Twang

by Julie L. Cannon

Home drunk at daybreak, humming “Love

  hurts.”

  ’Cause he’s a honky-tonk tomcat, who follows

  the trail,

  Of whiskey and perfume, a loud-calling smell.

  She oughta leave him, give him back his name,

  Take back her heart and escape all the pain.

  But she’s a believer in vows, in miracles, and

  Grace,

  She just closes her eyes—closes her eyes, and

  she prays.

  Possible Bridge: But she closes her eyes. She

  just closes her eyes.

  I looked down at what I’d written, confused, like it had come from someone else’s hand. But there were pink impressions on my fingers from holding that cheap Bic pen, and I knew I had the concept of a song with emotional impact, a compelling story. “Well, okay,” I said in a flat, exhausted tone, “time to get some sleep.”

  I woke at one in the afternoon, made coffee, showered, dressed, and rode the elevator down to buy Andy Capp’s Hot Fries and a Coke out of the vending machines. There was something to be said for finally getting sleep. I didn’t feel so frayed, like I was coming apart at the seams, and I decided to allow myself to look at the lyrics scribbled in my notebook.

  Heart racing, I read through “Honky-Tonk Tomcat,” wondering if I could summon up enough of a dispassionate disconnection to finish it. I honestly had no idea until I sat down at the desk in my room and crafted the remainder with a songwriter’s discipline. I took Roy’s advice and wrote a couple verses wherein I let my good-hearted heroine eventually grow deathly ill. The man realized what he had, repented of his tomcatting, but by then it was too late. She died—she closes her eyes for the last time. In the final verse, he’s the one who’s closing his eyes. Remorse and grief make him drink himself to death. The melody for my new song came effortlessly as I sat on the bed, strumming my Washburn.

  I suppose if I had a moment of trepidation, of second-guessing the direction I was heading in my musical career, it was right then, as I paced in my room at the Best Western. Before I called Mike. I remember asking myself, Is it worth looking back at whence you came in order to write “Honky-Tonk Tomcat”? and also Just how bad do you want this country-music-diva thing, Jennifer? and then quickly reassuring myself that this song was the first and the last of that type. I firmly believed that looking back for inspiration to write “Honky-Tonk Tomcat” was a necessary evil to get my foot in the door of the music scene in Nashville, and I made a vow to myself that it was the absolute last time I’d allow any of my past to influence my music. There were things much worse back there, and after this, I’d move only in a forward direction.

  It’s funny, but as I ponder that day back then, I see clearly it was the crossroads for me, and I could have made the choice to go a very different direction from what I did in my journey toward fame. Of course, I didn’t know then that “Honky-Tonk Tomcat” would set the course, the tone of my career as a wounded star. I couldn’t see the future of choice A or choice B. None of us can. All I knew for sure was that I had exactly what Mike Flint wanted.

  One morning, weeks later, Mike found me standing in the closet of my room at the Best Western, wrapped up like a mummy in a terrycloth bathrobe still on its hanger, crying and shaking, and holding the sheet music to “Honky-Tonk Tomcat.”

  “What’s wrong, babe?” Mike asked, his eyes bulging, his Herrera for Men cologne filling the closet. “The guy from the magazine is down in the lobby. You’ve got to get dressed. Fix your hair and stuff. Believe they want some photos too. Come on now, get yourself ready. Come on.”

  I could only shake my head. Anxious thoughts lay quivering like popcorn kernels in hot oil. I couldn’t imagine spilling the dark, confusing stories of back home that inspired “Honky-Tonk Tomcat.”

  “For cryin’ out loud, Jenny!” Mike urged, pulling my elbow to drag me out in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. “You’re acting like a five-year-old. You ought to be thrilled. Your very first song is a runaway hit. Do you know how rare this is?”

  I caught our reflection, Mike in his casually elegant Western-cut shirt and dark blue jeans, the big silver belt buckle, and his sandy-colored mop of hair—like a model in Country Gentleman magazine. Then beside him I saw this pathetic girl with long black tangled hair and a swollen face, who looked like she’d crawled out of a dumpster.

  “Listen,” Mike said, toning his voice down a notch. “You owe it to your fans. All those wonderful folks plunking down their hard-earned money for your music.”

  I knew what he was doing and I tried to resist the guilt, but couldn’t help thinking of all those people paying for my song, listening, and maybe singing along to it. Suddenly, not knowing quite whether to laugh or cry, I pulled away from Mike and said, “Okay,” turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on my face, again and again so that it shocked me into a numb state.

  “You have a stunning voice. People are saying you remind them of Patsy Cline mixed with Tammy Wynette.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sitting in the lobby and looking at the overweight, eager-faced writer from Country Music Weekly.

  “In fact, I really feel that song. Especially the chorus.” He closed his eyes and held an invisible microphone beneath his mouth and started crooning: He’s a honky-tonk tomcat who follows the scent of whiskey and perfume and women—”

  It felt like somebody stabbing me in the chest, so I bit my lip hard and tuned him out until he finished singing.

  He scribbled something onto his legal pad. “Yep, that is some powerful stuff. A compelling story coupled with a memorable melody. Why don’t you start with telling me where this particular song came from? The inspiration for your debut masterpiece.”

  They say flattery will get you anywhere, but after my meltdown in the closet, I wouldn’t dare open up about where this song actually came from to anybody. I still could hardly believe I’d written what I did, though some part of me acknowledged that without the heinous memories there wouldn’t be my very first hit song, an immediate smash at radio. “It was inspired by my best friend.”

  “Really. Tell me about it.”

  The rest of the lie came easily. “Well, my very best friend from childhood, from kindergarten on, had this father who used to run around on her mother. Right in her mother’s face, as a matter of fact. My friend—her name was Lisa—didn’t understand it. She hated her father coming home loaded, with all these various barflies. Sometimes Lisa didn’t even hear him coming in, and she’d wake up and head to the kitchen in her nightgown, ready for some breakfast, you know? And she’d find her father and some trashy tramp on the sofa, tangled up together, half-dressed. You can imagine how upsetting that was to a little kid, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his full lips in an O. Then after a moment, “He sounds like a real scalawag.”

  “Yep,” I said, feeling a little jab of fury. “Bad, bad man. I seem to remember he read a lot of X-rated magazines, and he had a really filthy mind. He would be so foul-mouthed, even when Lisa was around! He’d leer at other women right in front of his wife and his daughter. She didn’t know what to think. Or do.” I willed away the tears.

  He shook his head.

  A moment, and then the rest poured out. “But you know what’s funny? Lisa’s mother never would confront her father! Well, beyond her initial madness and a few words. She cried a lot of tears, I mean, that’s what Lisa told me anyway, and I bet they were awful to listen to. But the next day, Lisa’s mother would just say stuff like, ‘Well, it’s not his fault. It’s that old Demon Alcohol, and I’m praying, and I just have to have faith that he’ll see the light and change,’ and . . .” Here was where my made-up storyline petered out.

  “My, my!” The interviewer was scribbling stuff down furiously, shaking his head. “That is tragic. Really tragic.” He looked up at me. “And then Lisa lost her mother. But at least her father did end up seeing the light, so to speak, realizing what he’d had.”


  I looked at him blankly, and he chuckled and added, “At least that’s what the song says.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right, right. Well, actually, Lisa didn’t know she lost her mother, because she ended up taking her own life before that part of the song happened.” I felt the storyteller in me surging up. “As a matter of fact, I wrote this song in her memory. It’s for Lisa, and every time I sing it, I think of Lisa, and I say a little prayer for her. God rest her soul.”

  He shook his head quickly, eyes shut, as if the “rest of the story” was almost more than he could bear. “I’ll tell you something,” he said at last, opening eyes shiny with unspilled tears. “You’re a mighty fine person, Jenny Cloud. A person with a good Christian heart, and I can see why ‘Honky-Tonk Tomcat’ is taking the country music world by storm. You ought to be proud of yourself.”

  Back in my room I turned off the telephone’s ringer, undressed, and shakily climbed into bed, curling into the fetal position with the covers over my head. I fell asleep almost instantly, a beautiful, numb escape from the continual waves of anxiety and self-loathing I’d been battling. Day turned into dusk, and still I slept, deeply and safely removed from reality, until finally my rumbling stomach betrayed me. I shrugged the covers off to blink at the red numbers of a digital clock. 8:17 p.m.

  That meant Roy was at his post. Despite the butterflies still fluttering in my stomach, I hurriedly put on my blue jeans and a blouse, pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail and went downstairs in my bare feet. When I got to the front desk, I was glad to see Roy hadn’t ordered supper yet. His collection of menus was spread out on the counter, and he looked up from them and smiled big. He was wearing his tan seersucker suit, which didn’t bring out his eyes quite the way the blue one did, but he also wore a Panama hat atop his white swoop of hair, which made him seem somewhat like an old-time movie star. “Well, well,” he said, pulling my usual chair from the wall to face his stool, then bowing ever so slightly, “if it isn’t our own resident star. How you doin’ this lovely evening, Miss Jennifer? You hungry?”

  “I’m starved,” I said, surprised to hear my own, normal voice.

  “How you feel about Eye-talian tonight,” he said in such a twangy voice I had to smile.

  “Good.”

  “Alrighty. I don’t believe we’ve had supper from Sole Mio yet, have we?”

  “No.”

  “Sole Mio has handmade pasta and handmade sauces to die for. It’s where the locals go to find the finest Italian cuisine in Nashville. I believe I’ll order us two entrees of . . .” he squinted down at the menu in his hands, “Scaloppine di Vitello! That sound all right?”

  “That sounds great,” I said, sinking down into my chair. “Thank you, Roy.”

  “My pleasure. Now, I keep forgetting you’re old enough to drink, and Sole Mio’s got both Italian and Californian wines that complement their entrees like you wouldn’t believe. What’s your pleasure?” He raised his eyebrows.

  I cleared my throat and said, “No thanks. I don’t drink,” bracing myself for the inevitable piercing question. But Roy just nodded, said with perfect sincerity, “Fine, because I do believe, now that I think about it, I’m more in the mood for some good old Southern sweet tea with lemon.”

  His florid face looked so happy as he ordered our food I had to laugh, and as I did I noticed this certain lightening inside of me, a little bitty internal sunrise in the dark recesses of my troubled soul.

  “Time to eat!” Roy said a good fifteen minutes later, leaning back to make room for Sole Mio’s deliveryman to place a tray on the counter—a Styrofoam basket of hot bread and butter in a small tub, two salads, also in Styrofoam, and two steaming platters of Scaloppine. When the lids were lifted, the scent of warm cheese mingled with rosemary, basil, garlic, and oregano.

  “I hear ‘Honky-Tonk Tomcat’ is breaking all kinds of records,” Roy said in a bit, busy with knife and fork.

  “Yeah. That’s what Mike says.”

  He paused and looked up at me with a huge smile stretched across his face. I wondered what he’d say if he knew that not only did I not have a best friend named Lisa but also that the story, besides the woman dying and the man repenting, was from my life. I wondered if Roy would understand that sometimes a person cannot tell the truth, even to her actual best friend, which he was now.

  Roy blew on his scaloppine, then took a bite, closing his eyes in rapture. Eventually he paused from eating. “Well,” he said, “I thought it was brilliant how you used religion to tug on folks’ heartstrings. All that ‘she prays, she’s a believer in miracles and grace’ stuff. That’s what appeals to all those nuts out there who think God cares about them. Like I always say, ain’t no more perfect place for that kind of stuff than in a country song.”

  I shrugged because I didn’t know what to say.

  “I mean it!” Roy waved his fork. “Whenever I’m listening to your new hit song, which incidentally comes on WSIX every other song, to those lines about praying, about believing in miracles and grace, I got to smile. It sounds so heartfelt, and ’course, I know you don’t believe all that, but you ain’t gotta believe it to use it, and you did a fine job, Jennifer. You sure know how to write ’em and sing ’em.”

  “Thanks.” I tried to look happy, but I felt a little deflated.

  After we finished our meal and Roy had cleaned everything up, he pulled open the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. “You like coconut Neapolitans?” He looked hopefully over at me, holding up a Brach’s bag bulging with pink, white, and brown striped candies.

  “They’re my favorite sweet,” I said, thankful that this was the honest truth.

  “Mine too! Guess that makes us birds of a feather. ’Cept, well, I’m also partial to Maple Nut Goodies and Orange Slices and Paydays and Moon Pies, the banana ones that is, and pecan pie, and Stuckey’s Pecan Logs, and fresh-out-of-the-fat Krispy Kreme donuts, and can’t forget our own city’s specialty, Goo-Goo Clusters, and . . .” his voice trailed off and his face looked wistful.

  “What’s the matter?” I touched his hand. “Roy, you all right?”

  He frowned. “Well, last month I was having some chest pains, and . . . ” I looked closely at him, hoping he wouldn’t say what I knew he was going to. At last, he shook his head sadly. “Doctor Firth told me if I don’t quit eating the way I do, I won’t see my sixty-fourth birthday.”

  I felt my heart sink. “That’s terrible. I hate that,” I said, and I honestly did. If anybody loved their food, it was Roy Durden.

  “But . . . ” he said in a contemplative voice, “I don’t want to live if it’s going to be on oatmeal and steamed broccoli! What kind of existence would that be? I believe I’d be happy if I went out of here holding a piece of fried chicken in one hand and an eclair in the other.”

  I looked down into my tea.

  “Uh-uh!” Roy said sternly as he noisily unwrapped a Neapolitan. “No long faces! None of us is gonna make it out of here alive! Better to have something to live for than worryin’ about dyin’.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, nodding as I felt the cloud above me scuttling away. I knew I’d die for my music the way Roy Durden would die for his food. He was right—we were all going to wind up dead sooner or later. So, no more feeling guilty about lying.

  After Roy and I polished off the bag of Neapolitans, he cleared his throat and said, “Now, there’s something else I need to say.”

  “Okay.” I wondered what else was fixing to come out of his mouth.

  “I’m all for you getting to be a country music superstar and getting rich. Believe me, Jennifer. Because I believe it’s in the cards for you, and I don’t think you’d be happy going down any other pathway. But I’m worried sick you’re gonna get so famous you won’t remember us little guys anymore. You’re gonna leave the Best Western and get one of those big fancy mansions in Brentwood, and start hanging out with the stars and the important people.”

  I looked at Roy’s worried pink face, shook my head, an
d said, “I won’t! I could never forget you in a million years.”

  “Well . . . okay,” he said. “Reckon I ain’t got no choice but to believe you.” He laughed to let me know he was kidding. “In between making albums, collecting Grammies, and signing autographs, Jennifer, I’d be honored if you’d stop by and see your old friend Roy and share a meal every now and then. Like old times.”

  “I will,” I said, rising to go. “I promise. Thank you for the scaloppine and the Neapolitans. It was the best meal I’ve had in my whole entire life.”

  As I rode the elevator back upstairs, I noticed that the butterflies in my stomach were gone. The value of a quiet conscience, even temporarily, cannot be underestimated.

  One month later, Mike Flint called to say that “Honky-Tonk Tomcat” was on its way to being the fastest-breaking single ever. It was the talk of country music circles, still number one on Billboard Country at week nine, remaining there since its debut following a record five-and-a-half weeks, dancing close to a crossover hit. I even had the promise of an album.

  I don’t know how to describe those early days, except to say that I was unaware of anything but my own delirious happiness. If I ever felt that old, familiar twist in the gut, one of those sharp thoughts that ambush a person, racing up their spine and culminating in a cold sweat, I just took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was moving on, living in the moment, living free like Roy Durden, and soon it was forgotten. With my past buried and my conscience silenced, life seemed magical, my future stretching out indescribably beautiful before me. I was certain luck would continue to shine on me.