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.