the subject.”
Just then the phone on
the bar chirped around A flat. She picked up, and I got this end: “Hello … oh,
hi there … oh it went great … you called the club … when … I musta just left …
what … that limo man was a beast … sent him away, took a cab … no darling …
Angelo and Stella was busy as all get out … packed … of course sweetie … sure.
Guess what … somebody from TV12 was at Felix The Cat tonight … their news director.”
She looked at me,
winked, listened, then said into the phone, “Going to take a hot bath and go
right to beddy-bye, pooped … oh sweetie, me too … you still be back Thursday?
Monday, thought you … oh darlin how sweet … sure I will … when … Northwest,
3:30, sure ‘nough, I'll pick ya up, see ya Monday afternoon then … yes … of
course … can't wait, okay … bye bye….” She hung up.
While she had been
talking, thinking she lies pretty good, I had walked to a large silver framed
photograph hanging over the fireplace mantel.
I heard her say, “That
was Snakebite.”
Why did I know that.
“I surmised.”
I studied the picture
which featured Peggy standing beside a short silver haired man. I noted, in the
right corner of the photography, a scrawled salutation: To Peg with much success, Buddy.
I felt her squeezing
my maximus again.
I nodded to the
picture and, over my shoulder, said, “Who's the gentleman?”
“That's my producer,
Buddy One Take, President of Duke Label. That was the day I signed a contract,
my life….”
Just then the phone
rang. She said, “Shit,” and went to the bar and picked up. “Hello.” She looked
a little shocked. “Darlin’, I didn't say nothing ‘bout nothing ‘bout TV12 to
him … honest … no, okay, nighty-bye.”
I, surmising “him” to
be me, watched Peggy swagger to the sofa, sit, cross her legs, and serve up a
generous portion of thigh: “Anyway, where was I, oh yes, that picture with
Buddy, it's a very ziggy zaggy story. We was po’ po’ po’, Momma made soup out
of rain water and wood chips. I started singing in grade school, dances,
parties, got married when I was sixteen, to a radio D.J., Uncle Ben, you heard
ah him, he did a little ol’ radio show, hosted the Opry now and then, didn't
last long, him or the radio, died, poor fellah … sidetracked me, then I married
Jimmy Pearl, the singer, you know about that one. In all the papers, he's a
pony's hind end. Anyways, I was going along real good, singin’ with a little ol’
band. We did lounges in Chattanooga, Memphis, Birmingham, Knoxville, you know,
Holiday Inns, Hiltons … then I meet this city slicker, big shot lawyer, Paul
Pike, talked me into dumping Jimmy, said I needed a manager, he would make me a
star, handle everything. Married him. Teeniest itty bitty peter … anyway … I
think he thought he was gonna get a free ride on my career. We was brung up po’
honey, but we wasn't brung up dumb.”
“That might be a
song.”
She paused, “You know
by god, it could be … write that down.” She didn't write anything down but
continued: “Anyway, divorced the S.O.B., ten, fifteen, god, years ago. He has a
practice in Knoxville now. I kept the house, the furniture, everything. He had
no choice. I caught him screwing around. Ha. Bet she didn't feel a thing.” She
looked at me and indicated about an inch with thumb and index fingers. “Littlest
bitty thing, anyway, I got a cash settlement too, bundle. The son of a bitch.”
“Sound bitter.”
“Who? Me? Bitter. Ha.”
She flashed, “My career's about to hit the moon.” She patted the sofa next to
her and, like she might be calling Rover, said, “Come, sit.”
Thinking before things
get any more complicated, get out now. I walked to the bar, dropped off my
drink and said, “Say, I think I better be going.”
“Jack! Don't say that!
You're not going anywhere.” She went to the entertainment center and snapped on
the CD stereo. Her recording of Dogwood Blossoms
Just then the phone on
the bar chirped around A flat. She picked up, and I got this end: “Hello … oh,
hi there … oh it went great … you called the club … when … I musta just left …
what … that limo man was a beast … sent him away, took a cab … no darling …
Angelo and Stella was busy as all get out … packed … of course sweetie … sure.
Guess what … somebody from TV12 was at Felix The Cat tonight … their news director.”
She looked at me,
winked, listened, then said into the phone, “Going to take a hot bath and go
right to beddy-bye, pooped … oh sweetie, me too … you still be back Thursday?
Monday, thought you … oh darlin how sweet … sure I will … when … Northwest,
3:30, sure ‘nough, I'll pick ya up, see ya Monday afternoon then … yes … of
course … can't wait, okay … bye bye….” She hung up.
While she had been
talking, thinking she lies pretty good, I had walked to a large silver framed
photograph hanging over the fireplace mantel.
I heard her say, “That
was Snakebite.”
Why did I know that.
“I surmised.”
I studied the picture
which featured Peggy standing beside a short silver haired man. I noted, in the
right corner of the photography, a scrawled salutation: To Peg with much success, Buddy.
I felt her squeezing
my maximus again.
I nodded to the
picture and, over my shoulder, said, “Who's the gentleman?”
“That's my producer,
Buddy One Take, President of Duke Label. That was the day I signed a contract,
my life….”
Just then the phone
rang. She said, “Shit,” and went to the bar and picked up. “Hello.” She looked
a little shocked. “Darlin’, I didn't say nothing ‘bout nothing ‘bout TV12 to
him … honest … no, okay, nighty-bye.”
I, surmising “him” to
be me, watched Peggy swagger to the sofa, sit, cross her legs, and serve up a
generous portion of thigh: “Anyway, where was I, oh yes, that picture with
Buddy, it's a very ziggy zaggy story. We was po’ po’ po’, Momma made soup out
of rain water and wood chips. I started singing in grade school, dances,
parties, got married when I was sixteen, to a radio D.J., Uncle Ben, you heard
ah him, he did a little ol’ radio show, hosted the Opry now and then, didn't
last long, him or the radio, died, poor fellah … sidetracked me, then I married
Jimmy Pearl, the singer, you know about that one. In all the papers, he's a
pony's hind end. Anyways, I was going along real good, singin’ with a little ol’
band. We did lounges in Chattanooga, Memphis, Birmingham, Knoxville, you know,
Holiday Inns, Hiltons … then I meet this city slicker, big shot lawyer, Paul
Pike, talked me into dumping Jimmy, said I needed a manager, he would make me a
star, handle everything. Married him. Teeniest itty bitty peter … anyway … I
think he thought he was gonna get a free ride on my career. We was brung up po’
honey, but we wasn't brung up dumb.”
“That might be a
song.”
She paused, “You know
by god, it could be … write that down.” She didn't write anything down but
continued: “Anyway, divorced the S.O.B., ten, fifteen, god, years ago. He has a
practice in Knoxville now. I kept the house, the furniture, everything. He had
no choice. I caught him screwing around. Ha. Bet she didn't feel a thing.” She
looked at me and indicated about an inch with thumb and index fingers. “Littlest
bitty thing, anyway, I got a cash settlement too, bundle. The son of a bitch.”
“Sound bitter.”
“Who? Me? Bitter. Ha.”
She flashed, “My career's about to hit the moon.” She patted the sofa next to
her and, like she might be calling Rover, said, “Come, sit.”
Thinking before things
get any more complicated, get out now. I walked to the bar, dropped off my
drink and said, “Say, I think I better be going.”
“Jack! Don't say that!
You're not going anywhere.” She went to the entertainment center and snapped on
the CD stereo. Her recording of Dogwood Blossoms
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