* * *
Are you sure Hank;
The clichés were just too real.
Like rolling into Nashville on an empty tank. Clawing between the seats, not enough change to buy a gallon of gas.
We called the promoter who brought us a full can. He was a crazed looking fellow about thirty years old with long red hair and a Stetson. I liked him immediately. We followed him to the club which was a converted diner.
It all looked pretty right.
While we unloaded he played an ancient pinball machine over by the bar.
"Hank Williams fired up this baby."
"No shit?"
"He'd play it for days high on speed."
"Wasn't he born with a tail?"
"Yeah, Spina Bonafides."
"You mean Bifida."
"Well he was a bonafide nut, that's for sure."
He asked if anyone wanted to go to the Country Music Hall of Fame and hands went up. I stayed behind to smoke a joint and take a nap on the scuzzy backstage couch. I awoke to a darkened club and the sound of metallic bangs and clanging bells. I went to take a look...
Hank's pinball machine was all lit up and playing itself.
I wish I was lying.
My hair stood
up as the fellas rambled in and hit all the lights. The promoter
wandered over and took a look at me and the demonic machine."Happens all the time man, you wanna drink?"
He went behind the bar and grabbed several cans of Bud then poured a couple of shots of Beam. Chez got busy sorting through take out containers from the local cafe: catfish, dirty rice and whatnot. Strings got changed, amps checked, the usual shit. The promoter downed his shot and sighed.
"I'm as bad as Hank, crazy for me to drink with my colonic crumbs and all."
"C’mon, pour another one."
"This town turns fuck-ups into us all... why couldn't I've been born in Memphis?"
"I thought you two hated each other... like LA and Frisco?"
"No they hates us but we love Elvis and just want to dance, that's the God's honest
truth."
What did that blues harp player say back in Memphis?
I’d rather have a sister in a brothel than a brother in Nashville…