Elephant

I went to the kitchen, found a clean glass, and got a drink of water from the tap. Then, I walked back into the living room, and as I took my time drinking the water, I found a huge bookshelf that, through a picture window, was illuminated enough by a street light just down John Collier Road so that I could explore its contents. It held hundreds of books and, on the top shelf, displayed a dozen or so framed photographs. I didn't intend to pry into her life, but the pictures were just sitting there, so I didn't think it would hurt to take a quick look at them. Besides, she was a real interesting person, and she already had me intrigued. I wanted to know more.

Most showed a younger, smiling Jenn posing, sometimes with other people. I guessed that most of them captured her with her parents, grandparents, and siblings. One was of her alone, wearing a graduation gown and hood. I also looked at some of the titles of the books stacked carelessly on the shelves, in a way that convinced me that these were books that she actually read -- a lot of classical works of literature, but a whole lot of criticism as well. And though she'd already told me as much, I realized that I was probably right when I told Jenn that I knew she had a few degrees in lit.

After I finished the water, I took the glass back to the kitchen, and used the bathroom. When I came back into the living room, I found a blanket folded over one arm of the couch. I took off my boots, put a pillow under my head, lay down, pulled the blanket over the top of me, and went to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, someone was singing. It was beautiful. As consciousness slowly crept through my brain, I recognized the cheerful sound of Jenn's a cappella voice wafting delicately into the living room from somewhere else in the house.

"Busted flat in Baton Rouge/Waitin' for the train/Feelin' nearly faded as my jeans/Bobby thumbed a diesel down/Just before it rained/Rode us all the way to New Orleans/I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandanna/And I was playing soft/While Bobby sang the blues/With them windshield wipers slappin' time/I was holdin' Bobby's hand in mine/We sang every song that driver knew/Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose/Nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free/Feelin' good was easy, Lord/When he sang the blues/And feelin' good was good enough for me/Good enough for me and Bobby McGee."

Her sweet, girlish voice swirled around, infusing song into air that was already saturated with the heavy aromas of pancakes, bacon, and hash browns. She was a really good singer, a total natural -- clearly someone who had no idea how beautifully simple and expressive her voice really was.

I sat up, pulled the blanket off me, laced up my boots, and then followed that voice into the kitchen. She'd changed her clothes -- was wearing a pair of shorts and a flowered blouse -- and she'd gotten herself cleaned up, and though I expected to see something resembling "Sunday morning comin' down", what greeted me instead was a vibrant, happy woman who looked years younger than the lady from the bar the night before. God, she was pretty!

She finished the last few bars of "Bobby McGee" as I entered the room, though she kept busy with her cooking even after she stopped singing. "Mornin,' Andy", she said when she saw me come in. "How you feelin' today?"

I laughed. "I'm supposed to ask you that", I said sort of sullenly. She was up hours before I expected her to be. I figured that after she had slept in, she'd be able to give me a ride into town, and then I could spend the rest of the day patting myself on the back for having done my good deed for the year. But I could tell right away, she had other ideas.

"Well, thank you for asking, Andy. I feel wonderful -- tip top. Why don't you set yourself down at that table there, and I'll load you up with breakfast. We got a big day ahead of us."

"We do?" I asked, as I took a seat at a small, round table in the corner of the kitchen. Sitting invitingly atop the table were plastic containers of syrup and ketchup, a plate adorned with a stick of butter, and two glasses of orange juice.

"We sure do, Andy. You didn't think I was gonna let you walk out of my life that quickly, did you? If you did, you don't know Jenn Ryan." It was the first time she'd told me her surname.

"And, Andy, I'd kind of like it if you'd get to know me a little better. I already feel like I know you real well." She was just finishing up putting all of three of the things she'd just cooked onto a serving platter.

"How's that, Jenn?"

She walked over to the table carrying the platter and a spatula and flopped a couple of pancakes onto the plate in front of me, then slid several strips of bacon from the platter, and scooped a spatula full of hash browns into the remaining empty corner of my plate. I nodded my thanks.

"You don't think you bared your soul to me last night, Andy?" she said, staring at me really intently.

"Not exactly, we talked for, what, a grand total of 15 minutes?"

"Andy, I listened to your songs for hours last night. There's a lot to unpack there. For instance, are you really afraid of dying in a cheap motel, like you talk about in that one song?"

"Jesus, Jenn! I'm just a songwriter. It's just a song."

"Just a song!" she scoffed. "Bullshit, Andy! Good songwriters pride themselves on telling the truth, and honesty is more important to you than almost any other songwriter I've ever heard."

"Okay, Jenn, but as long as we're 'unpacking' things, ya' mind telling me what the hell you were doing last night? Nobody gets that drunk without having a damn good reason, and usually that reason involves somethin' unpleasant, at least in my experiences."

"Wow, Andy! You're a pretty shrewd observer of people. I guess you have to be to be a good songwriter, and you're a damn good songwriter, Andy."

"Well, I may or may not be a good songwriter, Jenn, but however good I am, you're an even better question dodger."

She got this glum look on her face, like she knew that I had somehow cornered her, and then she plated her own breakfast and sat down in the chair next to me. "I was kind of hoping that I would get to know you a little bit better before I unloaded all of my garbage on you, Andy, but I guess you've already seen me at my worst, so maybe it doesn't matter now."

"You don't have to tell me, Jenn -- you don't know me from Adam, and you sure as hell have no reason to trust me -- but maybe you want to tell me anyway. I find it usually helps, especially if you tell somebody who's been down that road -- you know, whiskey road."

"You know, Andy, like I said, I feel like I do know you, and more than that, I've decided that I absolutely trust you. Not many guys would have taken care of me like you did last night, Andy. They would have tried to fuck me or worse, and considering how gone I was, they would have succeeded, and then, I would have felt even worse than I already did. Most guys are fucking assholes. By the way, I haven't said it yet -- thank you for what you did. You know, Andy, I figured out one other thing about you last night -- you're a really good guy."

"You sure do like saying my name, don't ya', Jenn?"

"It's a nice name, better than 'Mike'!" she winked at me again.

I ignored the small talk. If Jenn Ryan was going to talk to me, I was damn well going to listen. I had already decided that I liked her, and beyond her obvious skills as a conversationalist, it was hard not to like looking at her. "So, what's going on?"

"It's family, Andy. I've got an entire family that has no idea who I am, and what they do know about me, they don't like. I'm a goddamn pariah in the house I grew up in, and that's just too hard to take sometimes, especially when you feel like you're the one that hasn't changed. So when I have a particularly bad day, like I did yesterday, I try to wash it away with bourbon. It usually doesn't help, and it sure as hell doesn't last long enough, but, you know, Andy, today I feel a lot better than I did yesterday, and do you want to know why, Andy?"

"Yeah, sure. Tell me why, Jenn. What, are you oblivious to hangovers?"

"I don't get hangovers when I'm happy, and I'm happy because I like you, Andy. I'm happy because I had the courage to talk to you yesterday, and, more importantly, because you listened to me. Not many people do; certainly not my family."

"So, let me take a guess", I said, piling a forkful of pancakes into my mouth. I paused to chew, and then proceeded to present my theory to Jenn. "You come from an old, Southern, Irish family that made its money from the land, somehow, and you, Jenn, are the first of the Ryan clan to go to college, and the rest of your kin doesn't much appreciate that -- you being more educated than the rest of them and, in their minds, sort of rejecting their way of life -- sort of a clash of cultures -- the New South versus the Old South."

"Jesus Christ, Andy!" She looked at me in disbelief. "Am I that obvious -- that easy to read? I can't believe how close you got! My parents didn't farm, and we don't own land, but they ran a farm implement dealership down in Fort Valley, and so you're right, they made their money from the land... indirectly."

"And more importantly, you're spot on about the education part. That's pretty poor country down there -- mostly just small, peach farmers -- and even though we weren't poor, nobody from around there goes to college, unless you count the guys that got football scholarships, and, as we all know, they don't really go to college! So my parents were suspicious enough when I came to Athens as an undergrad -- you know 'all them damn liberal elites'" -- she said, mimicking someone, her father maybe, but I couldn't be sure.

"But then I graduated and went on to graduate school, and then they -- my mama and papa and all my siblings -- just freaked. In their evangelical zeal, they thought I was pretending to be better than God or something. They also acted like I thought I was better than they were 'cause I read shit they'd never heard of. My god, were they wrong about that one. Spend a week inside a bourbon bottle and see what that does to your self-esteem." I winced -- the understandable reaction of someone who has done exactly what she was describing. I changed the subject.

"What do you do, Jenn? For a living, I mean?"

"I work for the University's literary magazine -- The Georgia Review. I'm an assistant to the editors." She stared at me intently again, and this time, she changed the subject. "But how did you know all that, Andy?"

"That sounds interesting, Jenn." I said, avoiding her question, at least at first. "But as for 'knowing all that,' I'm only trying catch up with you anyway. I may have gotten lucky guessing about your family, but you saw me comin' long before I saw you. You were right -- I did study creative writing back in Memphis, so I guess we're even on the creepy observing and reading people front."

She laughed. "Yeah, that was a guess, too, Andy. But you know something, I don't care if you did study writing, I think my other theory makes more sense -- I think you were born a writer. And that comes from someone who works with writers all day long." She smiled at me, a smile that was comfortable and natural, and that was the first moment that I felt something for Jenn Ryan, felt it as powerfully as if I was the one who had drunk a whole bottle of Maker's Mark.

I smiled as I finished the last bite of my breakfast. I changed the subject again. "Well, Jenn, what have you got planned for us today?"

"You mean you'll spend the rest of the day with me?" I could tell she was genuinely excited. "I know that's asking a lot, Andy, and I've already asked too much of you. If you've got something you have to do, I'll take you home right now. But I sure am enjoying talking to you, and I would love it if we could do somethin' together!"

I smiled meekly. "Sure, I got nothin' to do. I'm at your mercy, Jenn Ryan! But take it easy on me! I'm not as young as I used to be!"

"Andy, you crack me up!" she said pleasantly, and she leaned over and gave me a hug. When she broke the embrace, she asked, "Would you like to go for a hike somewhere -- someplace pretty?"

"Sure, that sounds nice."

"How about Sandy Creek Park, north of town? You ever been?"

"Nah, I don't think so."

"They've got this great, little lake there -- Lake Chapman, with a nice beach, and all. But to be honest with you, I just like to walk the trail around the lake. It's real pretty in the woods there. Real peaceful."

I stood up. "Well, let's go then!" I said. But then the moment the words left my lips, I caught a reflection of myself in a mirror hanging in the hallway. Instantly, my vanity kicked in. I liked this girl; she was really pretty, and I looked like shit. After you reach the age of 35, looking like shit is a natural consequence of sleeping on other people's couches. I decided to ask her a favor. "But first, do you have an extra toothbrush I can use? I need a shower -- it's kind of amazing how much I sweat up there on that stage -- but without any clean clothes to change into, I'll settle for brushing my teeth."

She smiled at me and shook her head. "Take a shower, Andy. You'll feel better, even if you have to put your dirty clothes back on!"

She found me a brand new brush, a tube of Colgate, and a wash cloth and towel. I used the shower, and cleaned myself up just a bit. And then, a few minutes later, we got back into Jenn's Honda, and she drove this time, wending her way north and east until after 15 or 20 minutes, we found ourselves in a parking lot overlooking Lake Chapman. We spent the afternoon walking the Lakeside Trail and talking.

About three quarters of the way around the trail, we stopped and sat on a park bench overlooking the lake. Jenn decided to use the pause to ask me more about myself. "Did you live in Europe, Andy, like you talk about in that song -- the one about wanting to come back home?"

"It all depends on what you call living, Jenn. But, yeah, I spent some time there -- a long time ago. I didn't have any money, and I was kind of out on the streets -- in Brussels, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Copenhagen, Stockholm. I'd get these jobs every once in a while, working on the docks or in train yards, anything to make some money to buy a ticket home. It took a long a time -- over a year -- but finally I stopped drinking long enough to save up enough money, and I got out."

"How did you end up in Europe, Andy? Did you go there for a reason -- to see the antiquities, the sights, maybe, or were you just another college kid bumming around the continent, looking for parties?"

I looked at her really seriously. She was asking me to truly bare my soul, and I wasn't sure I should, but she sat there with such an angelic look on her face, like she really wanted to know more, so after a few seconds, I relented. Something about her made me want to tell her the truth, or at least some of it.

"I was escaping, and that's where I decided to escape to. It was a long way away from home, and so, it fit the bill."

"Okay, but now you're dodging, Andy. What were you trying to escape?"

"Failure, I guess. I had just gotten divorced, and I didn't have a real high opinion of myself. I guess, I thought I could hide there."

"Divorce... that must be really painful", she remarked empathetically.

"Yeah, especially when you know that you're 100% to blame."

"If you don't mind my asking, what happened, Andy? Between you and your ex-wife?"

"Well, that's pretty simple -- she decided she didn't want to be married to a drunkard. Anyway, it didn't take me too long to figure out that it really doesn't matter which continent you happen to be occupying when you're drunk. And no matter which continent it is, after a while, all you really want to do is to get out."

"That's a great, great song, Andy! Last night it made me cry. I didn't know the whole story, but I could feel your struggle in it. That's what I mean about you and honesty. I knew last night that there was more truth in that four-minute long song than there would be in reading the entire Journal-Constitution cover to cover this morning."

"Well, thank you, Jenn! I think that's about the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me."

"What?" She looked really confused. "About the Journal-Constitution? About being honest and truthful? What I said about it being a great song? What do you mean?"

"No", I paused, "about it making you cry. I guess that's what I consider the songwriter's job to be -- to make other people feel what they were feeling when they wrote the song. That song made me cry a dozen times, before I was done writing it. And it made me cry a hundred times when I was living it."

She smiled at me, almost as if she was proud of me. "Andy, you're better than your past. I hope you know that."

"I'm better than when I was living that past. That's for sure." I didn't say anything more, and we sat there silently for a minute or two, kind of mesmerized by the sun shimmering off the water. All of a sudden, Jenn leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

"What was that for?" I asked her smiling sheepishly.

"I already told you. You make me happy." It was pretty clear that Jenn had some feelings for me, too, but I was afraid, afraid about rushing into anything that might just ruin a good thing, and in the end, I guess I was afraid of her and afraid of myself, so I didn't do anything, just sat there with that stupid grin on my face.

We finished our walk, and then Jenn drove me back into town to my loft apartment downtown. When I got out of the car, she leaned over to the passenger side and looked up at me through the open car door. "I had a real nice time, Andy! Thank you, and thank you for taking care of me last night. I hope I can see you again sometime."

"We're headed to Atlanta tomorrow, Jenn. We're playing a handful of clubs around there this week, but we'll be back at The House of Booze on Saturday night. Why don't you come to see us again?"

"I think I'd like that, Andy."

"Oh, and Jenn, if you do come to see us, try not to drink so much bourbon this time, okay?"

"I'll do my best, Andy, but you know how it is!" she smiled at me. She had a really pretty smile, and I knew then that whether or not Jenn Ryan was trouble, really didn't matter. I was smitten.

"Bye, Jenn."

"Bye, Andy."

I closed the door, and climbed the steps to my loft. When I got to my apartment, I grabbed my HD-28, and I sat down on the couch and started fooling around. Then, I got serious. I found my notebook and started writing.

Words come first, not music. I had a few thoughts in my head, and by the time I took a break to make myself something to eat, I had a pretty good start on the lyrics. Sometimes those thoughts flow pretty well; other times I can't write a line to save my life. That's just the way it goes. But that night Jenn Ryan was my muse, and Jenn was good material to start with, so that evening was one of the more productive ones I had had in a while.

We had four good nights in three venues in the Atlanta area that week and returned to Athens on Saturday for our gig at THOB, and when I arrived there at six o'clock that night, Jenn was waiting for me at the bar. She was drunk again.

That night was very nearly a reprise of the previous week. Jenn and I engaged in playful banter, and when we were done with our last set, she informed me again that I was to drive her home. There wasn't much doubt about it. Considering how I already felt about her, I was all prepared to do as I was told.