Dispatch #21: Wild Times at the Ruby Slipper (pt. 3)
a novelette on love, death, and country music, part 3 of 4
Hey yall—
Part three of “Wild Times at the Ruby Slipper”— here’s the link to part 1 if you missed it.
Pt 2 recap: Lynda and Randy’s band, the Wagoneers, burn fast and bright; Randy gets mixed up with the wrong crowd; Lynda has a vision wherein Randy gives his blessing for to burn the Ruby to the ground. Meanwhile, Denny regrets his decision to implode the Mind Killers.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
1985: Randy and Lynda
Randy studied his face in the mirror of the empty dressing room. Thirteen years on the road, 180 shows a year, four LPs, two nearly-hit singles, a faint memory of playing the Dick Cavett Show in '75, dozens of friends dead before their prime, and three separate attempts at sobriety had chiseled deep lines in his face, thinned his hair, and loosened his skin so it hung like drying meat off his bones. He tugged at his cheeks and the skin under his chin.
"42 goddam years old,” he whispered. “What have you done to yourself."
He took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke at his reflection.
"Hello, Port Arthur," he sneered. "Bustling Port Arthur. See the stars of tomorrow today."
Lynda walked in the dressing room and touched up her makeup without acknowledging her husband ten feet away.
"Ready to rock, babe?"
"You talk to Larry?" she said, pursing her lips to apply rouge to her cheeks.
"What about?"
"Better talk to him."
Randy left his cigarette smoldering in the ash tray, stood up, and tightened his belt a notch. He slid a comb through his hair and walked behind his wife.
"Babe," he said.
"Don't."
"Babe," he said, rubbing her tense shoulders. He could feel her slowly relax. "Talk to me. We never talk anymore."
"Wonder why, hon."
"I said I'm sorry, Lyn, goddamit, you know I'm sorry. I hurt you bad, I know it. I been waving the white flag for months now."
Lynda finished her make up and sat back in the chair. Randy sidled up in the chair beside her.
"You know this is it, right? Not bailing you out again, no more chances."
Randy crossed his heart.
Lynda rolled her eyes. She teased her hair out with her fingers and a comb. Randy had his feet on the counter, idly picking his teeth with a guitar pick. When she was finished, she leaned over to adjust Randy's lapels.
"Listen. I think it's time we take a break," she said.
"No goddam it, Lynda, I told you I'm all yours--"
"Not from us,” she said. “You lucky sonofabitch. From the band."
Randy contemplated. He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind. He was tired. The songs weren't coming, everything was a grind. He grunted.
"Larry was talking last night about Mrs. Broussard, she's looking for someone to take over the Chuckwagon, Ran. Where it all started. We could go back home."
"That sounds pretty nice," Randy said. "Just don't see how I fit into that scenario."
“Well, we might not have a choice, Ran,” Lynda said, straightening up. “Larry got a call from the suits in Nashville, they're dropping us. The label. Said our sales are--"
She stopped short as Randy took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his temples with both hands, trying to calm himself like he'd been practicing. He stood to grab another cigarette and smoked it while leaning on the mirror, his head resting on his forearm. Suddenly he slammed his free hand into the mirror, sending shards of glass around the room. He swept the contents of the dressing room table onto the ground then grabbed a chair and smashed it into the other mirrors along the wall.
"Jesus Christ," Lynda said as she jumped out the way and out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
She found Larry and said calmly, "Tell Mr. Nelson he's not getting an opener tonight."
Later that night in the hotel room, Randy and Lynda watched Wheel of Fortune and ate takeout Chinese. Randy's hand had bled through three dressings but finally stopped without needing stitches. Randy refused to go to the hospital anyway, so Lynda had picked out the glass in the hotel room sink.
“Guess this is what it feels like to be outta gas,” he said.
“You get tonight,” Lynda said. “Feel sorry for yourself tonight. No more after that.”
“And then what? No label, no tour, no cash. We’re done, Lyn. Outta gas.”
Lynda patted her husband’s leg. She puzzled over a commercial on the TV in which a curly haired man navigated a raft with a tractor on it through a jungle. Wild animals in neon colors looked on and the silhouette of a camel flashed into the frame. The man waded into the water to escape a waterfall and rewarded himself with a Camel cigarette at the end.
"Randy," Lynda said. “We’re not outta gas. We’re just lost, babe. You’re like that idiot on TV, with the tractor on the raft. In the middle of nowhere, getting in your own way. You just need to dry out and remember who the hell you are again.”
She turned to him, trying out words she’d been meaning to say for a while.
“We're regular people, Ran. We're not meant for the glitz and glamour. I'm no Tammy Wynette, you're no George Jones."
“I'll try not to take offense to that."
“And we’re not outta gas. It’s just time I take the wheel for a while.”
Randy nodded, unable to speak. He lost himself in the spinning wheel on the grainy TV. He tried to move his bandaged left hand and still couldn't feel his pinky or ring fingers. The thought of never playing guitar again passed through his mind. He took some deep breaths, his eyes wide and unfocused in the TV glow. The wheel spun and a contestant lost a turn. At the next spin he became transfixed, the colors melding into a kaleidoscopic blur, the clicking of the wheel like creaking snowpack before an avalanche.
He was back in front of the Chuckwagon all those years ago, on that rainy night he first met Lynda. He was looking through the window dotted with droplets, reflecting the flashing neon. He was sorting his last cash and one bad break away from letting this dream shrivel up on the vine. He was playing chicken with his future and was seconds away from bailing out to the oil patch when that piano player in the corner kept him steady.
He stood up and held his bandaged hands to his face. He kneeled and reached across the bed to take Lynda’s hand in his. She reluctantly met his gaze.
“I should be dead, Lyn,” he said. “Twice.”
“You need some sleep, Ran,” Lynda said, flipping off the TV and turning on her side. She could feel Randy on the far side of the bed, still kneeling. If there was something different about this rock bottom, he’d make it known. Nothing she could do about it now. She pretended to sleep. Eventually Randy got into bed and curled his body around hers. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear with more tenderness than she’d felt in years.
"If you’ll have me,” he whispered. “Let's go home."
Within months, the Cole’s were the proud lease holders of the Chuckwagon, a handshake deal between Randy and the newly widowed Mrs. Stella Broussard who was eager to get a dingy honky tonk off her family's books. The new club opened officially on July 4, 1985, with a fresh coat of paint, a star-studded opening day bill, and a new name: The Ruby Slipper.
The neon sign out front blinked, "No place like home."
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Last Night: Den
Den took a smoke break to listen to the last band of the night from the back alley. Typical of the Ruby, the night started with a country and western and ended up in some weirder territory. He buttoned his jacket and flipped up his hood and tried to remember those hot, soupy East Texas nights, when the June bugs were plump and plentiful, and the air was so thick and humid you'd sweat through a shirt long after the sun went down. He tried not think about the fact that this was the last band he'd watch from his favorite spot, where he'd seen countless bands. No matter how busy the bar got, he also had time for a break in the alley, where he could see the side of the stage and hear everything just fine. He loved it all. Even the shittiest bands were great, and every once in a while, an incredible band would come through, one that rang all of Den's cells, set his body resonating with every right frequency. He'd listen through the screen door, one side all cicadas and pine trees, the other side all musty bar and sonic bliss. The crowded room, the empty street, and Den, in the space between.
"Yo, who is this?" he asked the door guy. Everyone called him Meatball but Den never felt comfortable calling him anything but "yo."
"Skeleton Forest, bro," he said, not looking up from his phone. "From New Orleans."
"They're great."
"Yeah dude."
He took a final drag of the cigarette and impulsively checked his phone again.
"Be right back," he said. Meatball didn't react.
Den paced the parking lot. He pulled up Steve's number a few times and stopped himself just short of dialing. He lit a cigarette and squatted, back against the Pequod, and watched the video again.
"Hey dudes, great playing with yall last night, but that's gonna be the last Mind Killers gig for a minute, just got a lot going on. So anyways yeah I love you guys and come by the Ruby tonight I'll get you hammered. Peace."
"Fuckin pussy, my god."
When the video ended Den surprised himself when he jumped up and hucked his phone over the van into the woods behind the Ruby. He punched the side of van, immediately regretting it, and stomped his way back to the Ruby for a drink.
He sat at the bar with one hand in an ice bucket and the other around a healthy pour of cheap whiskey. The last band was loading out and it was just the jukebox from here until last call. Den hadn't seen Lynda in hours, but Larry hadn't left his perch since the bar opened. He looked over. Larry raised his beer and Den responded in kind. He turned back and studied the grain of the wooden bar.
"Smartie?"
Den looked to his right. It was the Skeleton Forest singer. She had a short, tight mohawk and dark chocolate skin flecked with green and gold glitter. She smiled with her whole face. Her outstretched hand held a yellow candy with a dark splotch in the middle. She smiled broadly and her nose ring glistened in the neon glow from the signs behind the bar.
"What is it?"
"Rainbow in a bottle." She stuck out her tongue and revealed a partially dissolved pink tab.
Den took the candy between his index finger and thumb and studied it. "Den," he said.
"Marty," she said.
"I'm not really in a party mood," he said, handing her the candy and turning back to the bar. "Sorry."
Marty hopped up onto the neighboring stool, leaning back on the bar, eyes on Den.
"What kind of mood are you in?"
"Ha," Den said. "A shitty one."
Marty nodded silently.
"Yall were great though."
"Thanks."
"I mean," Den said, turning his body toward his new friend. "Really fucking good. What was that last one? The chorus was like “Ahh-ahhh-ahhh'." Den approximated the song and played air drums, dripping water from his bum hand.
Marty cackled. "Yes! That's my favorite one. You were really listening. Thank you." She put her hands together in prayer and bowed.
Den turned all the way around, beer in his bum hand. The swelling had gone down.
"So yall are from New Orleans? Why'd you come out here, bet you could get plenty of shows in like Houston or Austin or whatever."
"Yeah, we play there all the time," she said. "But I don't know. Everything sucks. This is like the only place in a day's drive that's still fun. Like, check this out!" In a swift motion she sat up on the bar swung her legs around the other side. She grabbed a ratty cowboy hat atop a taxidermied deer head.
"This is RC Cole's fucking hat! That's wild, dude. This place is historic."
Den had never seen someone touch Randy's hat, let alone pick it up. He was slightly horrified until he remembered that everything here was destined for the dump or the Goodwill.
Marty leaned over the bar and put the hat on Den's head. She swung herself back over the bar and landed on her feet.
Come on," she said with an outstretched hand with two pink circles in the middle. "My guys went to get some food, it's my goddam birthday, and you look like you’re searching for something. Take it and let's go."
Den hesitated. He swigged the rest of his beer and picked up the Smartie. Marty took the other one. They instinctively intertwined their arms like two Soviets taking vodka shots.
"Down the hatch!"
Marty led Den out the back door, through the alley, and down the block to the railroad tracks. They balanced on the rails and tossed rocks into the woods. They squeezed between broken slats in a wooden fence and found a rusted-shut Packard on cinder blocks. They climbed onto the hood and laid on their backs as the stars danced slow pirouettes against a purple black curtain. Marty lit a cigarette and pulled a twist-off bottle of wine from a threadbare Jansport Den didn't notice before. "It's a New Moon," she said. She took a pull of wine and passed the bottle to Den. "To new beginnings."
Den took a drink. He closed his eyes and the stars kept dancing behind his eyelids. He had a sudden feeling that his body was racing toward a single point of light, that he was alone in a void, swimming in utero, and somehow feeling every emotion being felt at that moment by every being in the universe simultaneously. He was dead and this was forever. Den would spend eternity in this place, feeling everything all at once, frozen in the tar. It was almost too much to bear, these feelings, this swimming. And slowly, agonizingly slowly, the void melted into a sunrise of orange, pink, and blue, and the sunrise became Marty's face in the lamp light.
"I'm reborn," he said, bug-eyed and believing it.
"I bet you are," Marty said, smiling broadly. "What will you do with your new life?"
They squeezed back through the slats back to the street and walked in the middle of the empty street. Back at the train tracks Marty stopped and took off the threadbare Jansport. She pulled out a crinkly plastic package Den couldn't make sense of in the dark. She crouched down for seconds or minutes and Den locked in on the stars once more.
"Write your wishes," Marty said. Den looked down at the scrap of paper and pen in his hand. "Don't think, just write."
He scribbled down a few words and handed it to Marty, who now held a large white paper lantern, a pumpkin-sized hot air balloon with a candle in the center. She lit the candle and the paper gently expanded. Marty tucked the paper in balloon and handed in to Den.
"Hold this." She set one up for herself. "Now let it go!"
The lantern hovered, unreal, and slowly rose up to the first floor, second floor, just over the streetlights, just over the telephone pole, over a warehouse roof, then floating free. Den looked at Marty and moved, magnetized, toward her, and they kissed.
They lit more lanterns, they hooted and hollered. They sent dozens of moons sailing high, howling each one into the vast expanse.
"What the fuck are you doing?" A man in a blue robe shouted from his porch. "This is a historic neighborhood, you fucking idiots! You'll burn it all down!"
He kept shouting as Den and Marty ran back toward the bar, shrieking and cackling, barbaric yawps echoing through the empty street.
Back at the Ruby they sat on a bench out front. Everything was wet with dew.
"You play music?"
"Yeah," Den said. "I mean, no, not anymore, really."
Marty punched him in the arm.
"Jesus, you got a left hook," Den said.
"Tell the truth, ya doofus."
Den rubbed his shoulder. "Hold on."
He went inside and grabbed a couple beers from the cooler. When he returned Marty was starfished out on the hard-packed dirt parking lot. Den opened the beers and lay down beside her.
"I was in a band, the Mind Killers," Den said. "Me and two other dudes I've known since high school, I played guitar and sang. We were good man, really fucking good. But I couldn't-- I don't know, it's like, one day you think you're near the top of the Rocky Mountains, right, you're almost there and you can taste it, and then the next day you realize, shit I'm in fucking Kansas. And you're just pulling a fucking wagon with two fat asses."
Den breathed in the bayou air, reached for Marty's hand, and closed his eyes. Marty was silent for a while until a giggle overtook her.
"What," she said, like a slow-motion Mad Hatter. "The fuck are you talking about?"
Den's voice caught in his throat. "Like, you know, that feeling like you're working toward something? Like, you're close...?"
Marty laughed another lugubrious laugh.
"My dude," she said, eyes closed and smiling. "I work in a falafel shop. Like, back home, that's my job. And this? Tonight… last night… tomorrow night… and on and on?"
She slowly revolved both hands around each other. She savored each word.
"Scooping tzatziki. All fuckin day.” her eyes were closed, he face one big smile. “And I… love tzatziki."
Den sat up. He couldn't decide if the world spun more unbearably with his eyes open or closed. Without a word he jumped up, ran behind the Pequod, and threw up.
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