God, I’ve fucking
had it. I’ve played every jip-joint dive for a thousand mile radius. I’m sick
and damn tired of working my ass off, practicing all goddamn week just so I can
play every weekend night in some smoke-filled bar with a bunch of fucking
drunks who just want to dance and get their hands in somebody’s pants right in
front of the stage. Back in the seventies, I played the big stages, toured with
recording artists and had roadies. Now I’m in my fucking mid-fifties and I have
to lug my own equipment into some bar for every gig, set it up, play the show,
then break it down, wait around to get paid, get home at four in the fucking
morning, drink a couple glasses of wine, maybe a scotch, watch the sun come up, take an Ambien and finally go to sleep before I have to
get up and do it all again. It’s a pathetic life, it a musician’s life. That’s
what we fucking do. And when you bitch and moan about it, everybody tells you,
“Ah Man, but you know you love it. You can’t stop playing. It’s in your blood.”
Bla Bla Bla. Blood
my ass. If it’s in my blood then I’ve got blood poisoning. I’m fucking tired.
I’ve done this shit since I was twelve years old and now I’m staring at sixty
in a few years. I don’t want to be playing jip-joints and listening to drunks
tell me that I’ve got what it takes to “make it” when I’m sixty fucking years
old.
So this is it.
Fuck it. I quit.
My wife’s got a
good job. Of course she’s got a job. You can’t be a working musician if you’re
not hooked up with somebody who’s responsible. Okay, so that’s not always the
case. There are those lucky, or doomed, bastards who have a steady road gig out
of Nashville, LA, or New York, but they’re hardly ever home. What kind of life
is that? I guess it’s the kind I wanted when I was a teenager and in my
twenties, back when I thought I’d always have roadies, when I thought I’d be
flying in 747’s or riding in a plush bus to my next gig. But now I just want to
be home.
I always wanted to
write, maybe I could try that, but the only stories I know are those about
crazy girls like the one in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. She asked me over to her
house, which turned out to be a goddamned Coca-Cola “creepy” doll museum.
Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. There were dolls of every size, shape
and color of skin; they were on top of the refrigerator, on the couch, in the
floor, on the table, and they were all dressed in red outfits with Coca-Cola
logos on them. Some had it on their caps, some on their lapels, some on the
sleeves. There were dolls of China girls, gas station attendants, singers,
belly dancers, clowns, stewardesses, waitresses, even jugglers, and of course
the juggler’s balls were red with the Coca-Cola emblem on them. The balls were
suspended above the juggler’s hands on a circular wire that was barely visible.
She spent what seemed like an eternity, going into great detail about the
different places she searched for two years to find the right sort of wire, and
even drove all the way to Little Rock to get it because she wanted to make sure
it was, “just right.” It was three-thirty in the morning and I listened to
stories about how she made each and every doll. I started worrying she was
going to poison me with Atlanta’s favorite recipe, then stuff me in a Coca-Cola
colored casket and hide me away in her secret Coca-Cola cellar.
Finally, she asked
me to her bedroom. Yeah, you guessed it - Coca-Cola bed sheets, pillowcases,
dresser, and dolls all over the bed. This girl was freaking me out. But then
she started kissing me, and pulling me onto the bed, so I went with it. Dolls
were rolling off onto the floor, she’s unbuttoning her blouse at the same time
she’s unzipping my pants. Next thing I know I’m on top her of her. Her bra was
red and laced with Coca-Cola logos. She’d pulled her red skirt up around her
waist. I glanced down, and of course, her panties matched her bra. As most men
would do in that situation, I started to pull her panties down, but she stopped
me. She reached over, opened a beside-table drawer and pulled out a condom and
a pair of men’s red briefs with Coca-Cola logos on them. “You’ve got to wear
these,” she said, in a hushed voice, as if this was some sort of initiation. It
was obvious we were getting ready to do some sacred Coca-Cola sexual
ceremonial; or even worse, sacrifice something to the Coca-Cola gods. I just
hoped and prayed that something wasn’t going to be me. It was freaky.
“But how are we
going to do it if I’m wearing underwear?” I asked.
“There’s a flap in
the front of them, and mine, too.”
She giggled,
opened her legs wide, and pointed to her panties. Covering her sacred spot was
a cloth that looked just like a Coca-Cola bottle top. “It unsnaps.” She licked
my cheek with her tongue, bit my ear and whispered. “You’ve got to pop the top
if you want a drink.”
Whew! And I’m
thinking this is one crazy girl.
She hands me the
condom and explains that it looks like a Coca-Cola bottle once it’s put on. I
leaned over on my elbow, took a deep breath and wondered, “What the fuck am I
doing here?”
I was afraid to
just tell her I had to leave. I was seriously scared of what she might do. This
girl had “crazy” written all over her. So, I started thinking fast. She seemed
like the sentimental sort, she was certainly nostalgic about Coca-Cola, so I
assumed she’d value someone being true to what they believed in. “I really want
to make love to you,” I said. “But I feel so guilty.” I proceeded to tell her I
was in love with a girl back home, and that I swore to myself that I would be
true to her. I went into a long story of how I had cheated on my first wife and
ruined the marriage. “I swore if I ever found someone else, I’d stay faithful,”
I said, trying to sound like a Catholic at confession “And that’s what I’ve
done until tonight, but I like you and I wanted to spend some time with you.
But I know I’m gonna feel guilty if we do something.”
It worked.
She put her arms
around me, hugged me tight and said, “I knew you were a good guy. That’s why I
wanted you. But I couldn’t live with myself if I caused you to break a vow.
Love is sacred.”
And I’m still
thinking, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
We moved the
conversation to her kitchen and drank coffee from Coca-Cola cups. After a long
while, I coaxed her outside, saying I wanted to see her yard. Blades of blue
light sliced the darkness and I could now see the bleak row houses that lined
the street. A neighbor wearing a work uniform came out of his house and walked
briskly toward his car. The Coca-Cola Queen waved, said hello and tried to
start a conversation. But her neighbor would have none of it. He glanced at me,
looked away for a second and then stared me straight in the eye. He jerked his
jaw, clenched his teeth and gave me the warning look that guys give to one
another on the battlefield of life that silently says, “Buddy, I hope you know
what the hell you’re doing.” As he got in his car I told her I had to go. She
obliged and drove me back to my hotel, where she gave me a Coca-Cola lapel pin.
“To remember me by,” she said.
The check out time
was noon. I was dog-ass tired when the band pulled out of Ft. Smith driving to
our next show in New Orleans. To be truthful, I was wondering why I didn’t have
sex with the Coca-Cola Queen. She seemed innocent after all, just a little
kooky. But hell, out on the road we’re all a little kooky. Besides, I was
raised on Coke; we always had a refrigerator full of them. And thankfully, I
grew up on the early Sixties, long before the days of over-zealous parents who
monitor their children’s sugar intake. Over indulgence didn't hurt me then, so a little craziness with the Coca-Cola Queen might not have been so bad. That was life on
the road, dozens, if not hundreds, of strange encounters with lonely women in
the wee-hours of the morning. So I’m glad I quit. But I do remember her every
time I open my dresser drawer and see the Coca-Cola lapel pin stashed away with
other keepsakes and mementoes. But I don’t know if anybody would want to read
about the Coca-Cola Queen: does anyone really care about lonely people in the
wee-hours of the morning?
So I’ve still got
to decide what to do now that I’ve quit. Guess I'll have a JD and Coke and think about it for a while.
Bernard
Mitchell Plumlee © 2016
