and told him that her boy was ailing and he'd better get his tail to Knoxville. Doc gives him a good shot of morphine and insists on him choking down one of those pills of his. There's a knock on the door and the kid says he just got off the phone with the promoter and the Charleston show's canceled but he'll see them in Canton for sure, so Hank drifts away to a place nearer to death than to sleep.
Then somebody's pulling and shaking and slapping Hank around, hollering, "Wake up, Hank, it's time to roll!" and then big powerful black arms, a hotel porter, maybe, scoop him up and carry him downstairs like a baby, gently but firmly, cradling him and loading him into the back seat of the car.
Then the kid's behind the wheel and Doc's riding shotgun and they're rolling and the big Caddy takes every bump and pothole in stride. Hank doesn't mind riding when his back doesn't hurt. Big tires thumping, windshield wipers slapping. That was where the best songs came from, that rhythm of the road.
"
You think he's gonna be all right?" he hears somebody ask. They're talking about him like he's not even there, and he's only a foot and a half away! He mumbles back, "Ain't nothin' gonna be all right, no how.
"
Or maybe he only dreamed that he said it.
Or maybe nobody said anything at all.
The morphine talks to Hank sometimes, the way that ghosts talk, in low, rattling whispers that dare him to listen and catch every single word.
"
You been headed down this road all your miserable life, Hank.
"
Sheer terror grips Hank; icy fingers close around that celebrated throat of his, squeezing him, choking him, but he manages to muster a barely audible moan that sputters and sharpens and then explodes upon contact with the night air into a whine, not a complaint, but an insistent resonant frequency that bypasses all of the sensory intermediaries and travels directly to the heart ... A sound that can be made by no creature on this earth except for Hank.
"
He-e-e-y! No-o-o-o! Hell, no! Who the hell are you? Where you takin' me to?
"
"
Canton, Hank." But it's Doc's voice this time, deep and soothing and familiar. "You got a show to do in Canton, Ohio." A little penlight shines in Hank's eyes, blinding him, but Hank doesn't need to see Doc's face to know that everything will be just fine in a minute or two.
"
Better pull this thing over the next chance you get," says Doc to the kid, and when they stop he gives Hank another shot and another pill.
And then the tires are singing again, and more miles slip by, and Ernest Tubb and Webb Pierce and even Ol' Hank himself are on the radio cutting through the static like a brand-new Barlow knife. Up front Doc and the kid talk baseball and they must think Hank's sleeping but they're wrong and they damn sure don't know he's got a pint of whiskey hid out in the crack of the seat. Between the shot and the pill and a pull or two on the secret pint, Hank's back doesn't hurt and his hands don't shake and he's floating, drifting along like a flatbottom boat on a lazy Alabama river, and ... wait a minute...
Now it's Christmastime and Hank's back home in Nashville and Audrey's there and she's not mad anymore and there's little Bocephus bouncing on his knee and Audrey says, "Hank, honey, go easy on that whiskey now, 'cause you got to play the Opry tonight," and Hank says, "Yes'm, Miss Audrey, don't you worry none. I'll be fine!" And the gang's all there and they're laughing and singing "Silent Night" and the tree's all lit up and you can see it shining through the big picture window a half a mile down Franklin road ... but then the lights go all fuzzy and fade and flicker and one by one ... they blink out...
Hank's all by himself in the middle of the loneliest stretch of highway in the universe. He stands there for a minute and he looks all around, or maybe it's an hour, a week, or even a month.
He could be anywhere. There are no landmarks; there's no recognizable terrain he can use to fix his position. He only
Then somebody's pulling and shaking and slapping Hank around, hollering, "Wake up, Hank, it's time to roll!" and then big powerful black arms, a hotel porter, maybe, scoop him up and carry him downstairs like a baby, gently but firmly, cradling him and loading him into the back seat of the car.
Then the kid's behind the wheel and Doc's riding shotgun and they're rolling and the big Caddy takes every bump and pothole in stride. Hank doesn't mind riding when his back doesn't hurt. Big tires thumping, windshield wipers slapping. That was where the best songs came from, that rhythm of the road.
"
You think he's gonna be all right?" he hears somebody ask. They're talking about him like he's not even there, and he's only a foot and a half away! He mumbles back, "Ain't nothin' gonna be all right, no how.
"
Or maybe he only dreamed that he said it.
Or maybe nobody said anything at all.
The morphine talks to Hank sometimes, the way that ghosts talk, in low, rattling whispers that dare him to listen and catch every single word.
"
You been headed down this road all your miserable life, Hank.
"
Sheer terror grips Hank; icy fingers close around that celebrated throat of his, squeezing him, choking him, but he manages to muster a barely audible moan that sputters and sharpens and then explodes upon contact with the night air into a whine, not a complaint, but an insistent resonant frequency that bypasses all of the sensory intermediaries and travels directly to the heart ... A sound that can be made by no creature on this earth except for Hank.
"
He-e-e-y! No-o-o-o! Hell, no! Who the hell are you? Where you takin' me to?
"
"
Canton, Hank." But it's Doc's voice this time, deep and soothing and familiar. "You got a show to do in Canton, Ohio." A little penlight shines in Hank's eyes, blinding him, but Hank doesn't need to see Doc's face to know that everything will be just fine in a minute or two.
"
Better pull this thing over the next chance you get," says Doc to the kid, and when they stop he gives Hank another shot and another pill.
And then the tires are singing again, and more miles slip by, and Ernest Tubb and Webb Pierce and even Ol' Hank himself are on the radio cutting through the static like a brand-new Barlow knife. Up front Doc and the kid talk baseball and they must think Hank's sleeping but they're wrong and they damn sure don't know he's got a pint of whiskey hid out in the crack of the seat. Between the shot and the pill and a pull or two on the secret pint, Hank's back doesn't hurt and his hands don't shake and he's floating, drifting along like a flatbottom boat on a lazy Alabama river, and ... wait a minute...
Now it's Christmastime and Hank's back home in Nashville and Audrey's there and she's not mad anymore and there's little Bocephus bouncing on his knee and Audrey says, "Hank, honey, go easy on that whiskey now, 'cause you got to play the Opry tonight," and Hank says, "Yes'm, Miss Audrey, don't you worry none. I'll be fine!" And the gang's all there and they're laughing and singing "Silent Night" and the tree's all lit up and you can see it shining through the big picture window a half a mile down Franklin road ... but then the lights go all fuzzy and fade and flicker and one by one ... they blink out...
Hank's all by himself in the middle of the loneliest stretch of highway in the universe. He stands there for a minute and he looks all around, or maybe it's an hour, a week, or even a month.
He could be anywhere. There are no landmarks; there's no recognizable terrain he can use to fix his position. He only
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