had chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, a nice chunk of cornbread and sweet iced tea. I gave myself a few minutes to digest before heading to the pay phone behind the cashier. A phone book was attached to the wall by a chain. I looked up Reggie Simone’s number and, figuring what the hell, gave it one more try. No answer. I wrote down the address. The cashier knew the street and gave me directions.

  The Simone residence was a handsome ranch-style house, the nicest in the neighborhood. I pressed the doorbell and heard chimes ring out. Waited a few minutes and rang the chimes again. No one came. I walked around to the two-car garage but the windowless garage door was closed tight.

  All I could do was return to my car and call it a day. That’s when a woman, taking her brown-and-white cocker spaniel for a walk, asked, “Looking for Reggie and Virginia?”

  “I am.”

  “They’ve been spending most of their time in Dallas.”

  “I was actually looking for Virginia’s daughter, Cynthia, and her husband, Ryan.”

  “They moved to Dallas. That’s the reason Reggie and Virginia are there. Just a week or so ago, Cynthia had a baby girl.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, ma’am. One other thing—you wouldn’t happen to have a number for them in Dallas, would you?”

  “Virginia gave me Cynthia’s number, in case of an emergency. Is this an emergency?”

  “I’d say it is.”

  “Wait here. I live right next door. I’ll get the number for you.”

  The number in hand, I pulled into the first gas station I came across. I got out and headed for the pay phone. The long-distance operator connected me to Dallas.

  “Could I be talking to Cynthia Smith?” I asked.

  “You could be. Who is this?”

  I introduced myself. “I’m a friend of Vernon Clay’s.”

  “You are?”

  “I most surely am.”

  “Well then, you’ll be wanting to talk to him. He’s here. But it’ll take a little while for him to get to the phone. Can you wait?”

  “I can.”

  My heart was racing. After all this time, I’d actually located my man.

  “Who’s this?” The question came from a man with a deeply skeptical voice.

  I told him before adding, “Been wondering where in hell you been keeping yourself.”

  A few seconds passed before he said, “I figured that if you wanted to find me, you would.”

  “You haven’t made it easy.”

  “I never really know where I’m going till I get there.”

  “You gonna stay still in Dallas long enough for me to drive back up there and see you?” I asked.

  “For what reason?”

  “Well, you sent me your story—that’s reason enough. I got some ideas for the next chapter.”

  More long seconds of silence.

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “Fresh from a delicious chicken-fried steak lunch at Luby’s cafeteria in Round Rock.”

  I thought I heard him chuckle.

  “Hell,” he finally said, “if you’re that gung ho to see me, Cynthia will give you the address.”

  —

  I felt a little foolish turning around and retracing my route a hundred and eighty miles back to Dallas, where I’d started out earlier that same day. Felt like I was running around in circles. In fact, I’d been doing just that. On the bright side, though, I’d accomplished something. I had my target in sight.

  I got to Dallas too late in the night to pay a visit, but by noon the next day, I was knocking on the door of a two-story Colonial-style brick home on Beverly Drive in Highland Park, the fanciest section of the city.

  A well-coiffed woman in her mid-fifties answered the door. She was dressed in a tailored gray dress adorned by a string of cultured pearls. She was attractive in a matronly way, poised and reserved.

  “Yes?” she asked sternly.

  Introducing myself, I said, “I believe Cynthia and Vernon are expecting me.”

  “Oh, you’re the musician friend,” she said, stressing the word “musician” as if it were akin to being a criminal.

  Just then a younger woman appeared, holding a sleeping infant. I recognized Cynthia from her Good Friends photos. She was a striking brunette with soft brown eyes and a graceful bearing. She wore a housecoat elaborately embroidered with figures of swans.

  “Forgive my appearance,” she said. “I was just nursing.”

  “This must be the new addition,” I said. “Congratulations. She’s a beauty.”

  “Thank you. Would you mind coming into the den so we could chat for a while?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Without uttering a word, the disapproving mother disappeared up the stairs.

  The spacious den had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a lush garden and an oval-shaped pool. Cynthia sat on a pale blue couch. I sat across from her in a large leather armchair. Nestled in Cynthia’s arms, the infant continued her peaceful sleep.

  “You’ll have to forgive my mother,” said Cynthia. “She bristles at anything or anyone that reminds her of my former life. She hates that Vernon’s living with us—so much so that I was shocked when she and Dad came to help out with the baby.”

  “How long has Vernon been living here?”

  “Not too long after Ryan sold the dealership in Round Rock and opened one here in Dallas. Must have been around Easter when I went over to Fort Worth and happened to see him selling his wrapping papers and ribbons. After the accident, we had no idea where he went. He just disappeared into thin air. You can imagine my shock when I saw him there on the sidewalk.
At first I couldn’t believe it. But it was really him. I knew I had to do something. Before I even approached Vernon, I went home and spoke to Ryan. Ryan has a heart of gold. He agreed with me. We had to do something. So I went back to Fort Worth. Vernon wasn’t all that glad to see me. I understood. I’m sure that seeing me only made him see Jill and Vicky. At first he wouldn’t even talk to me, but I was persistent. I found out where he was living. I’m sure the people who owned that little restaurant treated him kindly, but hawking his wares in all kinds of weather in front of that department store, day after day—it had to be hard on him. It took a while, but I finally convinced him to try an easier life.”

  “And has it been easier?” I asked.

  “Not really. He’s not happy. He rarely comes out of his room. And now that my parents are here, he won’t come out at all.”

  “What does he do in there?”

  “For a while I saw that he was writing.”

  “I know. I read what he’d written. He sent it to the good folks who owned the restaurant, and they gave it to me.”

  “And then he stopped writing. I’m guessing he wrote out his story. But why did he send it to you?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “But I’d like to believe he’s reaching out for help.”

  “So you’re here to help him. How?”

  “Wish I could say. Like you, I first saw him out there by Leonards. Ever since then, his story has been following me wherever I go.”

  “I suppose you know how Marla dropped Willard for some Nashville producer. Willard joined the navy. Now Marla’s calling herself Bambi Love. That woman makes me sick.”

  “Does Vernon know about Bambi?” I asked.

  “When I mentioned it, he cut me off. He didn’t want to hear another word.”

  “Well, I admire you and your husband for putting yourself out for him.”

  “We haven’t done all that much. In practical terms, I know he’s better off. But emotionally, I’m not sure.”

  The baby began to cry.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Jill.”

  “Does it comfort Vernon to be around her?”

  “He can’t look at her without crying,” said Cynthia. “So he mainly stays away.”

  “I best go back there and tell him hello, if that’s okay with you.”

  “I’m glad you came. I really am. I just hope he’ll talk to you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  —

  Outside, the November sun was bright, but the air was cold. I knocked on the pool house door. A few seconds went by before I heard the sound of rolling wheels. The door opened and I looked down at the man, still on the cart, who looked considerably older than when I had first seen him nearly a year before. His face was lined and his eyes were sad. Yet he hadn’t lost his looks. His ruggedly handsome square-jawed face still retained vitality. Being in his presence, I felt a distinct strength radiating from him. He wore a white flannel shirt, snug enough to show the bulge of his biceps and shape of his broad shoulders. In the corner of the surprisingly large room, I noticed a set of exercise equipment.

  “Looks like you’ve been working out,” I said.

  “A way to pass the time.”

  “By the way, it’s good to see you, man. It really is.”

  “And why is that?” he asked.

  “You been on my mind. Thanks for sending me your story.”

  “You were curious,” he said.

  “And remain so.”

  “About what?”

  “Like I said on the phone, I’m curious about the next chapter.”

  “This is it,” he said, waving his arms around the room. “This is me. A bird in a gilded cage.”

  “But has the bird been singing?”

  I was hoping that would get a laugh, but it didn’t.

  “Got nothing to sing about,” he said.

  “Hell, man, you got a shitload of songs.”

  “Songs that have already been sung.”

  “Agreed. Not only have they been sung, they’ve been ripped off and resung by your former singer. But you know all about that.”

  “I don’t know much about anything.”

  “Well, sir,” I said, “it’s time you learned. You got a producer out there cannibalizing your catalogue. The bastard’s flat-out stealing you blind.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Really?” I asked. “That’s how you really feel about it? You really like the idea of some snake in the grass making a fortune on hit songs that were born out of your heart and soul?”

  “You read my story,” said Vernon. “You know it just don’t have no happy endings. Things start out bad, then get better, then get worse. There ain’t no changing that.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I am.”

  “So what’s your plan?” I asked.

  “To have no plans. To give up on plans. To stay where I am. To know this is as good as it’s gonna get. I got food, I got shelter. I got a couple of good friends. I won’t go out there and disturb the world as long as the world don’t come in here and disturb me.”

  “But you gotta face facts, Vernon—the world is disturbing you. It’s disturbing the hell outta you. You got every damn reason under the sun to be disturbed. Fact is, I’ve come here to disturb you even more.”

  He finally laughed, but more a laugh of scorn than amusement.

  With determined eyes, he looked at me and said, “I hate that you had to come such a long way to find this out, but the truth is pretty simple. The truth is that at this point, I really can’t be disturbed.”

  “You mean, that wall you built around you is so high no one’s climbing over it?” I asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’ve climbed over it. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “For a very short while.”

  I went over to one of those beanbag chairs that had been set up in front of a TV. I plopped down and surprised myself by saying, “Hey, man, I got all the time in the world.”

  NUTSY PERKINS AND RANGER ROY FINKELSTEIN

  Brother Paul was a good drummer and an even better friend. The best thing about Paul was how he stayed in contact with all his many connections. For a tough guy, he had few enemies. Other tough guys respected him because he had balls of steel.

  Paul and I were in Fort Worth, where he’d gone to see his mother. For old times’ sake, he suggested we meet for a drink at Big Bill’s barroom. The last thing I told Vernon when he was giving me the silent treatment in Dallas was that, whether he liked it or not, I’d come up with a plan. But of course I had no plan. Over a few beers and bourbon chasers, I explained my predicament to Brother Paul.

  “You need help,” said Paul.

  “You ain’t kidding.”

  “I think I know the guys. You know them too.”

  “I do?”

  “Nutsy and Ranger Roy.”

  “Nutsy Perkins? Ranger Roy Finkelstein? How could they help?”

  “They’re idea men.”

  “They are?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re never out of ideas. I was just talking to them yesterday. They moved up to Denton.”

  “I heard about that. Why Denton?”

  “Fort Worth was getting a little hot for them. Denton’s off the beaten track. I’ll tell ’em you wanna see ’em.”

  “I don’t see the point.”

  “You and me, we don’t see a lot of things,” said Paul. “But Nutsy and Ranger Roy have their ways. I’ll call them. I’ll set up a meeting.”

  “Still don’t know what good that’ll do.”

  “It sure as shit won’t do no harm.”

  —

  Nutsy, who was no music fan, had reservations about the meeting. Ranger Roy, a big fan, had none. T
he only caveat was that I’d have to go to Denton, headquarters of their growing enterprise.

  I didn’t mind the forty-minute drive. I had fond memories of Denton. Last time I played a honky-tonk in that vicinity, I happened by North Texas State University, where the school jazz band sounded as good as anything by Stan Kenton or Woody Herman. Funny to think of sleepy ol’ Denton as a jazz town, but that’s what it was.

  Denton was also the perfect low-profile place for the kind of business Nutsy and Ranger Roy were engaged in. They operated out of a defunct funeral parlor situated next to an auto repair shop. They didn’t bother to take down the sign that said PEACE VALLEY FUNERAL SERVICES AND CREMATION.

  The door was open, so I walked right in. The place smelled of cigar smoke. The front room was empty.

  “Anyone here?” I asked.

  A gray-haired woman appeared and wanted to know my name. I told her.

  “Wait here,” she said.

  She disappeared. Ten minutes went by before she returned to say, “Follow me.”

  She took me around back where we faced a good-sized warehouse with a front door of thick steel. She gave six short knocks that led to the door being unbolted.

  “They’re in that private office, way in the back,” was all the woman said.

  Inside the warehouse was a long row of desks piled up with papers. Stationed at the desk were men—some looked like bank clerks, some looked like farmhands—talking on the phone. Other men were racing back and forth, marking up several large blackboards where the results of sporting events were being posted. The place buzzed with excited chatter.

  I spotted Nutsy and Ranger Roy in the private office closed off by glass. They sat at opposite ends of a big conference table covered with more piles of paper and six different phones. Nutsy, who was on a call, didn’t acknowledge my presence, but Ranger Roy got right up to greet me.

  “I see you found us,” he said.

  He wore a black cowboy hat with a silver sheriff’s star stuck above the brim. His oversized frog eyes were friendly enough. He seemed genuinely glad to see me. He had all kinds of questions about the new songs I’d been writing. I asked him whether he’d given up the Record Dump in Garland.