Usually whenever I do a reading from one of my nonfiction books, someone raises a hand during the q & a to ask, “Yes, but why don’t you write fiction?” or “Have you ever thought about writing fiction?” My response is fiction is too hard for me to write. Nonfiction is no piece of cake for me, but at least it begins with the truth as I know it which makes it grounded in something and somehow that is important for a Taurus. I like to have a starting point – it creates less anxiety for me in writing.
Fiction is like flailing around in emptiness and space where I am responsible for creating something out of nothing, and that makes me incredibly anxious before I even begin to sit down at the computer to write. So many hurdles for me to overcome in writing fiction.
The first problem I have is character names. I can’t think up good names for my characters and it’s not for lack of a reservoir to draw from. I collect names like I collect sayings – I have literally folders of names that I’ve saved through the years, but when it comes to putting them in a story, I can’t find the right ones. None of the names belong with my plot, which is my second problem. What are these nameless characters going to do? And how can I possibly keep them doing it for more than a chapter?
The short story has been my salvation, although not a soul realized my redemption except me. I have submitted a number of short stories for various literary contests, anthology collections, and magazines over the past fifteen years. One of them, Honky Tonk Cowboy, was published in the storyteller magazine in 2013. If you are brave, saddle up and read.
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Honky Tonk Cowboy
Jeff Haynie, Jr. sat on a bar stool at Hammy Smoak’s Barbecue with his head tilted up as he drained the last drop of beer from his second Lone Star longneck of the night. God, he hated beer, he thought, but of course he had to drink it – and it had to be Lone Star if he was a cowboy coming into a saloon after a trying day working cattle and rescuing damsels in distress, which he wasn’t. Nope. Jeff Junior’s day job was working a computer lassoing deposits and withdrawals while he rode a stationary chair behind a counter as a teller for the Third Coast Community Bank in Crabbs Prairie, Texas. He dreamed of being a cowboy, but the only damsels he rescued were the ones who needed to cover their overdrafts and they weren’t grateful when he charged their accounts $35 per bad check. He was as far from realizing his dream as the Third Coast Community Bank was from the Gulf of Mexico. Old Man Tarkington, the founder and sole shareholder of the bank, had been in the Coast Guard when he was Young Man Tarkington and loved the idea of his bank overlooking the sea. Never mind that it sat on dry land at the corner of Main and Liberty in a small town deep in the piney woods of southeast Texas. Water, water, nowhere.
I’ll have another one, Hammy, Jeff Junior said to the bartender who also owned the beer joint which he loved. It was a classic Texas honky tonk, and Jeff Junior was content to pass the time with Hammy and any other regular customers on a Wednesday night after work. Coming right up, Hammy said as he reached into the cooler and brought out an ice cold Lone Star that he opened and sat down on the bar in front of Jeff. He studied his customer. What’s on your mind tonight, Junior? Somebody’s drawers come up short? he laughed at his own joke. I’ll bet Drusilla McCune’s drawers would come up short for a nice looking young fellow like you. Yeah, you ought to take her to the rodeo over in Houston this weekend. Let her ride bareback on your bucking bronco on the way home.
Jeff Junior smiled at the thought of his persnickety co-worker Dru going with him to a rodeo and took another sip of his beer. Dru wasn’t really rodeo material. She was more dinner and a movie with a glass of wine. They worked well together and he liked her, but she wasn’t a damsel in distress. She confided to him one day in the break room she was interested in moving up to the next rung of her career ladder. Where the next rung was, or for that matter, where the career ladder would be at the Third Coast Community Bank in Crabbs Prairie Jeff didn’t know, but Dru had a plan.
Jeff Junior, on the other hand, didn’t have a plan and as his daddy Jeff Senior was happy to remind him, didn’t know the value of a dollar but sure knew how to spend one. Dear old Dad, always the captain of Team Jeff. Team Jeff Senior, that is. He took another swig of the nasty brew.
Hey, Junior. How you like my newest addition? Hammy asked and nodded his head toward the rear of the tavern. Jeff followed his gaze and saw an old jukebox crammed into the corner. The place was already a haven for everything Hammy’s wife Vera Pearl wanted out of her house, and who could blame her for throwing out Hammy’s antiques? His prized used license plate collection was the first to leave the house when he opened the tavern. He owned so many dingy license plates he was able to cover all four interior walls of the restaurant with them. Vera Pearl was also thrilled when the deer heads and cattle horns left their house. The mounted deer heads and longhorns from cattle of the same name that framed the big screen TV suspended from the exposed pine beams above the bar were examples of a decorating scheme gone southwest. Think John Wayne western meets ESPN sports highlights. Paradise Found for Hammy Smoak.
Very nice, Jeff said without interest. He was listening to the country legends radio station playing music in the background as it always did through the best speakers money could buy according to the man who bought them and the other man who sold them to him. Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys wailed Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. For sure his mother and father agreed with that song and insisted he give up his teenage passion for rodeoing as soon as he finished high school. That youthful phase was gone, his father had said. It was time to take responsibility and prepare for an occupation that offered financial security. His parents strongly recommended he attend Sam Houston University and get a business degree. How strong was that recommendation? If Jeff wanted their support, he’d enroll at Sam Houston and stay there until he graduated. Jeff got the picture. Four years later he had his degree and an interview with Old Man Tarkington who was a family friend and seemed mildly impressed with Jeff’s shiny new parchment. Three years after that conversation he sat next to the beautiful focused Drusilla McCune every day from 8:30 to 6:00 with a half hour for lunch. Not exactly what he’d envisioned, but he was only twenty-seven years old and who could predict the future?
Why don’t you go take a look at it? Hammy asked Jeff. Let me know your honest opinion about whether it adds to the décor. I got it for a song. He paused. Get it? Got a jukebox for a song? Hammy chuckled at his own joke.
Take a look at what? Jeff shook himself out of his reverie. My new jukebox, please. I want to know what you think, so get off your ass and kindly walk over to that jukebox and tell me how much my personal banker thinks I should’ve paid for it, Hammy answered.
All right. Geez, Jeff said and slid his tall lanky frame off the stool to walk over to take a peek at Hammy’s new antique. When he reached the jukebox, Jeff leaned in to look at the names of the songs but could barely read the titles that were yellowed with age. The big Wurlitzer had dings and dirt from years of playing favorites for patrons in honky tonks like Hammy’s place. The chrome was tarnished and the record stack tilted. He casually punched in B17 on the play buttons that resembled piano keys with letters and numbers. Please, mister please, don’t play B17 he heard Olivia Newton John begging across the speakers in the bar. Or was that the bar speakers? He turned around and listened. Hey Hammy, does this thing play? he called across the room.
How the hell would I know? Hammy replied. I never plugged it in. For_ Sale_ As_ Is was what the ad said. I thought it would look good in here. That corner has always needed something, don’t you think?
I wouldn’t know, Jeff said. Mind if I plug it in? That’s fine, said Hammy. Let’s see if the old girl can spin a tune. Jeff had to kneel on the floor to search for the cord which he found behind the jukebox and pulled across the floor to the nearest wall socket. He plugged it in, and when contact was made, he watched in wonder as a sudden burst of fireworks exploded from the jukebox and dozens of brightly colored lights in the shape of stars swirled around him as he stood up. The jukebox was also glowing with alternating colors of an incandescent red mixed with shimmering silver and dazzling blue. The lights shaped like stars got closer to Jeff and threatened to envelop him, but he wasn’t afraid. Brother jukebox, sister wine, mother freedom, father time. He heard the lyrics of his favorite Mark Chesnutt song blaring above the hullabaloo that now overpowered him. Father time was his new team captain.
The smell of horse shit and tack reached Jeff’s nostrils and his eyes opened wide. Sweet Jesus, he said as he surveyed the scene. He stood in the middle of a large barn with one, two, three, four, five, six horses tethered in individually assigned stalls. He stared at them in disbelief and then looked down at himself. He was wearing a pair of brown working cowboy boots, and he noticed he was two steps away from a pile of horse manure in the dirt. He had on a pair of blue jeans that fit him well and his red- and- black- checked flannel shirt was tucked in his jeans. A wide beige leather belt that had a dull silver buckle the size of his fist was uncomfortable. He felt a weight on his head, and reached to touch the brim of a hat. He took it off and stared at the black Stetson he wore. Wow, Jeff thought. Where was he and how did he get here? The last thing he remembered was plugging in the jukebox at Hammy Smoak’s Barbecue.
Hey, Jeff, a gruff voice called from the tack room. We ain’t the ones on vacation at this ranch. Shovel that shit out of here and get those horses saddled. We got city folk in an hour paying a ton of money to pretend they’re cowboys for the week so let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Mr. Tarkington has a zero tolerance for being late. Comprende?
The man who was obviously his boss walked out of the tack room and into Jeff’s view. Hammy, Jeff exclaimed. Hammy Smoak! Boy am I glad to see you! He rushed to meet the older man walking toward him. Hammy who? the man asked and frowned. Have you got shit for brains? You’re not one of them druggies, are you? I’m Davis Giles, you fool. I’m the one who made the mistake of hiring your sorry washed up bronco riding ass. But if you don’t get this barn cleaned and these horses saddled in the next hour, you’re fired. Get it? As in adios, amigo.
Yes sir, Jeff said. I’ve got it. But I don’t really get it, he thought. He saw a shovel leaning against the wall in front of him so he walked over to pick it up and started shoveling as fast as he could. Damn. When he’d pictured himself as a cowboy, this wasn’t part of the dream. The horses cooperated with him and within the hour Jeff had five ready to go and was finishing the sixth when he heard the first guest coming into the barn. He peered around the horses to check it out. A woman wearing cowboy boots and dressed in blue jeans and a white cotton shirt strode into the barn. Oh my God, Jeff thought. I must be somewhere over the rainbow in the Land of Oz. The woman he saw walking toward the horses was Dru. Drusilla McCune from the Third Coast Community Bank! Seriously?
Dru, Dru, Jeff shouted excitedly and walked behind the horses to catch up with her. How did you get here? You’ve got to tell me everything. I’m really confused and I can’t believe that you’re here with me. I mean, I’m… and his voice trailed off as Dru stared.
Excuse me, sir, she said. I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else. I don’t know you. This is my first visit to the Tarkington Ranch and my name is Sharon Lockhart. I’m the President of the Third Coast Community Bank and I’ve brought a group of my associates here for a leadership retreat. I wanted to get to the barn a few minutes early to preview the space. I hope you’ll pardon me while I take a look at the horses. Some of my guys are a little nervous about riding. I just love the smell of horses with leather saddles in a barn like this one. Don’t you? Of course you must or you wouldn’t be a cowboy. She laughed.
Jeff nodded and looked at her in amazement as she turned to pet the nearest horse. Okay. That did it. I don’t know what’s happening here, but I have to find the answers or I’ll be as crazy as the lyrics of a Patsy Kline song, he thought. And that’s when he saw it. Sitting in a dark corner in the back of the barn behind a bale of hay was what appeared to be an old jukebox. He mumbled an apology to Ms. Lockhart and walked away to see if he had found the Wizard.
When he reached the jukebox he touched it to make sure it was really there. It looked the same as the one in the honky tonk. It was hard to see in the dark, but he fumbled behind the machine to find a cord. Thank God, he said when he found it and pulled it around to plug into the only socket nearby. The socket was torn away from the wall with frayed wires and covered with cobwebs. This had disaster written all over it. He remembered an old Joe Diffie tune, prop me up beside the jukebox when I die. He knelt on the floor to plug the cord into the socket.
Let’s see if the old girl can spin a tune, he said. Nothing happened. No bright star lights. No loud explosions. The jukebox was silent. Jeff stood and then heard the familiar strains of Mark Chesnutt. Brother jukebox, sister wine, mother freedom, father time. He opened his eyes to the welcome sight of Hammy Smoak’s Barbecue. He was beyond relieved, but exhausted, too.
I said I guess she’ll be ornamental and not useful, Hammy called to Jeff from behind the bar. Jeff nodded and walked across the room. No, the jukebox doesn’t play any tunes, but it definitely adds a new dimension to your place. He took a debit card from his pocket and handed it to Hammy. I’m done for tonight. Total the tab and I’ll be on my way.
You don’t want another beer? Hammy asked. No, I’ve had my last Lone Star, Jeff answered. Next time I’ll have a different drink. Hammy chuckled and said, I don’t blame you. I never thought you really liked it anyway. Here’s your receipt. Have a good evening, and I’ll see you this weekend.
Maybe not, Jeff said. I’m asking Dru to go to dinner and a movie with me.
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I'll Call It Like I See It 