Chapter 8: Tennessee

In another few months, all hell would break loose in the Arkansas wildlife refuge I camped at overnight: the various hunting seasons would begin. Rabbits, squirrel, ducks, geese, deer, and even chipmunks beware! The hunters are coming! The hunters are coming!

In absolute stillness, I stood with a small empty envelope in my hand, alone on the banks of the White River in Arkansas, as I watched my late wife’s ashes drift slowly away from me on the surface of the water carried by hidden eddies. I thought of the symbolism: ashes instead of life, drifting away instead of increasing intimacy; eddies representing the unpredictable events in our lives that change us forever, and the river personifying our continuing existence and flow through life.

I shook my head, still in disbelief that Karen had departed this life. I believed that her spirit carried on, and could even become part of another being who returned to this realm to continue their spiritual evolution and growth, maybe even to interact with me in some way. Maybe we were still soul mates. I completed my small ceremony and walked back to the Harley. I’d packed up most of my campsite, so I only needed a few more minutes before getting back on the road.

I’d ridden my motorcycle to this campsite the day before from El Dorado, Arkansas, leaving behind a beautiful woman named Pat that I easily could have spent more time with, but instead I chose to continue my meandering path through my grief and self examination, and through the remainder of the lower forty-eight states. I wondered if I were maudlin or ghoulish by continuing to dwell on Karen’s death and by spreading her ashes in every state I visited. I wondered if I’d finish my healing by the end of my trip – so young, so beautiful, so loving, so exciting, and so dead – and even now, mysterious, as I continued to discover things about her from her sister Lauren – things she chose to hide from me.

I crossed over an impressive and aging metal bridge that spanned the Mississippi River and by ten o’clock I’d started rolling through the southern suburbs of Memphis.

Memphis was another exception on my journey. I had chosen to side step most of the large cities along my route. I was of a mind that if you’d seen one large city, you’d seen them all; further, I’d had to travel heavily the past ten years in my technology work, and I had seen so many of them they all started to look alike. Thus, I’d skipped such interesting places as New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, and even New Orleans. I’d also chosen to avoid the Interstate highways when I could; I wanted to see the America away from the heavily traveled paths, see what had happened to small town life, and open myself to new adventures that I believed lay off high speed routes. Somehow, I knew my destiny lay on these back roads, and not on some Interstate.

As I got near Memphis, I cut east until I found Elvis Presley Boulevard. A short ride north and I found Graceland – home of the King of Rock and Roll for two decades starting in the mid-1950s. Sometimes a sucker for ‘schmaltz,’ I stopped to tour the attractions at Elvis’ house and the surrounding buildings. I walked through the small mansion staying behind the velvet cordons, enjoying views of the white living room, the green carpeted and famous Jungle Room, and even the King’s grave. I got a look within his custom jet named after his daughter Lisa Marie, the large collection of his clothing, awards and memorabilia, and some of his cars –the famous pink Cadillac and even his Harley Davidson motorcycles. I had a late lunch at the Rock and Roll Café, and later concluded that everything within at least three miles of Graceland was named ‘Elvis Presley” something.

I had always been a fan of Elvis. I admired how he transformed music, almost single handedly launching the rock and roll craze, as well as the era that persists today where the lead singer has to be at least slightly outrageous. My love of music brought me to Memphis and would take me to Nashville; it also reminded me of how much I’d missed in the past few months as I grieved. I missed the music; I missed the happiness the music brought me. I resolved to get both back soon.

It started to rain about an hour out of Memphis. I changed my plans and ended the day at the Natchez Trace State Park an hour later. I set up the tarp and tent in the rain, not a pleasant task. As I did, I had a transistor radio playing through my headset; the weatherman assuring his listeners that the weather front would be gone by morning.

After I got under the cover of the tent and tarp, I unpacked my laptop computer and spent the rest of the afternoon composing emails to my sister Anna, my sister-in-law Lauren, Kim, and a couple of other friends. I told Anna and Lauren about my week in El Dorado as a counterman in a diner, and how I’d helped the police apprehend the man that looked like me and rode a similar bike – the similarities that had resulted in my spending a night in jail before I could prove my innocence.

Somewhat cavalierly, I told Anna and Lauren about my assignation with Pat, the daughter of the owner of the diner and mayor of El Dorado. I made brief mention of my civic medal in connection with apprehending the man doing the chain of robberies. This was the first time I’d sent Anna an email containing mention of my ‘love life,’ although I omitted the lurid details that I did share with Lauren – how Pat and I made love our first night together all over the diner: on counters, tables, kitchen work surfaces, stools, and the bar; and how we flirted outrageously at work. Lauren, my kinky sister-in-law, would chastise me if I didn’t send her an explicit email – something that would titillate her fantasies and provide her masturbatory material. When I got near a Wi-Fi connection the next day, I’d send the emails.

I also wrote in my journal, pasting into the document file both of the emails, and then adding more details about what I thought about Pat, my mother-daughter experience in Louisiana, the current state of my rapidly healing wounds from the Alabama shooting, and my most recent thoughts about Karen and her passing. I could tell by how I wrote and my selection of words that I’d started my transformation back to being a whole person – someone not constantly saddled by loss and grief.

I managed to start a small fire, even in the rain, and fixed dinner from my small collection of nearly-ready-to-serve meals. I read while there was still light, and when I found myself squinting to see the words on the page, I put things away so they’d stay dry and went to sleep.

The weatherman was partially correct. I awoke not to rain, but to deep penetrating fog that wafted through the forest and gave everything an almost eerie appearance. I did some exercises for the first time since the shooting, taking care not to stress my lower left side. I did enough to work up a sweat that necessitated a swim in the river. I packed up the wet tent, tarp, clothes, and camp gear; got everything stowed in place on the motorcycle; and left the campsite. I took time on my way out of the preserve to walk part of the trace or trail, feeling in the ghostly fog the presence of the thousands of famous explorers, settlers, and Native Americans that had used the trail since the beginning of time.

Might I be on a similar exploration as my forefathers that walked the trail? Was my road trip the equivalent journey? They had no idea where they would end up, or even if they would survive. Did I feel the same? I thought so.

The Trace felt so significant to me after those thoughts; I left another spread of Karen’s ashes in a pretty place beside the main path. I thought of how I’d parsed some of Karen’s remains into the small envelopes originally meant for saving rare coins. I thought back to the various places I’d left a piece of Karen – and a piece of me. Could we ever reclaim the parts of us we leave behind? I also thought about myself and worried about my self-centeredness.

As I started my slow ride east, I realized how I’d compartmentalized my life since Karen died. There were my memories of Karen and our life together for eight years. I had been trying to separate those from the reality of my current life – to put those memories behind me because her death had made each memory painful and bittersweet. In another compartment were my travels on this road trip, including the people I’d met and loved since Karen’s death. In still another, my sister Anna and Lauren, and my questions about what my future might be with them.

I’d left my career behind, closing off that compartment – my ‘Geek Years,’ Karen had called them. Since she died, I’d gone into a ‘brain-dead’ time period when I didn’t want to think – or remember – or work. I wasn’t motivated to do anything except renovate the motorcycle. I still wasn’t ready to contemplate what I would do after my road trip. I had learned that life could be unexpectedly short so I wanted to be sure that my next job would be something that I really enjoyed doing. What that would be, I had no idea. Hopefully by the end of my trip, I would have figured something out.

During the trip I had opened up a long-closed compartment of my Army years. I had sought out some of my old buddies and had a few more of them to visit in the days ahead. It was good to connect with the guys who were my life and death companions. It was also good to be physically fit once again after years of my neglect. My gunshot wound had temporarily stopped my morning runs and heavy exercise, but I had replaced them with lots of sexual exercise – the best kind, I thought as a smile crept across my face.

I gave myself some points in the Life Compartment I named Spiritual Growth because of my gratitude, thoughtfulness, communion with Nature when camping, and my service to others – rescuing a farmer, saving some kids floating out to sea, stopping a rape, helping out at the diner, and helping to catch a felon, plus how I felt about the people I met. I’d found loving and willing sexual partners along my travels; they had stimulated my creativity in lovemaking, and Kim had taught me how to add a spiritual component to my lovemaking. However, I felt something was still missing, and I was just skimming the surface in a superficial way.

Each of these areas of my life was a compartment, disconnected from the others, and sometimes, not scoring very high in terms of my performance. I didn’t feel whole. I didn’t feel integrated. I knew that I needed to become a cohesive whole if I were to ever feel truly happy. It all seemed a daunting task because I was still in healing mode. However, I was glad that I now had a way to look at my life and see what I needed to work on.

I treated myself to breakfast at the Waffle House in Dickson, sent the emails I’d composed the night before over their Wi-Fi, and plotted a route to Nashville. I wanted to make an exception for this medium size city and visit because I loved music, especially country music. So much of country music dealt with lost love in some way; I could remind myself about Karen but sure didn’t need help to do that. Since her death I’d avoided listening to country music, but now I felt I could back into it. I’d see how I felt after Nashville. The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum was on my list, along with attending a couple of matinees and evening performances by some country singers. Since Graceland had been so interesting to me, I thought I’d take the four-hour ‘Nashville Homes of the Stars’ tour too.

I figured I’d establish a campsite near Nashville and use that as a base of operations, so I spent some extra time using the restaurant’s Wi-Fi ‘hot spot’ while I could. The first two camping places I researched were a not-my-kind-of-place or didn’t allow overnight camping. A few more were far on the other side of the city. I decided to camp at Radnor Lake, a nature preserve that also didn’t allow overnight camping, but I figured I could use the motorcycle to go ‘off trail’ and away from the parking and patrol areas, find a place, store my camping gear, and then go into the city for the entertainment. When I came back, I wouldn’t build any fires, and I’d keep a low profile until well after the park had opened each morning.

I left Dickson and took one of the few roads that would lead me directly to Radnor Lake. I’d crossed under Interstate 40 on an old, unkempt, and untraveled two-lane macadam road, when in the middle of nowhere I came upon a large expensive looking Prevost bus – the kind that are about forty-five feet long, beige, and cost about a million bucks because they have been so extensively outfitted. The engine compartment of the bus was open, and steam was pouring out of the opening – not a good sign. A half-dozen people stood near the uniformed driver looking at the engine. I slowed to a crawl, intending to stop and offer assistance. There was no other traffic on the road and probably hadn’t been for days.

Standing by the bus as I came along side was a sexy young woman in her late twenties in daisy duke shorts, a red checked shirt, a ratty looking cowboy hat, big sunglasses, and a pair of western boots. She waved wildly for me to stop – and I did, right next to her; I shut off the engine. I noticed that everyone else watched her, so I figured she was the Queen Bee of the bus.

She jumped up and down with glee when I stopped; “Hi – no one stops for someone in trouble any more – if they even drive on this road; I’m so grateful that you stopped. We shouldn’t have come this way, and now we’re broken down – as you can tell – and there’s no cell phone coverage out here. We’ve been here almost an hour, and no one has come by.”

As several others walked up to me on the motorcycle, I smiled broadly at her; “I’d be glad to help anyway I can. Do you want me to send someone, or give one of you a lift to civilization? I can drive them back here too.”

The pert young woman said eagerly, “I’m hoping you can give me a ride into Nashville; I’m late for a recording session, and I’d be ever so grateful. You can even come and watch if you want; many people think they’re fun to attend.

Just then, one of the men standing in the group politely but sternly intervened: “Miss Lee, you shouldn’t go riding off with a stranger. You don’t know who he is or anything else about this man.” I ignored the slight figuring I’d tell any female friend of mine the same thing before she rode off with some stranger on a motorcycle.

She turned back to me and said, “Let me introduce myself; my name’s Crystal Lee, but I guess you already know that?” She had a vivacious style about her.

I took her cue and responded, “And, I’m Jim – Jim Mellon. I’m from Massachusetts taking the long way to San Diego, and I’d be delighted to give you a ride into Nashville – maybe you can aim me at a good place to camp out along the way.” We shook hands; I also offered to shake hands with the heavyset guy that had admonished her not to go with me; he ignored my hand.

I made one further statement that amused everyone standing around. I told Crystal Lee, “Sorry, and I hate to admit it to you, Crystal, but I don’t recognize your name. I’ve been out of touch for a while – a long story. You must be in music if you’re late for a recording session.”

Crystal smiled and said, “Yes, I’m in country music.” Proudly and in a way that showed she was surprised at her own accomplishment, she went on, “I have the number one country music hit in the country right now – ’Flirty, Flirty Cowgirl’ ... and if I don’t get some new tracks laid down real soon, I may become the shortest one hit wonder in decades.” I thought I’d heard her song on the radio a few times without paying attention to the artist.

Crystal went on, “There’s a band, backup singers, a whole recording studio, and my agent waiting. We’re all returning from a public appearance south of here, and the band left in their bus before we did. These folks are part of my entourage – my helpers and groupies, and I love them all.” She attempted some introductions, but the names went by quickly.

Crystal said, “Let me get my purse; I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran back into the tour bus. I’d started to realize that this was a country music star of some kind on her way to some important business.

The heavyset man spoke with me as soon as she was gone in a voice that was both polite and intimidating, “I’m responsible for Miss Lee’s security, so humor me. May I please see your driver’s license?” I pulled my wallet out and flipped it open to my Massachusetts photo license. He studied it and me – comparing the photo to my face. He pulled a paper from his pocket and wrote down some salient information from the license along with my motorcycle registration number. As he wrote, I gave a thumbnail description of my trip and why I happened to be traveling by on the road. He conceded that not another vehicle had appeared the whole time they’d been broken down. I conceded that he was paid to be suspicious of anyone interacting with his charge.

He said to me, “Miss Lee is headstrong, and trusts too easily. I hope you realize the burden you assume by transporting her – on a motorcycle too.” I nodded at his assertion.

The bus driver came up and joined the bodyguard and me. He thrust a business card in my hand and asked that I call the phone number on the card as soon as I could, and explain about the breakdown and where they were. I promised I would send help back soon.

Crystal came up to us with her oversize purse over her shoulder. Brad, her bodyguard, again tried to discourage her from going with me. She refused his advice, and I could see he couldn’t do anything other than counsel her.

She turned to me and said, “Jim, let’s go. I’m really late, and I hate to be late.” The others from the bus had gathered around to watch her departure.

I explained to Crystal that she had to wear a helmet and not the cowboy hat; I put that in the side compartment as she tucked her long brunette hair beneath the helmet that I’d bought weeks earlier for Kim and buckled the chinstrap as though she knew what she was doing.

I got Crystal situated on the seat, apologizing that she’d have to hug me because of all the camping gear on the back of the bike. As I mounted in front of her, I thought to ask, “Do you know where we’re going?” She nodded; I started the bike and off we went to Nashville.

Crystal would yell in my ear when we got near a turn. As she directed, I got on Interstate 40. A few miles closer to Nashville we stopped at a rest area, and I telephoned the bus company. They promised to send a van for the remaining passengers and a repair truck.

Before we started off again, Crystal asked me, “Did you ever see the movie ‘The Princess Diaries?’”

I allowed as how I hadn’t, however, I had a hazy idea of the plot.

Crystal told me as she remounted the motorcycle, “Well, that’s me. I was this ‘Plain Jane,’ and then one day about nine months ago I found myself in the spotlight ... with groupies, a bodyguard, an agent, all sorts of others around me, public appearances, and people always wanting a piece of me.” She paused and added, “Jim, you are a breath of fresh air, particularly for not fawning all over the place when you learned about me. You’re like the guy in the story that rescues the princess and shows her the real world.”

I didn’t know how to respond to all that so I just shrugged and gave my silly grin. We got back on Interstate 40 east, and then took Interstate 65 north a few exits.

A few more turns off the Interstate exit brought us to a two-lane road where after a mile she had me turn off between two ornate gates into a long straight driveway.

At the end of the drive were several buildings and about twenty cars. From the largest structure, I could hear the muffled sounds of a country band playing. A couple of photographers stood near the parked cars. They showed unusual interest in us as we rode up. As I stopped and parked the bike, each of them started taking pictures of the two of us. At Crystal’s whispered suggestion, neither of us said a word or responded to the dozen or so questions hurled at us by the two reporters.

Inside, Crystal said, “I’ll explain later about the paparazzi, but for now just come with me. I think you’ll enjoy yourself. Of course, if you get bored you can leave; I’ll find a ride home from one of the band or my agent.”

I followed her down a short hallway, and we entered a room with the largest mixing board I’d ever seen. In front of it sat two men in casual dress, nudging various slide controls to manage the audio they’d already recorded. In front of them, on the other side of glass wall, nine musicians stood listening to the playback in a large recording studio. Two backup singers – a man and a woman – also sat on tall stools in the studio listening to the playback. Each instrument and singer had their own microphone, and there was space for several more singers or instruments.

Everyone in the control room greeted Crystal with smiles and hugs. Her tardiness was not mentioned. Crystal introduced me to Terry Ross – her agent, Dan – her publicist; Ben and Wayne, the control panel gurus; Dave – her producer; and Eric, the agent from the music company she’d signed with. She waved enthusiastically to the band and singers on the other side of the plate glass, and they all waved back with smiles. I could tell Crystal was well liked.

Dave and Crystal went into a huddle right next to me. He explained about the songs he wanted to ‘lay down,’ and how far along the band had gotten with the music tracks. I listened to a whole new vocabulary about music and recording that I’d never been privy to before. I found it fascinating, yet I had a lot of questions about what was going on.

After a few minutes, Crystal picked up some sheet music and went into the studio. The band members filed out for what I assumed was a cigarette break. Ben announced he was starting the instrumental track for ‘Country Playgirl,’ and I figured out from his comments that they’d worked on the song a few days before.

Crystal laid out the sheet music on a stand in front of her, and put on a large, oversize pair of headphones. Ben hit a button on the panel, and we could all hear the music of the song without the lead singer over speakers in the control room. Crystal mouthed the words throughout the song and did some dance steps here and there. She had a serious and intent look on her face. I could tell that she was a professional about her singing and took this work seriously.

At the end of the song, Crystal’s voice came over the speakers: “OK, I think I’m ready to try this again when you are.”

Ben said, “We are ... and we’re starting the music in five, four, three, two, and...” He made a gesture to the studio with his hand to indicate the recording had started.

The music started playing and four bars in Crystal’s clear voice came through the speakers. I stood in awe at the quality of her voice and how well she sang the song. I never heard a missed word or a skipped beat throughout the rendition. Her voice had a slight edge to it that separated her from the ‘wanna-be’ country singers; this girl had ‘it.’ She had as distinctive a voice as Reba McEntire or Dolly Parton, a characteristic that would serve her well and ensure a long career. As far as I could tell, the song was perfect too.

I guess the others around me also thought her singing got an A+, because about ten seconds after she ended the track, everyone applauded. Ben’s voice broke through the applause, “Wow, darling that was perfect. You nailed that. Does anybody think we need a retake?” The silence in response to his question proved the answer.

Crystal came back in the control room with the sheet music. Dave congratulated her on a job well done and handed her another song; she studied the notes and words on the pages. I could see the name of the song on top of the first page: ’Texas Dawn.’ As they looked over the music line by line, she’d ask him a question about what mood he wanted, or the edginess, tempo, slurs, timbre, color, crispness of a word, where accents belonged, reverb, and so on – new vocabulary. Dave had all the answers; he seemed to be the ‘go to’ guy for this session.

I listened in, soaking up the recording scene; this was an intimate look at Nashville I hadn’t expected, and I was enjoying every second like a kid in a candy store with a fifty-dollar bill. To my surprise, everyone accepted my presence without question; they were so friendly and inclusive. Sometimes, one of the professionals even asked for my opinion about the music in some way.

Crystal listened to the instrumental part of the new song when she was back in the studio. As she did, a few of the band members filtered back into the control room to watch her recording. Don introduced me to the band. Terry took snapshots with a high-end camera using only the ambient light. I even got included in some.

After the playback Crystal said, “Let’s make a run at this one, OK?” She sat up on a tall stool and adjusted the microphone to her height. I thought she looked so sexy, and wondered how she could fend off all these males around her, yet everyone acted professional.

Ben nodded and counted down again. I listened, and this time I could hear some slurred words, a hiccup when her tempo fell behind the instrumental track, and flatness in her voice. At the end of the song, she said, “Let’s do it again, but only the first verse and coda.”

Ben counted, music started, she sang – this time with more animation and zeal. I liked it, but still something was missing. They tried it a couple of more times until Dave called a break.

Just as the break started, some of the people who had been on the stranded bus arrived – three women and two men, including Brad the Bodyguard. I nodded to him, and he looked pleased that I hadn’t kidnapped his ward.

Crystal came into the control room and stood beside me as she talked to Dave, “I can’t put my finger on it, but something is keeping me from making this song come alive.”

I said in a low voice, “I know. I figured it out after your last try.”

Dave, Crystal, Ben, Wayne, Terry, and everyone else in the control room looked at me. I said, “This song should be a duet – oh, it should emphasize Crystal, it’s her song – but you need a male voice at the start of each stanza, and for the last line of the song – maybe for a few others. This is an unbalanced duet.”

There was silence in the room. I felt like a teenager who had loudly farted in church.

After the silence felt too heavy, Dave said excitedly, “That’s it. That’s it.” He looked around the room, “Crystal, who do you want to do the duet with you?” She gave it some thought, and I could see her considering her backup singers or the members of the band as she looked around the studio. After a few seconds, she turned to me and said with a saucy smile, “Will you give it a try? It’s your idea. You can sing, can’t you?”

My face must have reflected my shock and horror at the request because everyone around us laughed. I bumbled out that I’d never sung professionally, and while I felt I did reasonably well singing along with music on the radio or in the shower, I wasn’t sure my voice would help the song at all. Everyone ignored my protestations and urged me to give it a try. Crystal led me into the studio, and as we walked, she told me I’d be fine and that half the country singers couldn’t carry a tune anyway. She said sarcastically, “Think of Bob Dylan or Willie Nelson – they can’t sing for shit, but they’re big stars.” She made me laugh, and I relaxed a little.

We stood at the mic and rehearsed the words of the song in low voices. Crystal coached me here and there, and I pointed out the parts where I thought I should lead or join in. I took a colored pencil to the sheet music and marked where I’d come in and exit. We tried a few lines here and there throughout the song. As we did, I found my voice limbering up and my ability to carry the melody improving. Crystal was supportive and lavish in her praise when I got something right. She was so easy to work with.

We had the instrumental played and mouthed the words in time to the music; Crystal used one finger like a conductor with a baton to get me in sync with both the music and her. Next, Wayne came in and set up another microphone next to Crystal’s mic, but in a way so we could both see the same pages of sheet music and see each other.

Dave said he wanted to try it, ‘just for kicks.’ Ben counted down from the control booth, the instrumental started, and I took my cue to sing. In my husky, twangy, country music voice that I usually used when working around the house, I sang the opening line of the poem that had been turned into the song: “Texas dawns comes early when you’ve been awake all night.” Crystal joined in with her lines, her crisp and distinctive voice carrying the song forward, we shared a line or two, and then she took off with the main part of the song. I’d join in on the refrains, and then the two of us sang the ending together: “So Darlin’ let me wake with you for all your Texas dawns; I promise that I’ll love you ... forever.” The love song actually had some teeth to it, as well as tenderness. I thought it did have potential as a hit – as a duet, but that was only my humble opinion. I wondered who they’d get to really sing with her, someone famous no doubt.