You Never Even Called Me By My Name
“And I’ll hang around as long as you will let me...”
A Vignette…
Years ago—on weekend travel from Naval Station Mayport, Florida to Dam Neck/Little Creek, Virginia—two friends and I stopped at a roadhouse.
I was on crutches with a broken ankle in a cast. Not able to drive (we were in a manual transmission, stick-shift), we had a couple of days before reporting and I planned some serious drinking.
My friends ranged the space, looking for three ladies to join us.
But this was not the bar for that.
There were women, but the male patrons had a proprietary eye on them. It was more like, “Look at her, and I’ll skull-fuck you.”
There’s always a mix of wannabe-toughs (proved candy-asses when tested) in any bar, even one like this. Most of these dudes looked the real deal. No doubt they’d put some skull-fuckery on guys that crossed them or eyeballed their girls.
The bar was pure country. My childhood roots music was mostly country and western... a lot of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams (my parents’ favorites). Then, as I got older, I was more into rock and roll and moved away from it musically. But I do like a good, rollickin’ country song. A song came on (the music video below). I knew it from a friend who played the damned thing over and over. So I started to sing along.
I was getting into it, and one of the girls nearby began to watch me. I noticed, so I turned to sing to her. “I’ll hang around as long as you will let me...” I got up on my crutches cause when you’re singing to someone, you have to stand and move with the music. I wore a white form-fitting BRITISH PARTY, Great Britain flag t-shirt from a pub in Gibraltar; even without the singing, I stood out among the leathered-up less fit regulars.
The girl came closer and touched, then stroked, my arm.
Let me back up and give you the big picture.
There I was.
A short-haired military guy in a long-hair, redneck biker bar.
This was back when those in service weren’t admired as much as they are today; the unfortunate anti-military legacy of the Vietnam War took years to fade. There was a nearby Army base, and it was like the scene in An Officer and A Gentleman: The locals didn’t care for military guys… especially—in this case—one singing to one of their women.
I’d just sung this line to her, “You never even called me by my name...” when the music stopped.
Abruptly.
A big beer-bellied biker at a table near ours was on his feet—a head and a half taller than me—pissed off and stomping toward me.
Strong words were exchanged.
Close contact.
My crutch—a good standoff weapon—used tactically (wing nut fasteners will lay someone’s face open when slammed and raked across it).
The biker dude backed off.
But his friends gathered.
It was time to go before shit got real ugly.
I downed my drink, and we left… our heads on a swivel. I cleared my six—behind me—an always practical habit, more critical since the broken ankle hindered me. Then sensed someone had followed me out.
I half-turned, ready (hoping it was just one or two).
It was the girl. “You want to go someplace nicer?”
“I’m with some friends.” I cocked my thumb at my buddies who’d lined up beside me.
“They can follow us.” She motioned for me to come with her.
I looked at my friends. “You guys okay with that?” I got grins and two thumbs up.
She walked faster than me on my crutches to a late-model steel-gray and black Chevy C/K 20 with a Crew Cab. She opened the cab’s door, reached behind the driver’s seat, and took out a bag.
I had started to go around and get in… but stopped.
She took a dress from the bag.
As I watched, she stripped off her jeans and shirt in the nook formed by the open door.
Under the light of the parking lot lamppost, I saw the collage of tattoos on her arms and others that filled her back, ran across her shoulders, and turned into an intricate design down into the cleavage of her breasts. Her sheer bra barely veiled them.
She slipped the dress over her head, settled, and straightened it. The ink on her chest showed in the low-cut sundress. Sweeping her hair back with one hand, she smiled at me.
“You gonna get in?”
I hustled to the passenger side.
When I got in, awkwardly maneuvering crutches and cast, I sat on something big and hard. I pulled from beneath my ass a Ruger .357 Magnum Blackhawk.
I knew the gun—it had kick and punching power—and had fired one a few times. I unlocked the cylinder, cleared and safed the loaded weapon, and held it up. She reached to take it from me.
“For protection.” She winked and set it in her lap.
About fifteen minutes later, we were at a far-less-rowdy bar that played a mix of blues and jazz, which I also appreciated and enjoyed. [Mom had slipped in some Ray Charles—by five, I was singing ‘What’d I Say’ along with her—and Dave Brubeck.]
My two friends and I enjoyed drinking and talking with her. At the end of the evening, a lingering kiss and off she went with her truck and gun. My friends and I motored on, too.
Many Years Pass…
One day, when Alpha and Beta (my two youngest daughters, twins) were about six years old, that song from the biker bar played on the radio while we were driving.
I had not heard it in years—smiled at the memory of what I just shared with you—and started to sing along.
And I do put myself into the song.
I guess it made an impression. That evening, they asked me, “Dad, can you sing that song?”
“What song?”
“The one about the mom in prison.”
So I did.
Afterward, I’d still break it out from time-to-time and they’d give me great big smiles.
Even more years later…
When I wrote this vignette (while playing the song) Alpha and Beta came out of their rooms. Alpha said, “You’d sing this while we sat on your lap, and we’d rock back and forth.”
That we did.
We’d belt it out and rock with it.
I still do…