Song in a Place #2

https://youtu.be/DfSLsMMDGOY

I wrote this one after talking with a lady about the complexities of the times we’re in.

“Girl,” she told me, “I’m a mountain woman and I live simple. If I need something I’ll make it or barter with my neighbor, and I’ve got love. That’s that.”

While I think it’s necessary to get involved with the world sometimes, that stuck with me, so I wrote this song. After writing it I realized it’s really John Prine’s “Spanish Pipedream” but through the point of view of the levelheaded dancer (and of course, I’m no Prine😊).

I’m playing it at Mingus Mill, a historic grist mill, so that’s a river you’re hearing in the background.

 

So American

 “We’ll put a boot in yer ass, it’s the American way!”

Toby Keith’s “Angry American” boomed in the dusty arena as two cowgirls loped in circles, one waving the Wyoming state flag and the other the stars and stripes. The crowd applauded at the idea of a patriotic ass-kicking.

With their boots, buckles, spurs, and no-nonsense attitudes, one might not wish to cross a resident of Dubois, WY. While welcoming and down-to-earth, they could put an Ariat up anyone’s rear. They’ve seen the wild west looking down the barrels of shotguns, developed calloused hands from their lives of ranching, and have learned to thrive in the bitter Northwestern winters. Even their five-year-olds can ride like the wind. You can see it for yourself at the weekly Dubois Rodeo.

Before the barrel racing began, the rodeo warmed up with a poor, asthma-ridden grandmother who tried her darndest to wheeze out the National Anthem, and then the waving of the flags. There was always a patriotic song playing for the ceremony. Last week was “Proud to be an American.” This week was “Angry American” by Toby Keith. As the crowd cheered for the iconic, butt-kicking lyrics, I wondered what my British friend sitting next to me was thinking.

I went back to being a little girl and longing to be a singer. I’d put on my glittery red cowgirl hat and matching boots (no pants necessary) and sing along to CDs in my little room at the end of the single-wide. I went with whatever my parents had lying around; U2’s Joshua Tree, a compilation of Appalachian folk songs, and the soundtrack to Shrek were a few of my favorites.

 But 6-year-old me really took a shining to some 90’s Toby Keith. I loved the song he sang with Willie Nelson about never wanting to smoke weed with Willie again, and the one called “Beer for My Horses” which is basically a mantra for the implementation of capital punishment, where he wants to “put a few more in the ground.” There was also “Who’s Your Daddy?”, where Keith had the money and she had the honey.

But I liked how Willie and Keith sang together. I loved the twangy rhythm guitar. I thought that giving beer to horses sounded sweet, and I thought it was nice that somebody had found a Dad.

The cream of the crop was “Angry American.” Having listened to that song as a little girl who was only 2 during 9/11, I thought it was just about being patriotic…sure, loudly, blaringly patriotic, but proud nonetheless. It took me a bit to realize the song’s enraged and rather graceless stance against that fateful day and against any threat to the USA. If you are looking for a song that illustrates the Statue of Liberty offering up a knuckle sandwich and hell raining down on America’s enemies, where the American people are depicted as a growling bulldog in a cage, look no further.

Think what you will of the song. As a 6-year-old girl, I dug it.

So when my family was on vacation, we wound up camping in an RV park with a pool. A bunch of retirees were having a Memorial Day karaoke party at the pool, and I decided I wanted to sing. I wrapped a towel around my pink bikini, told my parents to watch me, and headed towards the mic that was set up next to the hot tub.

I wish I could look back and remember the karaoke man’s face the moment my little-self walked up to him and asked him if he’d please put on “Angry American” by Toby Keith for me to sing to, much less my parents’ faces when they’d realized my song choice. However, to this day I remember the old people in the hot tub howling when I sang, “We’ll put a boot in your ass” in my high-pitched southern accent, as loud as I could.

That is where my mind went as I sat in those bleachers at the Dubois Rodeo Grounds.

I turned to my British friend after the song ended and the cheers died down. “So, what’s your opinion of what just happened?”

She laughed. “It was so American.”

Song in a Place #1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbpsr4Rh3Xo

 I have decided to add a musical element to this baby. I'll post videos of (most likely) original songs played in places that I dig!

I want to do this because:

• The world is weird, shows are irregular, I miss playing tunes for folks.
• I've been writing a lot, and I guess it should go somewhere.
• This is Always Alma. I'm Alma. So I can do whatever I want, right?

This one's a little older, I wrote it last fall. It's not as sad as you'd think.

Waterrock Knob is one of my favorite spots, and if there aren't views there's just a nothingness of clouds, as you can see. I recorded this after taking a walk in the rain, as you do, and the parking lot that's normally swamped was empty. 

Life-hack: go there on a rainy, foggy kinda day.

Albert, TX

 “F*** Luckenbach!” exclaimed Steve. Like all the other tourists in the Texas Hill Country who love Willie and Waylon and the boys, I wanted to go to Luckenbach. Steve was quick to let me know he didn’t approve. “We hate Luckenbach,” he said, swigging his bottle of Lone Star. “Tourist trap’s all it is.” By “we” I suppose he meant Texans at large. He seemed to think he spoke for the masses. “Us Texans are assholes,” he told me earlier. 

Well, I don’t know about all of you, but… I thought.

Steve was an asshole, but I liked him. He was a veteran with a large belly that shook when he laughed. He had a big, red beard, and he acted like he ran the place. He was quite vocal about how mediocre he thought my music was. “She’s alright, I reckon,” he said loudly to his drinking partner, a local rancher in a high-dollar Stetson. “I mean, she said she can’t play no Skynyrd...”

I’d gotten a gig in this bar in the middle of the Hill Country in a community called Albert, Texas. The joint was small and Donna the bartender was blonde and sassy. It was heated by an old wood stove and glowing with neon, in the middle of a field that was dotted with oak trees. The ten people in the place were locals who had nowhere else to go, as in you’d have to drive a ways to go anywhere else. 

“Would it be ok if I car-camped in your parking lot this evening?” I asked Donna. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “And you’ll be safe. Nothing ever goes on around here.”

About an hour into the show the crowd had dwindled down to Steve, his Stetson-wearing drinking partner, Chip, and a younger, skinnier fellow in a hoodie named Jessie.

Then the quiet was interrupted as a middle-aged couple in matching, bedazzled his and hers jackets walked through the door, bursting with loud, showy laughter. They’d been drinking on the porch and it showed. “Well, I’ll be, look at her!!!” shouted the woman, pointing at me. “Play Jolene, honey!!!” Her man, Bob, joined in the hollering. “Get Wanda up there with you she can sing like a damn bird!” 

That’s how I ended up playing Jolene with Wanda singing in unison. Of all the drunk people who had ever joined me on stage, she wasn’t the worst. She even had dance moves. What’s more, breaking from the stream of original songs that permeated my set allowed me to rise above mediocrity in Steve’s book. “HEEELLL YEAAAH,” he hollered. 

Afterwards, I took a set break, but the entertainment went on as Bob and Wanda drew commotion out of nothing. There were enough hoots and hollers to go around. We learned that they were from Dallas, just visiting the country for the weekend. Bob was a car salesman. Wanda didn’t mention what she did, but she made a lot of jokes about being the only black person in the honky-tonk.

 Then they got into the nitty gritty. “Now lemme tell you what the problem is,” said Bob to Steve and his buddies. “It’s them illegals gettin’ in. Thank goodness we got that wall bein’ built.” The others responded in rowdy agreement. “And lemme tell you what,” chortled Wanda, “They wanna take our guns? They're gonna hafta go through me first.” She flapped open her leather jacket to reveal a 22 resting in an inner pocket. “Alright,” said Steve in approval. Donna stood behind the bar, her eyebrows raised, and scuttled out the back door. Jessie gave me a look, as if to let me know that I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t sure of what just happened.

Bob and Wanda went to take a smoke break when the cops showed up on the porch. “Oh, heeeell no,” wailed Steve, along with a few other choice words. Chip shook his head disapprovingly. Reading my mind, Jessie asked them, “What’s going on?”

“Somebody called the cops ‘cuz that Wanda woman flashed her gun. It ain’t legal in the bar to reveal firearms.” Chip seemed about as bummed as Steve. “Great.”

“What’s so bad about calling the cops?” I asked. Steve looked at me with wide eyes, as if I’d just asked him, “What was so bad about Obama?” 

Chip cut in. “Honey, around here, we like to turn blind-eyes, and if something needs to get dealt with, we do it ourselves. We’ve got our own powder and lead.”

“And the cops ain’t had to come around here in ages,” said Steve, “But now we’re on their radar, on their route. Dammit to hell,” he sighed. “And that woman was bein’ stupid, but she wasn’t doing no harm.” Jessie just shrugged. They went on to complain about city people.

Through the window I saw that the cop had summoned Bob and Wanda away. She’d have to pay a hefty fine. Donna had some words from Steve and Chip when she came back inside. She stared at the men, undaunted. “Boys,” she said, “I hate calling the cops as much as ya’ll do, but the gun was caught on the surveillance camera. I would’ve gotten fired if I hadn’t.” She glanced at me. “Of course, this happens after I tell you that nothing ever happens around here.” 

After my set was over, another large bearded man and a pierced-up, short-haired lady walked in the door. “Well look-a-there!” Everyone yelled as they entered the room. Their names were Brad and Sal. They were a renowned musical duo in the area. “This little lady’s from North Carolina, and she’s alright,” Steve introduced me. Sal raised her eyebrows. “You sure came a long way to get to the middle of nowhere.” We wound up jamming to some Red Dirt songs. After the first song Brad swung in and kissed me on the cheek, saying I was lucky I wasn’t older. I wasn’t sure what to do with that, but the two of them sounded sweet singing under the neon lights, and they felt like friends for the evening.

I was about to get settled in my car for the evening when Jessie tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, if you’re going to sleep in your car, please come park in my driveway.” I gave Donna the bartender a look. “Oh, yeah, Jessie’s a good one, that’s a good idea.” 

He lived about 5 minutes down the road in another field. He had a one-roomed house. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay inside, it’s not very big, though.”

“I’m alright. Thanks.” He handed me a Coors and laid out a quilt that his grandma made. We sat on the edge of his truck bed. I listened to him talk about East Texas wine and arrowhead hunting while he smoked a joint. “Well, I’m gonna head to bed. Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Thank you so much!”

He looked back before walking through the door. “You’ve gotta write a song about Albert, Texas, you know.”

I woke up with the sun the next morning. I left him a note under one of the arrowheads on his porch. I told him I’d write a song about Albert, Texas. 

I’m still working on it.

Not Buck-Wild

 “Hey, how sketchy is your Walmart parking lot?” I asked the barista. He raised his eyebrows as he wiped the counter. “Well, it’s not the worst,” he said, “But you can totally sleep in the parking lot here if you want. It’s quiet. We’ll give you a discount on coffee in the morning.” That sounded good, so that’s just what I did.

I’d just finished playing a show in the back of this cafe in San Marcos, TX. Other than the occasional individual who wondered back for a song or two, I was playing for the sound man. He listened, though, and in between songs he told me stories about his career filming reality television in LA. “I felt like I was contributing to the garbage of this world,” he said. “I had to stop. It was hard, I had connections and I made good money.” He sighed, probably reminiscing on whatever fancy car he drove or the bejeweled lady that might’ve sat in the passenger’s seat. “But sometimes the hard, crazy things that don’t make sense at the time are the best.”

 I believed him. He seemed happy turning dials and listening to the songs of nobodys like me. 

Afterwards, I was sitting by the counter scribbling some lyrics. This place closed earlier than most venues, and I wasn’t sure where to go. I guess the barista read my mind. “You can sit there till I have to count the money. Then I’m locking you out.”

“Ok.” I sat there for about 40 minutes, mostly in silence as he put everything away. “So where all have you been?” I summed up the past two weeks in Louisiana and east Texas. He listened and nodded his head.

“Ok. I’ve gotta lock you out now,” he said nonchalantly. Before closing the door, he raised his eyebrows. “So wait, how old are you?”

“20.” 

He smiled. “Ah. 20. Good for you. That’s a good age to go buck-wild.”

I thought that buck-wild was what Blu-Cantrel’s man got before she maxed out his credit card in the song “Hit ‘Em Up Style.” But maybe it’s also the state of being that rides the line of stupid and free. It’s a thin line. You don’t want to cross it into the realms of naivety, but you also don’t want to lose that freedom. It’s addictive. It’s an open door to the unexpected, a place to commune with God as you hear His whisper beneath the buzzing of your 4 wheels. I think it swallowed me whole. 

It was scary at first, though. 

 My mind wandered as I drove through seemingly endless cow fields, gray skies, and nothingness. What was I doing? 

I’d found this spot on FreeCamping.com. It said it was a magical place where you could park your car and camp on a beach in Galveston, TX. Apparently, there weren’t creepers, which was great, because that’s how I like my beaches.

I knew I would end up doing this car-camping business. It’s what made this rambling so feasible, where the dollars I would be spending on hotels went straight to the gas tank. However, this was my first time, and unfortunate hypotheticals swam in my head. What if there was no reception? What if I got lost? What if the website was lying about the lack of creepers, what if all of the reviews were actually made by the creepers, like some mass-creeper-internet scheme?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to over-dramatize my situation. I am a privileged girl who gets to go on road trips, and I just happen to go it alone. It’s not like I’m taking valiant risks for huge, noble causes, with bullets in the air and my soul at stake. I just like rambling, and I accept the risks that come with it.

But as a young woman on the road by myself, I am constantly reminded of what could go wrong; not so much by the things that actually go wrong, but by the worried looks and lectures that come from well-meaning souls.

“Oh, I heard a story of a young woman who disappeared in this gas-station…”

“You know, sex-traffickers look for girls like you…”

“Oh, so you’re alone? Oh…” 

Lovely anecdotes, right?

Initially, it was sometimes difficult to talk to some of my loved ones on the road. All they wanted to tell me about was how careful I needed to be with an unnerving panic in their voices. Again, I know they meant well, but the smart ass in me wanted to be like, “Ya know, thanks for reminding me to be careful, I was actually thinking about being really careless, maybe leaving my doors unlocked and picking up that hitchhiker dude with a knife.”

Of course solo women on the road need to be careful. It’s a funky old world. There are dangers I must consider as a woman that male solo travelers don’t have to think about. I take cautions, like making sure my tank is filled so I’m not alone at a gas station at night, or asking the bartender at the venue I’m playing at to walk me to my car, or making sure that my Alaskan grizzly spray is secure in my purse.

But even though these sentiments I described are well meaning, they have also been conduits of panic, opening endless doors of “what-ifs” and igniting the fear of a bad guy behind every corner. This mindset does not bring about healthy caution and level headedness, but rather, a fevered worry and mirages of worst-case scenarios. 

I have gradually learned to take these sentiments with grains of salt, to take the love and care within them while leaving the worry. But on the way to that beach, they brought about floods of anxiety. 

Then the cow fields broke into the ocean shore. The grey waves crashed. I drove up the gravel towards the beach, and I felt this unexpected assurance from a still, small voice within.

I parked on the beach. I had reception, and there were three or four vans scattered around. 

Anyone can be a creep. But these people were couples and families starting campfires and cooking dinner on Coleman stoves. It seemed as though they were all just wanting to enjoy the magical free parking spot, too. 

I felt this joy, so I ran out of my car and frolicked down the shore, as you do. I got some weird looks from my neighbors, but God’s goodness is overwhelming sometimes. From the time He carved out the island’s shore and summoned the golden light over the water, He knew anxious, lonely, and tired little ol’ me would find refuge there.  

I got out my banjo and played some tunes while the sun went down over the waves. I was putting it up when an older man and woman sitting outside an airstream nearby summoned me over. “Hey, do you wanna come sit with us?” asked the woman. She had dark hair, a sweet smile, and her leather jacket matched her man’s. He was a white-haired fellow in a trucker’s cap. He stoked the fire they sat around, drinking from their solo cups. “Sure,” I told them.

Janet and Danny were from Shreveport, Louisiana. They saw me running around like a loony and playing banjo to the waves. That was enough for them to invite me to their campfire. “What are ya’ll doing here?”

“We’re on our way to a biker’s rally,” said Danny. “Can you sing us some Skynyrd?” They were only slightly disappointed when I admitted that I’d never learned to play any Skynyrd.

“Here ya go, hun,” said Janet, handing me most of a bottle of wine. “Please take this, it tastes like ass and I’m not gonna drink it.” 

“Thanks!” 

They told me about how Danny had remodeled the airstream, and they’d gone all over with it. Colorado was their favorite. They looked at one another like each was the other’s treasure. “God just really blessed us,” said Danny. “We were older when we met. We didn’t think we’d fall in love again.” 

I spent the night sitting with them, watching the lights of the ships sparkle across the water, drinking bad wine and listening to their road stories. Janet gave me her number, told me to text her when I got to Austin. They said they’d pray for me. It meant the world.

I’m not sure that I went buck-wild there, though. If I saw the barista in San Marcos again, I think I’d tell him that I wasn’t going buck-wild. I was just trusting in the pursuit of beauty. 

And like the sound man said, the seemingly crazy things that don’t make sense can also be the right things.

Hostels > Motel 6

 I spent my first moments in Austin wandering aimlessly, looking at hats I couldn’t afford and Texas Ranger monuments. It was my first time bumming in a major city. I felt stupid and washed up as strangers bustled around me in swarms. The traffic raged like hell. I didn’t want to sleep in my car. 

What if I told you that you could sleep in a room full of bunk beds amongst strangers, and it’s somehow less sketchy and more affordable than a Motel 6? You can. It’s a hostel.

From my limited experience, I gathered that hostel people were their own breed. We want cheap beds and good conversation with fellow weirdos. There are even hosts nearby to kick out any bad eggs. 

The hostel in Austin was a little white building on the outskirts of town with a porch swing and a tiny lawn. It felt like walking into someone’s living room. There were couches, colorful rugs, and a stack of board games. I wandered into the kitchen. A pretty dark-haired woman was wiping the counters. She looked up at me through her thickly-framed glasses.“Oh, hi! I’m Juanita!” she said with a stark accent.

Juanita was the hostess. She was from Mexico. She’d been in the states for a few years.

“What do you like about America?”

“I have more freedom as a woman,” she said. She explained that in Mexico, it is more difficult for women to be independent. She felt as though America had given her the world at her fingertips. 

She led me upstairs to the girls’ bunk room. It was the size of a walk-in closet, but they’d managed to stuff two bunk beds in there. It felt like I was back at church camp as I climbed up the white rails, but hopefully these girls were less giggly and wouldn’t whisper in eachother’s ears in front of me. Someone else had put their bags under my mattress.

That someone turned out to be Chelsea. She was from Dallas. Half of her hair was red, the other half was blue. Her fishnets were stark against her white legs. She was dotted with piercings. I soon found out she was only 18. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m just gonna find some town that feels alright, and I’m gonna move there.”

“I like that,” I told her. “I hope you find it.”

We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen with Juanita. A smiley fellow with a killer Afro walked in. His name was Jay. He was actually a local, but he was in-between houses. He worked in a lab and he liked asking questions. He made sure to get our life stories. 

“Man. I like some girls from the South,” he chuckled after getting most of mine.

Then he moved on to Chelsea’s. She told us that she’d been riding Greyhounds and staying on any couches that would have her, and every so often, someone put her up a hostel. “Girl, you crazy,” was Jay’s repeated response.

“Yeah. I think after this I’m going back to this dude’s couch next...Tryin’ to get west, though…” I still sometimes pray that she did. 

I was hot stuff because I was the only one with a car. “I’m gonna go listen to some music if y'all wanna come,” I told them. They were all for it as they hopped in the Subaru. I forgot to mention that I’d been living out of the thing, so they got to move my bras, instruments, jars of peanut butter, and pillows out of the way. They didn’t seem to mind, though.

There was a bar called The Skylark down the road. A fellow named Dickie Lee Erwin was playing Texas country music there. So a wild-eyed punk chick, a wandering Mexican woman, a laid-back black guy, and a road-tripper in cowgirl boots walk into a bar to hear some country music. There’s no punchline, that’s just what happened. 

Jay drank his beer in silence as he listened, and Chelsea seemed like she’d rather go to a concert that involved more moshing, but Juanita was very into the telecaster’s twang and the troubadour’ s wail. “I love country music!” she exclaimed, like a baby who had just started to eat real food. “It’s so real!”

This old, toothless man in a khaki suit, gaudy jewelry, and a wizard-like staff asked me to dance in the neon lights with him. I felt like I had to, as though I’d regret it if I didn’t. Both of us were bad at dancing. We did this move where we reached into the air like we were swatting at invisible moths, but he seemed to be living for those moments. It made it worthwhile. I felt like I’d truly had an Austin experience.

Afterwards, we went out for ice cream, talked about God, and laughed about nothing. We watched Chelsea ask random guys for their phone numbers. Only one of them said no.

We got back to the hostel after midnight. I headed out in the morning before those three awoke, so I left a strip of paper with my name and number on it. They were alright last I heard, but it’s been a while. Sadly, I don’t have their numbers on my new phone.  

Maybe I’ll miraculously bump into them at the next hostel I stay at. If not, maybe I’ll just keep seeing their faces in the smiles of other well-meaning strangers.

Feel Free to Use the Shower

 I took a deep breath as I rolled into the driveway. I double checked the GPS and reread the directions she’d given me: truck in the driveway, boat in the yard. Both were there. I spent a moment thinking about it, because you can never be too sure when you’re pulling into a stranger’s driveway in Austin at 3:05 in the morning. 

In case you were wondering, there’s no way to get settled in a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s guest room in the middle of the night without feeling like a punk-kid breaking an entering. I stalked up the driveway. What a relief to find the door unlocked.

Snores echoed in the dark room. My heart jolted as the silhouette of a dog stepped into view, but he wagged his tail, licked my hand, and didn’t cause a ruckus in a stranger’s living room at 3:10 A.M. That was a plus.

I stumbled towards a light down the hall and found the room Libby had described in the text. It was covered in beige, featuring a giant bed. Family pictures sat on the dresser. I only felt slightly creepy as I looked at them and decided they looked like a nice family of three.

To my surprise, there was even a bathroom! What a blessing! You know how you see depictions of Native American cultures marking the days by the moon phases? Well, on the road, I sometimes marked the days by showers. “Oh, that was before the last shower... 5 days ago…”

I never mind making due with wet wipes and river beds. I didn’t have anyone to impress. If it got bad, I’d just pay to shower at Love’s with the long-haul truckers. But it never came to that.

Showers are commodities on the road, though. The last time I’d showered was in Louisiana. I’d stayed with the couple who owned the cafe where I played tunes for gelato, a chicken sandwich, a bed, and some good talks. Maybe they smelled me when I walked in their house. They offered their guest shower.

Anyways, Libby’s shower was exciting.

Libby was my friend’s friend’s friend, and that is a joy of social media. She’d offered me her guest room. I told her I’d be late. Little did I know it’d be 3 A.M. late. 

I’d played a gig at this place called Hole in the Wall in downtown Austin. True to the name, it was a hole in a wall, and you did come out of there reeking of cigarettes. I opened for a couple of songwriters, Wild Fitz and Will Cope. They were long-haired men with shiny belt buckles and boots. 

Mr. Cope must’ve been an Austin legend because all night everyone was like, “GOSH DARN IT THAT’S WILL COPE!” His shaggy hair and newsboy’s cap made him look like he had a lot of songs in his head. I remember a song he sang about moving to Texas, buying some cowboy clothes, and learning to write songs and sing them in smoky bars. It made me smile.

Fitz was sweet, and he sang like Hank Williams reborn. I got the feeling he used to be a wild one, but now he has a baby. Now he stays home and sings for his woman. He told me about the best record store in San Antonio to find Tejano vinyl, and to this day his words have stuck to my heart.

     “It’s crazy,” he said, a far away look in his eyes, “On the road, you meet these strangers, and more often than not, they’ll be so kind to you for no reason. You probably won’t even see them again.” He sighed. “It’s like people want to be a part of your story.”

Turns out, we weren’t getting paid until the bar closed at 2 A.M. The three of us would split a percentage of the beer sales. So I sat out back with these cowboy singers for a good while, laughing about mostly nothing, and I got that $30 I was owed. At least it covered the parking costs.

I was already going to be late to Libby’s, and then, halfway to her house, I realized I’d forgotten my condenser mic (of course, one of the more expensive things I owned). I sped back, grabbed it by the grace of God, and despite the strangeness of creeping into a stranger’s house in the pitch black, as soon as I hit that bed I was out.

In the morning, my eyes unpeeled, breaking the seal made by clumped eyeliner and mascara. The midday light shone through the windows and the bed held my tired bones like a cocoon. I heard voices in the living room. It sounded like Libby’s husband and the kid, but I didn’t hear a woman. I’d better get up, get out, and let these nice folks move on with their day, I thought. Of course, everything I needed to make myself decent was left in the car, so bedhead and bad breath prevailed. At least I’d slept in my dress.

I strolled into the living room. The world stood still. Libby’s man, a large fellow with earrings and a mohawk, stared at me with eyes like saucers, his mouth wide open. The towhead kid held his HotWheels to his chest and gawked. Do I look that rough? I thought. Is the bedhead that horrendous? Are the raccoon eyes that bad?

“Who are you?!” Boomed the man. “Where did you come from?”

I stuttered. My knees shook. “Uh…” I pointed to the guest room. “In there...I’m from North Carolina…”

Apparently, Libby had forgotten to tell her family that a weird girl was going to crash in the guest room. She’d gone to work early that morning. “I am so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you.” 

He burst into laughter. “No it’s fine!” He smiled all too kindly for a guy who thought his house had just been broken into. “We have touring musicians stay with us a lot, it’s sometimes hard to keep track.” 

In the daylight I saw the guitars and the drum set in the corner. “You play?”

”Yeah,” he said. I told him I’d played at Hole in the Wall.

“Oh that’s why you were in so late. I’ve played there,” he said. “It’s cool, but the pay sucks, huh?” He grabbed the kid’s backpack. “I’ve got to take this squirt to school, but hey, stay as long as you want.” He headed towards the door.

 “Oh, and feel free to use the shower.”

We Like Metal But Doc Watson Goes Hard

 “Yeah, I hopped freight in Oklahoma for a while. It’s not San Antonio, but you’ll like it,” said Alex. She said she’d hopped freight so casually, like she’d gone there on business or to see a cousin. 

“So what’s that like?”

“Well, it gets you where you’re going, wherever that is.” She laughed. “You can make friends, but you’ve gotta watch your back.” I was pretty sure the girl could do both of those. She had a sincerity that made you feel you could tell her anything. She was also built like a brick house with brown, muscular arms. She knew how to put a body in their place. 

She’d insisted on walking me to my car while I put up my sound equipment. Some people offer such for the sake of being polite or offering a second presence in the event of trouble.  However, I got the feeling that Alex would be more than a mere presence if a bad guy showed up on the darkened street. She’d kick their ass. 

I had been dreaming of a shower for the past few days. That friend-of-a-friend’s shower in Austin felt like a long ways back. I’d been making due with rivers, lakes, dry shampoo, and baby wipes the past few weeks. All of those are great, but a shower sounded like a treat, and I was starting to look the part of the bum that I was. When I discovered another friend-of-a-friend in San Antonio, I was excited about using theirs.

I was playing at a bar on the edge of the city. It used to be an old house. It sat in the corner of a neighborhood, and despite the empty room that greeted me when I arrived to set up, the little parlor had gradually filled up.

Alex was the bus girl. Despite the obscure metal band on her t-shirt, she requested I play Shady Grove, and she proudly blared Doc Watson on the radio when I finished my set. “I gotta say, we prefer metal,” said the curly-headed bartender, Bug, as he mixed drinks like a madman. “But Doc can go hard.”

The mutual friend showed up right before I started my set. His name was Dennis. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair and big white teeth. His gold chain and boat shoes made for an interesting combination. “So what’s your thing, Dennis?” I asked as I sat down beside him. It’s probably a good idea to get friendly with the person whose shower you’ll be using. “I’m a rapper. I just wanna keep it real.” 

It seemed as though his version of “keeping it real” was to become the next white Drake. Did you know that Drake was half-Jewish? Or that he had a thing for Niki Minaj? Or that Kanye West filmed his music video? Dennis spent a good part of my set break making sure that I did. “Look at this dope watch.” He put his wrist in my face. “Drake has this same watch.”

 There were times throughout the evening when I needed a break from the Drake business, but that wasn’t happening. Dennis was like a shadow that reeked of Axe Body Spray. But he was a friend-of-a-friend, and he had a shower...

Maybe Dennis had a few too many drinks. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. When he’d gotten the vibe that I wasn’t impressed by him and Drake’s matching watches, he decided to challenge Bug to a pushup contest. “I bet I can do more pushups than you, man,” he said, eying me as he got down on the hardwood floor and heaved up and down. Bug gave me a confused look. It was all I could do to not burst into laughter. 

And then it occured to me...I was going home with this guy.

I mean, maybe he was just a close-talker with everyone he meets. Maybe he puts his arm around all his friends-of-friends. Maybe he’s just really proud of his waterbed, and that’s why it came up multiple times throughout the evening. Maybe he just enjoys a good pushup contest, regardless of my being there to watch. I mean, he was a friend-of-a-friend. With a shower.

But shower or none, after the pushups, when he put his hand a little too low on my back, the red flags were confirmed. I knew I needed out.

 That’s when my train-hopping metal head in shining armor arrived. “Hey Alma, I need to ask you about your pay.” She could have said she wanted to tell me why I sucked. I would have run to her. “Gotta go,” I said as I dashed out the back door. Alex and a group of others sat on the moonlit patio. “I’m not the person who pays you,” she laughed. “But are you ok? That guy is weird.”

I explained my situation. I thought he’d be fine. We had a good mutual friend, and I was originally planning on staying with him. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, “I’ll get rid of him for you. You can crash with Bug and his lady, Mariah, here.” She motioned towards a beautiful Latina in a polka dotted dress. I thanked them relentlessly as Alex headed back inside. “Be nice, though.” 

“Hun,” said Mariah, her voice silky and smooth, “Sometimes people forfeit a right to your niceness. That’s not cold, that’s just making it home.” 

I sat out there drinking lemonade and talking to Mariah. She was in school to be a teacher, but she also managed the bar. Born and raised in San Antonio, and she didn’t plan on leaving. “I don’t blame you.”

I felt the ickiness of my potential situation mixed with relief. After what seemed like a decade, Alex came back. “Apparently you were gonna be his DD. He’s out on the porch waiting for an Uber.”

“Was he mad?”

“Yeah, but that’s not your problem.”

“What can I do to pay y'all back?”

“Nothing. Just play more Doc Watson when we get back to Bug’s.

After they closed the bar down, we all went back to Mariah and Bug’s. They lived in a nearby neighborhood, in a three-roomed house stuffed with house plants and good records; Doc Watson to metal. That’s how I ended up sleeping on a stranger’s couch for the first time. 

The thing about strangers’ couches is that if they want to invite friends over at 3 a.m., you’re going to drink their beer, play them some songs, and stay up with them until they decide to crash around 6 a.m. And the thing about strangers is that they’re only strangers till they get woven into your evening like patterns on a loom. Then, if you wake up before them, leave them a note with a heart that drips with gratitude as you hold these characters dearly, closely, and always.

This Town is For You

 “That one was made by one of the best potters in Lucas. He passed away a few years ago,” said the woman as she wrapped up the purple pitcher I’d bought. Her colorful reading glasses matched the colors that permeated the store.

“If you like that, let me show you something else you might be interested in,” she said, smiling expectantly and leading me through the store. Mobiles made out of garbage, mosaics of broken glass, abstract paintings on wooden pallets, jewelry made from dyed noodles; the store felt like a Pre-K classroom, only if you broke it you bought it. We passed the rainbow doilies and metal roosters. She motioned towards some white statues. It took me a second to distinguish what they were.

“These bearded lady statues were made by hand! And they are on sale!” The bearded ladies were made out of white clay, garbed in large robes with hoods. They were complete with saggy boobs and facial hair that looked like Dumbledore. It seemed as though the store clerk thought that if I was aware that someone had gotten the notion to make such spectacles themselves, surely I’d buy one. Who buys manufactured bearded ladies? And who wouldn’t buy a handmade one on clearance?

 I froze in a smile as she eyed me hopefully. “Ummm…those are very nice ma’am! I’m not really looking for bearded lady decor at the moment, but I know where to go if I ever need any!” I was worried I’d offended her, but she just shrugged and led me back to the front of the store.

“So why do you love living in Kansas, in the middle of flat-nothing?” I asked her before walking out. “Well,” she answered as though it was her favorite question, “We who live here are forced to make our own magic, and we’ve got the time and the space to do it.” She gushed, “It’s like the flat-nothing is the blank canvas, and the people who live here are what color it.”

Amber and I were 2 of the 15,000 people who annually visit Lucas, Kansas. However, it felt like we’d walked into our own outlandish dream as we walked the quiet, sun-baked sidewalks. If anything, it was colorful. I had a few questions after visiting. For instance, what is it about me that a stranger might see and think, “Man, that girl needs a bearded lady in her life”? But that’s the tip of the iceberg.

If you’ve ever had a burning desire to see a tiny replica of the world’s largest can of spinach, “The World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things” in Lucas, Kansas is for you. There was an actual museum, but the owner was out of town. However, she had some of the goods displayed in her yard, so we walked around sheepishly as you do in a stranger’s yard. There was a tiny replica of the world’s largest tomato, one of the world’s largest water tower, and another of the world’s largest ball of yarn. Name the world’s largest anything and this lady had made a tiny replica of it.

But maybe you aren’t one for tiny replicas of large things. Maybe you prefer giant replicas of smaller items. Don’t worry, this town has something for you as well. If you’ve ever taken a dump, and you were disappointed that the bathroom wasn’t made to look like a giant toilet, the public bathroom in Lucas, Kansas is for you. Not only is the building shaped like a giant toilet, but the sidewalk is made to look like a roll of toilet paper. As if that isn’t enough, this isn’t just an ordinary giant toilet; it’s fancy, as colorful glass pieces decorate the concrete.

My favorite part of the experience was the ceramic toilet bowl. The store clerk explained that all 300 citizens of Lucas got together and made a list of everything they’d ever dropped in a toilet bowl, so that’s why there’s random items floating around. These people have dropped some toothbrushes, some wallets, and I recall seeing an alligator in the mix. If you have questions about this, so do I.

There is also a giant, ceramic, Kansas-themed bowl that sits by the gas station, if you’re into that. 

You’re probably thinking, “This town has it all.” But you’ve only scratched the surface. In the heart of Lucas sits The Garden of Eden. It’s like the one in the Bible but different.

    P.T. Dinsmoore served in the Civil War. He came home to his wife, and after seeing his yard, I’m only guessing their conversation went something like this:

“Honey, having been gone awhile, I’ve thought of some home-improvement ideas.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. I’m gonna build our house to be a log cabin, only it’ll be concrete. Then I’m gonna make some yard art, spice it up a little.”

“That sounds nice! What kind of yard art?”

“I’m thinking of some naked statues of Adam and Eve. I’ll probably throw Satan in there, too. Maybe some other Biblical characters…

Also, I saw someone shooting a native American recently, I might throw that in the mix…

 I’ve also got some ideas about the government that would best be symbolized by a statue of a woman stabbing a monster...there’s a few others, I’ll run them by you…”

    Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden consists of a plethora of 40-foot statues that surround his concrete log cabin. The town used to make him put clothes on the nude ones, but today the nipples are out for the general public. From what I’ve gathered, most of them are symbolic of his views of the Bible and the government, but even with that they’re a little hard to follow at times. I guess this is what happens when some people survive a civil war.

    After his wife died, Dinsmoor impregnated and married his Czeckoslovakian servant (at 80 years old and pre-Viagra, so that’s something). Call him a loony, but he was an entrepreneur, or at least he would be. The man combined his dream of being a part of his own creation with his hopes of providing for his family, even after he kicked the bucket.

    If you’ve ever wanted to pay $15 to see a civil-war-era corpse, The Garden of Eden in Lucas, Kansas is for you. Dinsmoor built a glass coffin, and he was laid in it and put in a 3-story tomb in his yard. He wrote that nobody would be able to see him for less than $5. People do come to see him, and the man still brings home the bacon.

    Admittedly, we did not pay the $15 to see Mr. Dinsmoor. Maybe next time, when I go back to pick up those bearded ladies.