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[monkeystrokes8]

FIRST SET.

Bill spotted Charlene coming into the bar as the drummer-of-the-week put a shimmer on the high-hat for an overdramatic finish to “I Still Miss Someone,” meant to tug heartstrings but making Bill laugh. Probably because they were only five songs into the set and he’d already downed half an Old Style and three fingers of tequila and Charlene was especially dolled up in a velvet-curtain red jumpsuit, white fringe spilling off her shoulders like carwash drying strips.

It was a worrisome moment too. Like the song said, there was a real good chance he’d "never get over those blue eyes."

The crawl of circling dancers quickened as Del hit the opening notes of “Fox on the Run.” Coca-cola cowboys in white straw Stetsons two-stepping with Mary Kay consultants flirting with hippie college kids shuffling around with unstoppable geriatrics. The Broken Axle was the most confounding joint Bill ever played, a broke-down country-western roadhouse smack dab in the middle of an R&B mecca. The Sunday afternoon gig was a three-hour affair, a last hurrah before the tragedy of Monday morning, with time to sleep most it off.  

Charlene blew Del a kiss and settled into her regular booth with the books. From the angle of his piano bench, Bill could steal as many looks her way as he could handle. A blessing and a curse.

Bill never intended to fall for the May pinup girl recently hitched to December’s falling Nashville star taking one final bow as proprietor and house-band leader of a honky-tonk Memphis bar. But after just a few weeks playing this gig, Charlene was in Bill's head but good. Anyway,it wasn’t all his fault. She kinda started it.

In about an hour, Del would call his young wife to the stage for a George-Tammy or Porter-Dolly or Conway-Loretta number to end the second set. As mismatched as their ages, they made a classic country duo, and true to stereotype of young women knocking boots with yesterday’s headliners, Charlene’s eye seemed to wander. Last week, leaning into the mic for harmony on "Golden Rings” she glanced past her husband’s neck to give the new kid on keys a salacious wink that would make Tanya Tucker blush.

Del Hopkins and the Railroad Spikes was once the hot ticket; Saturday nights at the Ryman, flame-job customized tour bus, 8x10 taped to the front window at Ernie’s Record Shop. The reason Bill took this gig. A resume including a stintwith the man who co-wrote “Double Eagles on a Single Bed” opened doors.

He was just setting out. He'd heard the horror stories coming out of Nashville. The Broken Axle on Sunday afternoon was the place for an ivory-tickler with a quarter in his pocket and a shirt on his back. Riding a legend’s coattails in a town where he could afford rent.

At the casual audition, after running through Del’s mandatories (Ray Price, Charlie Rich and other piano-centric standards) on the bar’s banged-up but surprisingly bright tack piano, Del offered him a trial run that Sunday, “That is, if you think you can keep up.”

Del wasn’t talking about music. “Sunday's a party here,” he said. “We play it loose, have a big time, and the crowd follows suit. A day of hoots, hollers, longnecks and picklebacks. And I expect the band to lead the charge."

That was the deal. You had to drink like a steam locomotive and still stay in key. According to Del, it didn’t get tricky until halfway through the second set, when the boozin’ picked up speed like the Orange Blossom Special.

“Only trouble we ever had was a drummer who went squirrely and turned into Neil Peart after a couple shots. But our last piano player handled it fine. May he rest in peace.” Del raised his bottle.  

It was a smart business model. Del would mumble something into the mic about being thirsty, or hair of the dog. Fans jumped to buy the band shots. Del would lift his glass. “Bless your hearts, you sweet things,” “Thankee kindly to the good folks at Table 5”, etcetera, then roar the Hee Haw catchphrase, “Sa-lute!” The crowd would howl like a pack of hounds picking up a scent and head to the bar for shots of their own. Then Del would do the Ole Possum hiccup and cheek-pop from "White Lightnin’." The crowd drank it up.  

And therein lay the rub. Bill didn’t drink hard liquor. Gave him the spins. A couple beers, fine, but liquor was not his friend. Never had been.

The first time the pigtailed barmaid showed up with a trayful, Bill tried to slyly dump his shot into the cuff of his Wranglers. The crowd bellowed and Del cracked wise about how he thought Carolina hillbillies were wet-nursed from a still.

From then on, Bill did his best. The band was harmless enough: a doughy family man with a penchant for thrift-store ties on stand-up; wispy-haired guy with a scrunched-up face on fiddle; and drummer-of-the-week, so far a runaway teenager, a poker-faced Lurch and a grizzled hipster looking like he just woke up. Whoever felt like sitting in. Del handled vocals and guitar, white pompadour piled ridiculously high, Sun Session tee with rolled-up sleeves, silver-dollar-studded Telecaster on his knee.

The problem was Charlene. When Cupid runs out of arrows, he calls his pal, Inebriation, the cherub with the cocktail shaker of Love Potion #9. Bill pried his eyes from the curvaceous cowgirl, pushed the soft crush of velvet out of his head, and concentrated on the 88s.

Del hit the closing licks of “Mama Tried” and the band broke for smokes and leaks.

Charlene was waiting at the edge of the stage with a chopped-pork sandwich on a paper plate. “You hungry, sugar?”

Bill hesitated. Was it proper to accept a BBQ sandwich from another man's wife you’ve pictured wearing nothing but a smile?

“Oh. Hey. Thanks.”

Before he could take the plate, Charlene walked it to her booth. “C’mon over here, baby. Let's get to know each other a little.”  

She slid into the banquette. Red velvet on red vinyl, a devil's playground. Bill took a nervous glance around, then looked at the sandwich, determined not to make eye contact.  

He’d seen sandwiches coming out of the closet-sized kitchen slopped together by the cook who also maintained the ancient building's plumbing and electric. This one was made with TLC, the perfect balance of sauce and slaw, hickory-smoked hunks tucked neatly in a warm bun. Had she made it herself?

“So you just moved from Carolina, huh? All by your lonesome?”

The word “lonesome” struck a chord. A sour one.

He was alone in a small apartment in a greasy-grit-gravy town. It wasn’t just sex he was missing. He was looking for a friend, too.

Bill squirmed. Del was nowhere in sight, but with the whole bar stealing looks in their direction, he felt more on stage than when on stage. He nodded yes and took a bite.

And then, goddammit, he looked in her eyes. A pale-blue invitation to go skinny-dipping.

The eyes on the back of Carly Simon’s first album. Eyes he’d been in love with since rummaging his father’s record collection at age six.

And Carly’s lips. Charlene had those, too.

Bill didn’t put all his love marbles on looks, but he believed in physiognomy. Granddaddy was the spitting image Jimmy Stewart, and by god, they were the same stand-up guy,cracking knuckles and folksy truths.

And here, glowing like a heat lamp over a BBQ sandwich, was the face of his dream girl. He couldn’t help but think--just like Carly sang it--loving her would be “the right thing to do.”

“Well you won’t be flying solo for long, I’m sure of that. Cutie pie like you is gonna get scooped up lickety-split in this town.

Bill was hoping his infatuation would cool. Now she was calling him “Cutie pie.” Worst of all, Del was a decent guy.

An impatient snare drum counted down. The band was back. Bill looked from the raised eyebrows of Del to Charlene to his half-eaten sandwich.  

Charlene gave his arm a pat. “I’ll wrap it for you.”

There was a shot waiting on the piano.

SECOND SET.

“You’re leaving us hanging, boy,” Del twanged. “Much obliged to the lovely fillies who drove all the way from Knoxville. Sa-lute!”

Tequila. Bill swallowed his gag reflex as the band kicked into “Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line.”

The dance floor filled, promenade line colliding like state-fair bumper cars.Del took a request that Bill had to fake his way through. Thankfully, Charlene would be up soon with her usual song list.

Only she wouldn’t. The music stopped, and Del reached for the tallboy tucked into an overturned toilet plunger clamped to his mic stand. Charlene gave a playful finger snap and he dug out keys and jangled them,teasing her, then handed them over.  

“You know I love my wife,” Del told the crowd, “when I let her drive the Caddy.” Del drove a 1966 red convertible. “But we’ve got important people flying in from Nashville today, and they get the best. Y'all are just gonna have to put up with us ugly plugs until she gets back.” Charlene blew another kiss and waved goodbye to the bar. There was a chorus of comic disappointment, followed by opening licks of “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”

Important people from Nashville. That explained Charlene’s get-up. Del had lots of old pals from his salad days in the biz. Bill fantasized some big-buckled scout discovering the fresh talent on keys. “Son, I'm gonna make you a star.”

The band was two verses into “Streets of Bakersfield" when a procession of rowdy bikers in cheap leather vests plowed though the front door. Sunday cruisers, bellying to the bar slapping clumsy high fives. By the sound of it, this wasn’t their first stop.

Del didn’t seem to notice.

Pigtails was back at the stage with another trayful. Bill suddenly didn’t feel so hot. Del raised a glass. “This one goes out to the cowpunchers at Table 8,  

           May you never lose a stirrup,            May you never waste a loop;            May your can stay full of syrup,            And your gizzard full of whoop!

           Sa-lute!

The fiddle player screeched into “Orange Blossom Special.”

Holy hell. Bill was smashed.

The bar roared with drunken thunder as the Special picked up speed, chug-a-chugging through the pass like a runaway train, pistons clanking, smoke belching, letting off steam, as the fiddler tried to saw his instrument in half. Woot woot!

Del was grinning wide, the bell of the antique register clanging away like the Old 97. As the train pulled mercifully into the station with a final scratch of the fiddle, Del made a slashing sign across his throat. Break time.

“Play some Johnny Paycheck!” One of the bikers.  

Del held up a palm. “The boys and I are getting pretty tuckered up here, gonna take a pause for the cause and be right back for the last set.”

The bikers weren’t having it. “Paycheck!”

Bill knew from experience. Always keep an eye on yahoos yelling "Paycheck!" These guys were assholes.

Del remained composed. “You fellas cool it. Don’t start no shit there won’t be no shit.” He took a swill of beer. “Back in ten. Play nice, everybody.”  

Bill stood up, his head spinning. He bolted out the fire exit for some fresh air. And possibly a place to puke.

Charlene was back, leaning against the Caddy, now wearing a denim jacket, daintily puffing a cigarette (she smokes?) talking to an older gent in a rumpled suit and woman in a flowered dress that reminded him of his mother. VIPs? Whoever they were, they’d seen flashier days. Nonetheless, Del seemed overjoyed to see them, bounding over with enthusiastic handshakes and kisses. “C’mon in, we’ve saved you the best table in the house!” Charlene waved them away, lingering to finish her smoke.

The bikers came ‘round the corner. Bill smelled reefer. "Hey-hey mama say the way you move, gonna make sweat gonna make you groove," one sang with hackle-raising lechery.

Within seconds, Charlene was surrounded by the saddlefat gang of wanna-be toughs, like a fat farm production of West Side Story.One darted forward as if to touch her ass, then pulled away, a show-off kid putting his hand over a fire.  

The tequila did the talking. “Piss off, dick lips,” Bill said.

Five heads twisted. “Excuse me, douchebag?" said a gray flattop.

“You heard me fuckface.” Bill balled a fist, then remembered the piano player’s credo. Protect the hands at all costs. He was praying for a crowbar to magically appear when a bald guy the size of a gas pump cold-cocked him in the nose. Lights out.

THIRD SET.

He woke surrounded by cases of beer and canned tomatoes. Charlene was dabbing his bleeding nose with a bar towel.

“There you are. Big man without a plan. How you feelin’, honey?”

Bill adjusted his makeshift pillow, a restaurant-sized pack of corn tortillas. “Okay, I guess. Stupid, but okay.”

“Ain’t nothing more heroic than a man who can’t fight jumping into one. Specially defending a damsel in distress.”

The glorious lips descended onto his, her face backlit by the storeroom fluorescents. Bill allowed himself two seconds of heaven, make that ten, okay screw it, a full stanza, before turning away.

He was about to sputter this ain’t right or some such nonsense when Charlene entered the storeroom. Bill blinked. He was either hallucinatory drunk or suffering one mighty concussion. Seeing double. Two Charlenes looked down at him.

“I see you two are getting along just like I thought you would.” Charlene looked at Charlene. “Give the guy a chance to wake up, Carla. Otherwise you’re taking advantage.”

“He’s as cute as you said, Charlene. Sweet, too. You know what I like alright.”

“Twins know.”  

“Indeed we do.” Carla stroked Bill’s hair, laying the damp towel on his forehead. “Everything good out there?”

“Fine and dandy. Del and a couple cowboys ran them a-holes off, they was scooting anyway thanks to Prince Valiant here. Worried about getting sued or whatever BarcaLounger bikers worry about."  

“Mom and Dad good?”

“Yep, already having a time. Dad’s eating peaches and peanut butter, and Mom just bought a round. She wants to know if you’re okay.” Charlene shifted her gaze to Bill. “Del says take the rest of the day off, and I’m gonna dedicate 'Fist City’ to you for sticking up for my Sis."

Charlene turned to leave, stopping at the switch by the door. “You two coming out, or should I turn the lights off?”

Bill grinned, still goofy. He play-slapped Carla on the thigh. “Go have a shot with your folks, I’ll be out in a few.”

“Baby, that’s the one thing that separates me from my sister,” Carla cooed. “I can’t drink worth a damn.”