Asheville was the forbidden city. Dad would tsk as we sat in the front parlor, watching the TV news blast images of crime scenes. On Sundays, the preacher railed about temptation and sin, most of which seemed to come from our big-city neighbor, according to his sermons.
As kids, we only ever went there with my father for specific errands for the farm. He drove white-knuckled and ranting about the crazy drivers. Cars whipped past our old truck like we were on a racetrack. They would honk as we puttered along, hauling hay or tractor parts.
When I was sixteen, Anna gave me the first taste of how magical the place could be. One summer Sunday when the store was closed, Xander and I squeezed into her Camaro and took off to a street festival in downtown Asheville. Not just in sin city but the heart of sin city. I couldn’t have been more excited.
And since we didn’t have school, I was staying the night at Xander’s. That saved me from having to tell my parents where we were going. They assumed Xander and I were playing music in the back of the consignment store.
Once we finally found a place to park, blocks from the event, we walked along the sidewalk, chattering excitedly. The distant music echoed off the buildings, muffled by the din of the mob of people moving in our same direction.
The smell of food hung in the air, tempting me the same way our county fair did every fall, but it wasn’t mingled with the scent of livestock. This was city life.
We walked past the street barricades and entered a sea of tents lining the sidewalks. Vendors displayed their wares. Paintings. Sculptures. Jewelry. Clothing. Most of it was ridiculously expensive, far more than I could afford with the measly few dollars in my pocket, but tourists snatched the stuff up.
When we arrived at a park near the center of the city, we settled onto the grass and listened to music played on a giant stage. People danced in the crowd. Anna brought us wraps and drinks from a street vendor as we sat, mesmerized listening to real live stars. Not superstars, of course, but people who had cut an actual record. We had only listened to them in the back of Anna’s store, and now we were watching them in the flesh.
On the Friday and Saturday, the festival had run into the evening, but it closed at five o’clock on Sunday. When the festival ended, we were still buzzing from the excitement. Anna led us on an excursion through the downtown area. Loud music poured out of bars. People sat at tables on sidewalks in front of restaurants, eating fancy food and drinking wine and beer.
We walked up and down hills through the maze of twisting streets. Mesmerized by the crowds and the sights and sounds, I would never have found my way back to the car on my own.
We came upon a small open area with an eight-feet-tall sculpture at its center—an iron set on its heel like it was waiting to press the wrinkles out of a shirt. A man painted all in silver like a statue came alive to surprise tourists walking past. A magician impressed a small crowd with card tricks. He bantered with them, a string of cheesy jokes that made everyone laugh.
Sitting on a chair in the center of a sizable audience was a man playing a guitar. He was singing and cutting up with them as they tossed money into his guitar case. When we approached, he smiled and winked at Anna.
After he finished his set and bowed to appreciative applause, he crossed to us and hugged Anna. “Darling,” he crowed, “so glad you called. I haven’t seen you in ages.” He drew out his words comically.
“Charlie, you remember my son, don’t you?”
“No way he can be yours. You’re too young to have a kid this old!”
She blushed and pointed at me. “And this is Freddie, the young man I told you about.”
He bowed before me with theatrical exaggeration. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow musician. Anna tells me you are fabulous.” With his loud emphasis on each syllable of that last word, he had the people milling about laughing.
I felt my face turn red.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the chair and his waiting guitar. “Do you have a song prepared?”
“A what?”
“A song, honey. You’re about to be on stage.”
“No, wait. I can’t—”
He ignored my protests and clapped his hands for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world premiere of Freddie McDonald!”
“Dougal.”
He leaned over to hear me. “Huh?”
“McDougal. It’s McDougal.”
“It’s McMud if you don’t entertain them, so sit your butt down in that chair and play.”
I looked to Anna for help, but she was cheering along with everyone else. She knew me well enough to know that I would have refused to go to Asheville with her if I had known what she was planning. No way was I playing in front of strangers. Except now, I was stuck. My choice was to run or make some music. And if I ran, I didn’t know how to get home. I could never face Anna after chickening out, even if I found them again.
With my heart racing, I picked up his guitar, settled into the seat, and tried to think of what to play. My fingers fumbled over the strings, and sweat rolled down my forehead.
Charlie leaned over and whispered to me, “Just relax and have fun. The crowd wants to have a good time. As long as you give them that, you’re gold.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began picking the strings, hesitantly at first. But then the music settled over me. The crowd faded from my mind. The notes slipped out. I was falling into the trance that let me play.
Chink.
I opened an eye, surprised to see a quarter rolling in Charlie’s guitar case. My first payment as a professional musician. I wished I’d saved it, but it blended with the money already there.
Inspired by the falling coin, the song floated through me. A couple danced on the sidewalk. A group of college kids swayed to the beat. A dollar bill floated out of a man’s hand and into the case. My spirits soared. I was playing guitar and getting paid for it.
When I finished the first song, the crowd applauded politely. Charlie whispered another song into my ear and asked if I knew it. I started picking the notes. To my surprise, his voice belted out, singing the lyrics as I played. The crowd roared its approval as he clowned with them. Money dribbled into the case.
Charlie grabbed Anna’s hand, and they danced on the sidewalk, singing along with my playing. Xander beat the percussion rhythm against a plastic bucket. A police officer stood on the sidewalk, tapping his toe, a smile on his face. I saw a five-dollar bill get added to the pot.
I was hooked and could have played all night. After the set, though, Charlie stopped simply by announcing that I would play one last song. I did. The crowd cheered, money got tossed, and another musician moved to the chair.
We perched on a ledge and listened. Charlie explained they shared the corner, mapping out a schedule of who played when. They also kept a watch over each other, protecting as needed and cheering successes. And, importantly, their constant playing kept others from poaching their prime spot. To my surprise, he gave me his phone number and invited me to come play with them. He introduced me around so that they knew I was a welcome part of the crew.
In those early days, my busking time was limited because I always needed a ride to get there. I couldn’t ask my parents. I didn’t want to tell Dean. Xander, when he could borrow the Camaro, came with me. A few times, I hitched rides. I saved every penny until I scraped together enough money to buy an ancient Honda Civic.
Dad hated that thing. I should have bought American, he said. And he asked where I’d gotten the money.
I couldn’t tell him, though. Not earning it in Asheville. Certainly not playing music for money. I knew without even saying it that he considered that begging. I couldn’t sully the McDougal name like that.
So I told him I’d earned it working for Anna. He looked unsure, but he never asked again. Maybe he just didn’t want to know.
But he was right about the car. It was a clunker. Fortunately, Dean helped me with it. He fixed it up so it wouldn’t break down going back and forth on Interstate 40, though Dean thought I was just driving it around Millerton, mostly to and from Xander’s. I tried to pay him, but he refused to take anything except for the price of the parts.
All I cared about was that I was playing music. Getting cheers from audiences. Getting paid for it all. And making friends who were as about music as I was.