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Her limo driver was late. And then he showed up in a pink Cadilac instead of a limo.
Darla almost rolled her eyes as the car finally rolled up. She had no idea who made the call at the arena, but here she was rolling up on her next gig with no sign of being listened to or any hope that her wishes had been respected. But she grabbed her Daisy Stratocaster and climbed into the back. Behind the wheel was a thin man with a lazy smile. Once she buckled in and settled the guitar beside her, he took off.
“Looking for a ride out, girl?”
“That’s right,” Darla said. She would be staying there before driving off to Missouri for the next casino show. Nashville had been good, exciting, but it wasn’t as if anyone knew her name.
“All right,” he said lightly. “Don’t suppose you have any other places you want to go?”
“Not presently,” she said. With that, he began to drive.
She didn’t notice how pale he was and how sweaty he seemed until they were a good ten miles out of town. “Are you well?”
“Nothing,” he said, “a little whisky down the line wouldn’t fix.”
Dear God. Only her agent would manage to book her a drunk. A driver who looked a lot like Hank Williams Senior, though she immediately discounted that factoid. “Just as long as it’s down the line,” she said.
“I don’t drink with ladies present,” said the driver quickly. “Not anymore.” Silence passed between them. When they passed a diner, he got even paler. “You know how to play that thing?”
Darla protectively wrapped her arm around the guitar. “Since I was five.” She thought she would play for him, if only to stop the distracting moaning coming from Ferlin Husky about how love was like the blues or some semi-deep shit like that. She loved and respected her forefathers, but Darla was far more interested in her foremothers.
“Are you good at it? Do you know how to play music? Do you really know how to make them feel what you do when you play? Do you have the callouses and the scars on your heart?”
It was a strange question. For a moment she had no idea how to answer him. Then a wave of sparking, fierce anger filled her. She wanted to growl at him about the sexism that permeated everything in Nashville, and the broken glass she’d had to crawl through to get a seat at the table. “I do my level best to make all of that true.”
A thin smile. “Miss, sometimes our best just ain’t good enough.”
She knew that, thinking of how many country artists had disappeared into the ether, drinking or drugging themselves into oblivion. Sometimes it wasn’t the life they chose to live but a simple, accidental twist of fate that killed you – like Patsy Cline going into that mountain. “If you’re telling me I’ve got to be tough to get on top, mister, believe me I know that I do. The things I’ve seen and the people I’ve known…it’d turn your hair grey.
He pressed his lips together, thought for a moment – as if he thought it would be nice to have grey hair. But then he said, “why don’t you play for me and we’ll see how you’re doing?”
She was glad she hadn’t bothered with a case this time. “Got a request?”
“Why not ‘Hey, Good Lookin’?” He asked.
Well, why not indeed? She began to strum the notes a chunky movement that made her smile in spite of herself. He picked up the supporting harmony after too long, and he swept her along to the next town, and then the next.
She couldn’t lie to herself about who she was with anymore. But, she hoped, at least, this was bringing him some sort of peace.
After a few hours, they rolled toward the Arkansas border. Hank turned north. “You know, I miss it,” he said suddenly. “Not the price I had to pay, but the way it felt to have all of those eyes on me. Made me feel like I was somebody, you know. At least for awhile.”
“Anything you’d do different?” she asked.
“I wish I were ready for it,” he said. “Tougher. Wish I was there to stop my boy from being swallowed up by it; even my girl. My problem was that I didn’t care and then it was too late. I got stuck on this road like a ghost. And now here I am, stuck in place. Going back and forth from here to Alabama over and over again. That’s all this afterlife is. All because I couldn’t stop myself.” He turned the wheel north. It was a few more miles to the Missouri border. “Then again, if you had wives like mine…”
“…I imagine some of it was your fault, too,” Darla pointed out, smirking slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. And then he relaxed back into the seat. “And my mama’s.”
The world sped by, turning inky blue as the sun began to set. Darla tried to think of the right words to give this man, caught in his Sisyphean journey. She wondered how many others he’d seen fall over the years.
“You ever learn to play the banjo?” she wondered suddenly.
He broke out laughing, a wheeze, a bark of humor that made her smile. “Suppose it’s just like picking a guitar,” he mused. “Just like it.”
Missouri was green and silent, a wall of trees as he took her down to the motel. “How much?” she asked as she hopped out.
He shook his head. “Just play good music all honest. That’s enough to make me happy.”
She took the words with a nod. When she left the car she tipped her hat, and headed to the front door of the motel. Turning around, she saw the car was gone – and realized that she’d never heard the sound of tires crunching upon gravel when he left.
Oh well, onto the next gig. She smiled at the brown-haired woman behind the lush, ornate, red velvet-lined counter, “Well, welcome on in to the Mills.” She handed over Darla her key. “I hope you have a good stay. And if you need any help – just call on old Loretty.” She grinned. “I’ll see you through…”