Chapter Eighteen

Songwriting is too mysterious and uncontrolled a process for me to direct it towards any one thing.

—James Taylor

That night, Hunter collected the money owed him and left Dallas the next morning. At Marshall, Texas, he stopped at a mom-and-pop restaurant for lunch. He ordered coffee and the daily lunch special. While he waited for his meal, he opened his notebook and tried to write a song that he could feel bubbling on the edge of his consciousness, but no clear words or lines came to him. The image and emotions were there, but the right words were choked out somewhere between his heart and his gut.

An eighteen-wheeler parked along the service road. Hunter watched the trucker lock his rig and make his way to the restaurant.

“There’s Louis,” one of the waitresses said to the cook. “He’s such a hoot. I bet he was a wildcat when he was younger. Best get his steak going.”

As the trucker entered, he stuffed his John Deere cap into his overalls’ pocket and sat down next to Hunter. He called out to the waitress, “Hey, Sally. I’ll take the usual.”

“Louis, when are you going to order something different?” Sally asked.

“When you quit cooking me good steaks.” The trucker looked over at Hunter. “How you doing, young fellar?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Where you headed?”

“West Monroe. My name’s Hunter.” He held out his hand.

Louis’ callused hand pumped Hunter’s. “Louis. I live in Winn Parish. Was a logger most of my life. When I retired, I went to driving a truck. My route usually don’t take me beyond Shreveport, but when it does, I always like to stop here. The food here is top-notch, and Sally there provides some nice scenery. Why, if I were younger, I’d…”

“You behave yourself, Louis,” Sally said as she set Hunter’s plate down and refilled his coffee.

“What’s taking you to Monroe?” Louis asked.

“I’m from there, but I’m a musician. I’ve been working in Dallas, but things slowed down a bit. I know logging and truck driving are hard ways to make a living.”

“It is for a fact, but you guitar pickers ain’t got it as easy as folks think. I couldn’t do it. Too much temptation. I had a buddy that was a guitar picker. Wore himself out in the honkytonks, drinking himself senseless and chasing women. But that boy could sing. Sounded just like Jimmie Rogers. You know who that is?”

“Yeah. He was a good songwriter. There hasn’t been many equal to him, my daddy always said.”

“Your daddy is right about that.” Louis closed his eyes and sang out a verse of “‘Women Make a Fool of Me.’”

Ain’t that the truth, Hunter thought.

“I like that song. Makes me think of what an idgit I could be at times. I was lucky though and found myself a good woman,” Louis said. “She’s been gone from this earth a couple of years, but I still got her in my heart. I knew right away that she was the one God had chosen for me. She gave me a devil of a time getting her though. I’d get pissy and we’d break up, but then she always took me back. Finally, I married her. But I wouldn’t trade one moment of my life with her for nothing. You married, young fellar?”

“I had a girlfriend, but she and I didn’t work out, so now I’m just married to my music.”

“Folks need music and good musicians like yourself, but music ain’t no substitute for a good woman.” He signaled Sally. “Sally, I’m going to pay for this young fellar’s meal, okay?”

“Sure thing, Louis,” Sally said.

“That’s nice of you, but I got money,” Hunter said.

“Don’t you get uppity just because someone tries to do something nice for you. You can return the favor on someone else. There ain’t no shortage of people who need a helping hand in this world. So, what happened between you and your lady?”

“Hard to say. I think I mostly didn’t pay her enough attention. Things got stormy between us. More problems and complications than before. She ended things last time.”

“Every woman comes with her own set of difficulties. So does a man. You reckon you contributed to this storm you’re talking about?”

“I’m sure I did. I can really get the dumbass sometimes.”

“She still on your heart, is she?”

“Yeah. All the time.”

A woman close to Hunter’s age entered the restaurant. A young boy and girl trailed in behind her. Louis’s tan, wrinkled face beamed. It seemed to Hunter as if his face were one big smile.

“Here’s another reason I like to stop here,” Louis said. “That’s my daughter and grandkids. They live up in Jefferson.”

The two children ran up to Louis shouting, “Grandpa! Grandpa!” He rubbed their heads as they hugged on him, and then he kissed his daughter on the cheek.

“Rose, I want you to meet a new friend, Hunter. He’s a guitar picker, a durn good one too, I bet you. On his way to Louisiana.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hunter,” she said. “I hope my daddy didn’t talk your ears off. He never meets a stranger.”

“Let’s move over to a booth,” Louis said. “Hunter, you’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, but I’ll let you folks enjoy your visit. I’m almost done eating anyway.”

Louis pounded Hunter on the shoulder. “If Hunter here looks a little addled, Rose, it’s because he’s in love with some woman he’s trying to run from.”

“You just say whatever you think, don’t you,” Hunter said.

“Yes, he does,” Rose said. “He’s not often wrong either. That’s what made living with him so bad.”

“I ain’t wrong this time neither. If I was you, son, I’d go back to Monroe and patch up things. She’s just waiting for you to do that, bet you money.”

Hunter left the restaurant and drove on to Ruston. He arrived at the Sundance Tavern an hour early. After he found the manager, he opened the topper camper on the back of his truck and unloaded his equipment. He set up his P.A., lights, music stand, and amplifier in the outside patio, then kicked back on one of the iron chairs to enjoy a cold beer. The stucco-walled patio courtyard was furnished with metal-mesh tables and chairs under umbrellas. Flowerpots of impatiens, petunias, and daisies were set in corners. On one wall hung a dozen ancient, small chairs, handmade and once the thrones of small children in rural homes. Moonflowers were planted in large pots and their vines wound and scaled posts of the tin-roofed covered stage area. A pair of long, swirling purple and white mobiles hung on either side of him and one had already mesmerized a lone drunk in a corner muttering to himself or an invisible friend.

Hunter studied the crowd trickling into the Sundance. For a moment, he was afraid the evening would be a repeat of Dallas. Most weren’t there to hear him but had spent the day at Ruston’s Peach Festival and simply were ending the day by grabbing a quick sandwich or drink. Even though he had played two nights a week in Ruston for over two years before his stint in the parish pen, he doubted that anyone tonight would recognize his name. A musician learns early in his career that even people who like him can forget him.

A year ago, his evening gigs at the Sundance Tavern and the other clubs were crowded with college students, most of them there only because they chose to trash themselves with pitcher beer rather than hole up in stuffy, sterile dorms in a conservative town studying for exams. Yet at every gig there were usually a few groupies and loyal regulars and some old farts who followed him everywhere he played.

Finally, a few folks he knew entered the tavern. Then, a few more, and he slipped deeper into his music. He was surprised when some mouthed every line to every song. Several made song requests, and Hunter recalled many of their names by the song they requested. Hunter thought that certain songs must seat themselves in peoples’ memories—change them, wound them, touch them in an existential experience that helps them define and understand past moments.

He played on without a break, remembering and loving this feeling of performing outside on balmy Louisiana nights. A few dropped bills in his tip jar and requested songs. Memento mori. He had not played some of the songs in over a year. Though he kept his notebook open before him, he was able to recall the words and the feelings of the songs without relying on it.

As he played and sang, he watched the sun set, and watched the stars as they slowly pierced the dusk and become faint dots in the overhead darkness. The moonflowers and other night flowers on the patio opened and glowed—luminous, iridescent, in the light of the neon beer signs and black lights, and the Scotch and pot kicked in and to Hunter’s mind the patio changed into a faery garden. And Hunter and a few in the crowd lost themselves in the songs and the feelings and memories, and he and the crowd drank, sinking and singing together into another Southern night.

As he packed up his equipment, a young man walked up to Hunter and held out his hand. “Man, Hunter, I’ve sure missed your music. True Americana. No one does it like you, Hunter.”

Hunter snatched his hand and shook it. “Good seeing you, Robert. You still in school?”

“Yeah. As my dad says, my senior year will be the best three years of my life. I’m president of our fraternity too. Why don’t you play for our frat party this fall? It’ll be good money.”

“Sure, if I’m in the area, but to be honest, I don’t know I’ll be here then.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen you in a long time. I heard you got busted.”

“Yeah. Did a few months at the Ouachita Parish prison farm. Technically, I assaulted a man, but I also happened to be carrying a matchbox of pot. The guy I fought didn’t want to press charges, but the D.A. wouldn’t let the pot charges go.”

“You know this is really a coincidence. I saw your girlfriend last week in Monroe. Let’s see, what was her name?”

“Caitlin.”

“Yeah. Caitlin. Hadn’t seen her for a while either. Did you guys split up?”

“Yeah. Last I heard she had gone to Africa and was working for some humanitarian organization. I guess she’s back by now.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you two split up?” Robert asked.

“It’s a long sad story. If you were my psychiatrist, I’d tell you all about it—there’s bound to be some meaning in that amount of suffering. Where did you see Caitlin?”

“At her art gallery in West Monroe. It was closed for a while, but it looks like she’s back in business. Caitlin’s got some kind of big show planned soon; I think it’s got an African theme. I asked Caitlin about you, but she didn’t have much to say.”

“Figures. I’m playing in West Monroe tomorrow night at the Backdoor Lounge. You come out too if you’re that away.”

“Might do that. Do you have a girlfriend now? My girlfriend has a friend who always liked you a lot. I could fix you up.”

Hunter laughed. “Fixing me in any way would really take some doing.”