Chapter Twenty-Four

Seeing a way out; feeling regret. Barney Miller. The things I left behind. Some of the people in this episode are gone now: Kris Kristofferson, Chet Flippo, Martha Hume. I'm glad I could remember them for a little while.

Songs used:

• I Don't Wanna Talk About Love No More from Little Fugitive (d'oh just realized I haven't put that one up on Bandcamp yet!)
• Lonesome Valley (a home recording I made for my Diary podcast, available here)

Transcript

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SPEAKER_00 0:00

Chapter twenty four I'd been living in Birmingham about two months when I needed to head out for a run of solo gigs up north. Charles blew leaves, forearms tensed, leaf blower brandished as if protecting his castle, while I packed up the car with my guitar and merchandise, thankful he was too busy with work to join me in my travels, as he frequently mentioned he planned to do whenever possible. Heading towards my first stop in Virginia, I felt like an independent person again. I listened to music, talked on the phone with my brothers, checked into motels or stayed with friends. I was happy to be on my own. Late one night, driving a dark country road, words came to me in couplets with a refrain, and I repeated them to stay awake. I missed this, being out on the road, feeling like myself. Even the challenging parts of touring, the long drives and lack of decent food. I relished the feeling of peace. Most days I could barely hear myself think. It was always Charles' voice in my ear, in my head. Was it any wonder I hadn't written many songs lately? But here one came, like rainwater through a dried up stream. Next day, somewhere in between Fredericksburg and Charlottesville, driving through an alley of trees etched in fading green and bright yellow leaves, I had a revelation. I didn't have to do this. Charles kept trying to convince me I couldn't survive without him, but as I drove to the next gig, I worked my way forward from where I was at the moment. I decided I could live in my attic if I had to. I could get a job at McDonald's if I had to. I would write more songs and make records and play shows. I still had a family. I still had friends, at least I hoped I hadn't alienated all of them. I pulled over at a rest area and called the therapist I'd been seeing back in Nashville. For months I'd been hoping she'd tell me this relationship was wrong. I left her a message saying I'd come to a decision and was feeling resolute and strong. A phrase appeared in my head and I repeated it as a mantra. This just isn't right for me. So when I returned to Birmingham to gather up my things and move out, I would have words that didn't leave room for argument or debate. But I imagined him saying, You have no money. What, you're going to live in an attic? Don't be ridiculous. This just isn't right for me. Nobody will ever love you or appreciate you and your talent like I do. This just isn't right for me. Your friends are losers, your career is going nowhere. Stay here with me, you can pick out a whole new kitchen. This just isn't right for me. I remained calm back at Charles' house. It was early evening. He brought in the mail and opened a package. Oh good, it's here. He held up a box set, the complete Barney Miller on VHS. Wow, I said, you must really like that show. The best show ever made. You're watching it. I liked the show in principle, but nobody should dictate what TV show or movie another person has to love ever. Charles had a lazy boy chair like a dad on television. There was a chair for me, too. Sit down, we're watching, he said. I did a lot of thinking out on the road, I said. I heard the cat at the basement door whining, scratching to be let out. I imagined myself in a few years becoming more and more like James, a shadow figure that used to have a personality and a name. I can't do this, I said. Not just the show, the everything. You're so cute when you're mad, said Charles. On the television screen, Barney Miller looked supportively frazzled. I've decided I need to move back to Nashville, I told Charles. Charles paused the video. I said it out loud. This just isn't right for me.

SPEAKER_03 5:23

I need a break from the I'm bored with the hard and sword and the tear job started and the minor floor.

SPEAKER_00 5:34

I heard the screen door slam downstairs and watched the young woman who'd rented the ground floor of my house trip lightly down the front steps of the Victorian duplex, her long wavy hair flying out behind her. The mint green house that had briefly been my pride, a house I managed to buy myself with money from a publishing deal, a loan from my dad, and owner financing, was now a source of anguish, and not quite enough income to keep the mortgage, property tax, and insurance payments going. My tenant unlocked her car and drove off into the soft afternoon light, to a gig or her restaurant job. I'd crept back to Nashville and was living in my attic like a boarder, cooking on a hot plate, spending most of my time at the Frothy Monkey, a new coffee shop over on 12th Avenue South, or downtown in the impressive new public library. The house and Nashville just didn't feel like home, because my daughter wasn't there anymore. She jumped ship and moved in with her father in Cleveland. I didn't blame her. I was embarrassed to see anyone I knew who might ask me how things in Alabama. So I hung out amongst strangers, drinking coffee and writing emails, planning to record a new album in New York. When Hazel came for a visit, we lay side by side on the double bed in the attic, her old room downstairs now occupied by a young woman neither of us knew. Why did you do it? she asked. You changed everything. I'm so sorry, Hayes, I said. I screwed up, you don't deserve any of this. Hazel was quiet. I loved her so much. I would have let her hit me with a mallet if that helped her feel better. I said the only words I could think to say. I know I'm your mom, but I'm only human. Sometimes people make mistakes. I moved my stuff out of Charles' house. Nothing too sudden or drastic. I didn't want to call too much attention to the fact that I was going. Things I left behind in Alabama. A copy of Larry McMurtry's novel Moving On, I'd carried with me from East 14th Street in Manhattan, to Withers and then Grand Street in Brooklyn, to Nashville to here, a pair of dark green John Fluvog Chelsea boots bought on sale at Trash and Vaudeville. A powder blue leather car coat I never liked anyway, a dark red machino cardigan patterned with hearts, and the word love. A hardcover copy of Jimmy Webb's book on songwriting, Toon Smith, a paperback of Tammy Winnett's autobiography, Stand By Your Man. Charles bought tickets for Chris Christofferson at the Ryman Auditorium November 2004. Chris's first ever solo show at the hallowed venue. He was a genuine fan of everything the great songwriter had to offer. When he told me he wanted to take me to the concert, I said, Okay, just this once, imagining remaining friends might make breaking up easier. I'd stayed on speaking terms with most of my exes over the years, hadn't I? Chris strummed and croaked his way through the set hit after hit. I nearly lost it during Sunday morning coming down. How could one man in denim shirt, jeans, shambling guitar playing and deeply lived vocals contain the whole world up there on stage? And Charles loved him so much. There was a side to the guy that truly appreciated artists. He was no heathen. He believed in Randy Newman, Todd Snyder. He believed in me. But appreciating feelings is not the same as having feelings. I thought back to the first time I visited Nashville with last roundup and we crept into this place through a side door. It was musty, dusty. In those days, always a few steps ahead of the wrecking ball. I'd stood on the stage in the empty auditorium and though I'd never expected I'd perform here, not false modesty, just pragmatism, I still felt like I belonged. Sitting there twenty years later in the reverent rhyme and hush, it must be the church pews that offer potential for a come to Jesus moment at every concert. I felt again how there's no shortcut to self-worth. Hank Williams stood up on that stage singing about how we all had to walk the lonesome valley by ourselves. In the lobby during intermission, I ran into Chet Flippo and Martha Hume. They'd been like guardian angels during my first year or two in Nashville. Chet, as country music editor of Billboard, had championed me any chance he could. Martha, talented writer and wit, had been so kind and willing to have my daughter over if I needed a babysitter. Seeing them now, I felt like I was waving through smeared plexiglass. I set down my cup of rhyme and white wine to hug them and avoided introducing them to Charles. Who knew what humiliating thing he'd say? I wanted their night to remain the pure joy I saw in their faces. I didn't want them worrying about me and Hazel. Back in the auditorium for the second set, Chris took the audience through every emotion. When he sang The Pilgrim, how all he'd ever gotten was older and around, I heard Charles softly singing along beside me. I had to admit I'd love this guy. There were moments of our time together where I'd lived in a beautiful dream, feeling appreciated and taken care of, cherished even. He made me laugh and come, feel smart. He also harangued and insulted me, alienated my daughter, family and friends, upended my life. He'd probably berate me later. There was no way to have a good night without it turning into a bad one in that relationship. But for the moment and the rhyming, I tried to focus on Chris singing his songs, the way Chet and Martha rated me as an artist, and the human side of Charles.

SPEAKER_01 11:55

You gotta walk that loads of belly. You gotta walk it by yourself. Ain't nobody here walk it for you. You gotta walk it by yourself. She had to walk it by herself. She had to walk it by herself. He has to walk it by himself. He walk it for him. He has to walk it by himself. Everybody gotta walk that loose and valley.