Waylon, Johnny, and Me: A Short Story
Backstory
I was contacted in early 2020 regarding an anthology revolving around the resourcefulness of Nashville and Nashvillians. Regrettably, the year turned worse the further it progressed, and the idea had to be abandoned, at least in the short term. I had written this story for that anthology. It was intended to reflect the spirit of Nashville, as shown through the floods and the tornado, and maybe the quarantine. The story was to be based upon hope, faith, survival, helpfulness, brotherhood, resilience, or perseverance. The theme was something lost, but not completely, and regained through belief.
Waylon, Johnny, and Me
I’m driving around downtown Nashville. I’m on 2nd Avenue, and it's late in the evening or early in the morning, depending on your perspective. My car starts to knock and smoke and shake, and I pull into a parking garage under one of the old banks, United American Bank, the sign says. I coast up the ramp and roll around into a corner where the car coughs itself to death and stalls.
I get out. This floor of the garage is near empty with a few cars way down at the other end. They look really old, but it's late, and I don't really care. It's too dark to see.
I want to get down to the street level, but the ramp is slick, and I'm wearing new cowboy boots. I glance around for an elevator, and there isn't one. Then I see it, a conveyor belt in the corner. It's running slowly down thru a hole in the floor. It goes up on one side of the hole and down on the other. There are little foot pegs that I could step on, if I wanted to.
It's a pretty narrow hole. If I had a briefcase, I don't think I could make it. But this is Saturday night or Sunday morning, and I'm not carrying.
Why not? And I turn sideways and step on the peg below me and grab the one above me. This thing is moving, albeit slowly, and it just about took more coordination than I possessed.
I passed thru the floor, my eyes getting big as they reached floor level, like I was being swallowed by some giant concrete insect. I reached the ground level and hopped off a little shaky.
I started toward the street. It had begun to rain.
I looked out, and there was no traffic, the street was empty. I glanced next door, and there was a concrete building with tall glass windows and neon signs blinking on and off in the darkness.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and quickly ducked inside the building. It was an arcade. It was empty. There was no one behind the bar.
Then I heard sounds and looked toward them. Across the room, against the back wall, two guys were playing on the machines.
I walked back to them, thinking maybe they could help. As I got closer, they started to look familiar.
The one on the right was Johnny Cash. He was all in black and playing a Gateway pinball machine. The one where you line up the holes and the balls drop out, and you win. It's a form of gambling. Johnny looked like he was pretty good at it. He had all but one ball lined up.
Sitting to the left was Waylon Jennings, wearing a cowboy hat, vest, jeans, and boots. He was on a Galaxian video game, and he was shooting the shit out of space aliens.
Between them sat a full-sized garden wheelbarrow full of quarters. Every little bit, one or the other of them would reach down and grab a hand full and reload their machine.
Waylon turned, grabbed a handful of quarters, and saw me.
“Hey, Hoss, how’s it hanging?”
He turned back to protecting the universe. Johnny looked sideways and nodded as he lined up the final ball. It dropped in, and the machine clanged, and the sound of quarters gushing rang out.
“Hot damn,” he exclaimed.
That was followed by a loud ringing and music as Waylon successfully saved the world. They high-fived!
Then they both turned to me.
“What are you doing out so late on a rainy night?” asked Waylon.
“You ought to be home with momma,” threw in Johnny.
I hadn't spoken yet, and I stuttered, because, well, just because. "My car broke down. I'm in the garage next door. I was looking for a phone."
Waylon pointed to the wheelbarrow. "Grab a quarter, call someone who cares. We'll get you out of here."
I picked up a quarter and went to the payphone on the wall. I picked up the receiver, and there was no dial tone. Johnny saw me and said," Yeah, sometimes it acts up in the rain."
I walked back over to them. They were sitting watching me. I stopped when I got close.
Johnny looked at me, turned to Waylon, winked, and started to sing. "I hear the train a coming,"
Waylon jumped in and nudged me on the shoulder, and I jumped in and sang with them.
Then Waylon followed up with, “Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys,”
Johnny jumped in, "Don't let them pick guitars," and then he nudged me, and I started to sing.
We sounded good.
When we finished, Waylon reached down to a cooler by his feet, and handed Johnny, then me, and finally one for himself, a cold beer.
We were standing there, sipping the beer, and it occurred to me. These guys are both dead. Does that mean I am too? We sang together, and it sounded good, but I can't sing!
I could feel myself turning a ghostly white pale. Waylon must have noticed.
“It’s probably time for you to get home, Hoss. It’s pouring rain.” He took his hat off and sat it on my head. My face was blank in surprise.
“Here,” said Johnny and handed me his black leather jacket. “Go on, get home. There're things to do, places to be, people to see. You got a job to do, get on with it. The music never stops in Music City.”
I thanked them, shook both their hands. They felt warm, alive, vibrant, and full of energy.
I stepped out of the arcade back onto 2nd Avenue and turned to the parking garage and the bank.
They weren’t there. A big skyscraper stood in their place and towered up into the night. I looked toward the top, and the rain pelted my face. I turned back toward the arcade, and it was gone too. Another massive commercial building stood in its place. I glanced down the street, and the entrance to Printers Alley was still there. Some things never change.
I started walking down the street toward Broadway. I reached the corner and turned toward the river. The sun was coming up on a new day. I stopped and thought I must be losing my mind. I can’t go on.
Then I saw myself in the reflection of the window of Tootsies Orchard Lounge. The rain had stopped but was still dripping off Waylon’s hat and running down the shoulders of Johnny’s jacket and pooling up on the sidewalk around my brand new cowboy boots.
I looked down at the Cumberland, and as I watched the waters roll away, I was glad to be alive and in Nashville, TN.
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