Gonna Sell The Bitch's Car Ch. 03

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When I went to college I made friends with a psychology major. I stopped in at one of the snack bars and it was crowded. There was a woman sitting at a table for two and I asked if she would mind sharing.

Dressed in tee shirt and jeans, no make up and with buzzed hair, she practically screamed BUTCH. Looking over the text book at me she shrugged. There was a hard edge to her voice.

"Sure, but don't expect anything, I'm gay."

In mock surprise I said "Really? Damn, I was already thinking of names for our kids."

It wasn't what she was expecting. She didn't know what to say for a second, then grinned.

"Sorry to break your heart. But if my girlfriend and I ever need a surrogate, I'll look you up. I'm Angie."

"Wiley," I said extended my hand and pulling it back in mock pain after we shook.

I looked at her text book.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," I quoted.

"Freud. I'm impressed."

She looked at mine.

"The knee bone connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone connected to the hip bone...."

"Yeah, physical therapy."

We had a nice friendship. She was gay and I was a musician, go figure. She had to interview someone and create a psychological profile for a class project. She chose me.

It was a little irritating at first to have someone follow me around to watch my interactions but she soon faded to the background. She met the people I associated with and interviewed them about me. Notes and voice recordings piled up. She wouldn't let me read it when she was done, but she got an A.

I finally nagged her into sharing her findings about me. One night after she, her girlfriend, and I had consumed two bottles of wine, she opened up.

"You're an onion Wiley, an enigma hidden in a riddle surrounded by a puzzle."

"You like people, but you don't trust most you meet, including all women. You know lots of people but have very few friends."

"You keep your thoughts to yourself. Highly compartmentalized, you keep people segregated. Your school friends know nothing about your work friends, or the people you do volunteer work with, or the people you interact with through your side business, and none know anything about your family. You,re a chameleon, Wiley, different things to different people, and you get very uncomfortable when they blend. I don't think anyone will ever know the real you, including yourself."

"You're a Gemini by birth, so you're supposed to have a split personality. But damn, Wiley, there's a whole crowd in your head. It's one of the reasons I like to hang out with you. I never know who's coming to the party."

"If it's any consolation, only highly intelligent people tend to compartmentalize. Bill Clinton is the most prominent figure I know of who does compartmentalization. It's the reason he could look the American public in the eye and say he never had sex with Monica Lewinsky. In his mind, he had separated it completely from the real world definition of sexual activity."

With that speech, she passed out on the couch.

Wow.

Compartmentalized. A fancy word for fucked up.

...........................................

She was right. I didn't like anyone to know too much about me. Sammi lived with me, and she had no idea what I did when I was away from her.

She knew I bought and sold vintage guitars, but she had no idea how many I had or the volume of business I did.

She didn't know I volunteered at the hospital. I had been doing it since I was fourteen, when I had been at the hospital with Chip.

Most of all, she didn't know what I owned or what I was worth.

I owned the house I was living in out right. The man I rented from came to me after I had been there two years to tell me he was retiring and moving out of state, and putting all his holdings up for sale. I liked the house, and the neighborhood. Most of the neighbors were middle aged or older. Everyone, included the landlord, was afraid I would be having wild parties and be loud.

The fears eased when that didn't happen, and because I was around in the daytime a lot I ended up helping out some of the older neighbors with odds and ends when they needed me. A lot of them asked for advice in dealing with grandkids. I gave what advice I considered reasonable, reminding them I had no practical experience with kids.

I also owned some property with mini warehouses on it. This came about by accident but was a very nice investment.

All right, I was thirty years old and played in a band for a living. Where was the money coming from?

I actually made pretty good money playing music. After expenses I usually netted about forty five grand a year. The buying and selling guitars varies widely from year to year, as high as fifty thousand some years, as low as fifteen others. This was a cash thing, no IRS.

I got around twenty five thousand a year off the storage units after taxes and upkeep. So, I didn't look like much, but made more than a lot of middle management types.

The seed money for all this came from my mother. She had an insurance policy for both Chip and myself, 50,000 each. It was double indemnity, and had a clause that if either one of us happened to pass away at the same time, both policies went to the survivor.

The big truck that hit my Mom was from a national chain. They offered my Dad 100,000 to settle while Chip was still alive. He was in no shape to talk to them, so that offer slid. After Chip died they offered him fifty percent more. He settled for four times the original offer, after lawyer fees. Normally he wouldn't have gotten so much, but the trucking firm subbed out maintenance, so both companies were on the hook.

My money was in trust until I was twenty five, a good thing. I don't think I could have handled it at twenty one. At twenty five it was still a pretty big temptation, but I had been living on my own since I was nineteen, and had a pretty good grasp of how the real world worked. The only splurge I allowed myself was to buy a bass guitar I had always wanted. Collector item of course, a Dan Armstrong Ampeg with the clear acrylic body.

Oh, and I bought my house.

My accountant, a genius, incorporated me. Crazy Coyote, Ltd. He instilled the habit of meticulous record keeping. I had a company card I put everything on while on the road. Everything was on my laptop I carried with me everywhere, plus printed hard copies I kept in a file cabinet in my spare bedroom.

Nobody except my parents knew what I was worth.

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Things were going really well for Sammi and I. Co-habitating went smoother than I expected. There were minor clashes, I was a neat freak and her less so. She hated most of the music I played at home. Her procrastination drove me crazy. My tendency to over analyze things made her grit her teeth.

But we got used to each other, each agreeing to give in and compromise on most things.

The one thing that really got to me was her complete indifference to car maintenance. Her 2001 ugly brown Camry was held together by faith and imagination. She ran out of gas constantly because the gas gauge didn't work.

I had my mechanic check it out and his best advice was let it die a natural death. He did a patch job on most of the major problems but made no guarantees. Still, it ran much better when we got it back. I gave her a serious lecture about preventative maintenance that went in one ear and out the other.

We never fought about money. I told her not to worry about rent, I would cover it. She did insist on paying the power bill and we split the groceries. Instead of saving the extra money she had for a new car as I suggested, she updated her wardrobe.

She did find another job, mostly by accident. One of the regulars at her bar had a friend with a high end restaurant who was looking for a new hostess. It was better hours, she would be home by 10:30 instead of 3:00 a.m., and the pay was about a third more than she was making now including tips.

It was a win/win situation for both of us. Her hours were long, 10:30 until 10, but only four days a week, Wednesday through Saturday. Since my schedule usually left me free the first part of the week, it was perfect. She even scheduled some classes at the community college in hotel/restaurant management.

We had just had a lust/love filled morning. I was drained and she was full of energy, like always. She was folded up like a pretzel across me, idly rubbing my buzz cut.

"Wiley, ever think about what our kids would look like?"

"Sure. Slender, tall, beautiful, a lot like their mother. I just hope they get my brains."

She slapped at me gently. Then smiled.

"I hope they get your brains, too."

I wasn't sure, but I think a step was just taken towards marriage.

I thought about it a lot for the next few days. The decision was easy.

I made a reservation at her restaurant. I got the staff involved, and slipped in while she was distracted. Carefully placing the box on a table, I had the waitress get Sammi, saying there was a problem with the table, and could she help sort it out.

She went to the table with half the staff in tow. When she got to the table it was empty.

"What's going on?" Asked an obviously confused Sammi.

I was standing behind her, dressed in a nice suit, the first she had ever seen me in.

"The problem, my dearest Sammi, is the ring in that box is not on your finger. The problem is, when I say "Samantha Anderson, will you marry me?", you have to say "YES!", as loudly as possible. The problem is you're not sitting across the table sipping champagne, toasting the rest of our lives together."

"As hostess, isn't it up to you to fix my problem? I'm waiting."

She twirled around as I made the little speech I had rehearsed. Smothered me with kisses and hugged me tightly. Regaining her breath she stepped back and became very formal.

"Sir, it is the goal of this establishment to satisfy every customer."

She slid the ring on her finger while the waitress poured the champagne.

"Now, before we enjoy this excellent wine, isn't there a question you need to ask me?"

"Samantha Anderson, will you--"

She pulled me up from my knee and tried to suck all the air in my lungs out.

"Yes, Wiley Patterson, I believe I will."

The rest of the night was a blur of congratulations. It was one of the happiest days of my life. The only person who didn't look happy was Gary, the manager.

You know how you can sometimes look at a person and instinctively dislike them? That was me with Gary. He was tall, good looking in a slick kind of way, and the asshole had a full head of hair. I felt like he could have been a snake oil peddler in a past life.

His seemingly sour attitude made me feel even better as I raised my glass to him.

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Her car finally died and she sold it for junk. She just naturally got into the Mach 1. I warned her not to get too comfortable, the car was an investment, and sooner or later I would need the money for something else. It was why I got it in the first place.

Some people are 'motorheads' and lived for their cars. In my experience, the most militant of this group are Mustang owners, followed closely by Corvette fans.

Some people are 'muscleheads', living for bodily perfection. These guys scare me more than the car people. If you replace the rims on a car and don't like them, you can switch them back. When you mess with steriods and cosmetic surgeries, it's a one way street.

Jesus freaks, alternative living advocates, nudists, career obsessionists, everyone has something that is their identifying marker, that proclaims "This is me!"

My marker of course, was music. I had at various times played in metal bands, beach bands, rock bands, blues, country, bluegrass, jazz, even celtic and zydeco groups.

I owned four basses, all vintage except for one. Five guitars, assorted keyboards, a grand piano, a Hammond B3 organ, tin whistles, two accordians, a mandolin, a five string banjo, and a ukelele. And I was proficient in all of them.

I was smart enough to know I couldn't continue with the line of work I was in. I had been doing it for thirteen years and was actually kind of tired of it. Unless you hit the big time there was very little fame or money in it.

Most singers or bands have a shelf life of about three to five years before fading into obscurity. I know, bands like the Rolling Stones, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, or singers like Paul McCartney or Willy Nelson can last decades, but they are the exception to the rule.

Song writers are a different group. You don't have to be able to sing or even play an instrument, just have the ability to string words together in a pleasing manner. As long as they remain inspired they can last for years.

To that end I had been writing songs for years. Most sucked, but some had potential. I mostly wrote to please myself, but recently considered polishing some of my best and pitching them. Even now, I keep little micro recorders in my vehicles in case something occurs to me and I can record my thoughts and expand on them later.

Most of my inspiration comes from real life, both mine and people I knew. Some actually come from the radio. I once heard an interview with Paul Williams, a terrific song writer from the seventies and eighties, where he said most of his best work came from listening to other songs and thinking he would have done it differently. That wisdom stuck with me.

I actually had a song that went to number one. Number one on the beach music charts. Beach music is a popular subculture in the Southeast, from Maryland to Florida. It grew from the need for music to dance the 'shag' to. Now, in England, shag means fuck, but in the U.S. it's a dance. A sped up version of the jitterbug and other popular dances from the nineteen forties. Originally danced to black r&b records, white bands recognized the potential and started doing records, usual remakes of the originals.

Realizing they could make more money with originals, they began writing their own material, usually a more sanitized version of the r&b numbers. Beach music fans are like country music fans, one hit and you have fans for life.

The band that had to get rid of me over the VD episode was a beach band. They were bemoaning the fact they had no original material one day when I suggested we write some. They scoffed, saying they had tried and their efforts sucked, but I was welcome to give it a shot.

I sat down and in forty five minutes had the nucleus of their first hit. I thought the inane dribble about blonds and fun, sands and tans, and love so sweet on a moonlit beach was pure horseshit, but they almost pissed their pants when I played it for them. They took it, arranged it with emphasis on the brass and organ, and released it.

It went to number one in two months, but then again there wasn't much competition. It boosted our performance price and everyone was happy. I still get small royalty checks every quarter.

The pressure was on me to write more, and I did write two more that charted, one at thirty two, and one at nineteen. Then I had to leave the band so that career was over.

It was enjoyable for the most part, and I really learned to appreciate the depth of a horn section.

I had made tentative contacts with several labels with a demo of some of my work but hadn't got a response when fate took a hand.

.................................................

We were engaged now, but hadn't set a date. I asked her if she had one in mind, and she suggested late June of early July, about five months away. I told her to pick a date, and I would make sure I wasn't working then. I could always get a sub. She wanted to do it between semesters, she had become quite serious about getting her degree.

I was happy she was getting serious about a career. The only thing I didn't like was her relying on Gary to help her with her studies.

"Honey, don't get all jealous on me. He has a degree and experience in the field. Why shouldn't I use him as a resource? I love you, I'm using him, It's that simple."

Those words would come back to haunt both of us.

She was happily planning the wedding. Nothing over the top, just family and a few friends. The only disagreement we had was her decision to use a DJ. I stood firm. It was a professional thing. Live music or else.

She capitulated, but said if they sucked I would never hear the end of it. After all we only get married once, right?

Wrong.

............................................

I had been married once before, for 23 days.

When Chip died, I didn't go around the hospital for about a month.

One day I got a phone call. It was the hospital, specifically the head nurse on the floor that Chip had been on. She said she knew it was hard on me, but would I mind bringing my guitar and singing to the kids again? They had been asking for me. I talked it over with Gram. She thought it would do me good, help me heal.

I took my guitar, some tambourines and bongo drums, and had Gram deliver me.

The kids had a ball. We made up what we lacked in talent with volume. The hospital was in the process of adding a cancer wing while Chip was there, and they had already started accepting patients.

These kids were often in the hospital for weeks, sometimes for months at a time. Some never went home. Any diversion was appreciated and since I was close to a lot of them in age I was well received.

After the second week I asked one of the nurses about Kara.

"Oh, good news, she's in remission. She still has to come in twice a month for treatments, but seems to be doing good." The next week I bought a bag of dark chocolate kisses and asked the nurse to give them to her.

According to the nurses she cried when she got them. She found out what day I came and she changed her appointment so she could see me.

When I saw her sitting in the wheelchair, [required during treatment] I immediately launched into "Kara's Song", written specifically for her.

I did it in a finger picking, folk style. As I picked the notes I sang softly.

"A minstrel travels all around, and sees beautiful girls in every town.

But I've never seen a maid so fair, As Kara so beautiful she needs no hair."

I sang the other three verses as I moved closer to her, until I was sitting by her side.

That was the exact moment when I understood the power of music. She was crying. Her Mom was crying, the nurses and some of the kids were crying. Even a doctor tried to hide his emotion.

I went on to play the songs I knew the kids liked. Being kids, they rebounded from the sadness quickly, becoming loud, happy at least for a little while to just be kids again.

While I gathered up the tambourines and bongos to be stored until the next week I got several surprises.

First, the head nurse, a black lady in her forties, came up and gave me a tremendous hug.

"Thank you, honey. I know that you could just as easily be hanging out with your friends instead of being here. You've got an important gift, Wiley. You can move people with your music. In ten or fifteen years, when your songs are on the radio, I'm gonna say I knew for years you were gonna be famous. And that you're a good man, some one I'm proud to say I call a friend."

I didn't know what to say so I hugged her back.

After seeing the head nurse hug me, the other nurses followed suit.

Kara's Mom also stayed behind while she had her treatment. After the hug, she led me to a corner for some quiet conversation.

"Thank you, Wiley. For awhile, I thought Kara had given up hope. You have no idea what your song means to her. You never met her before, but she had beautiful hair. Long and blond, she constantly changed styles. She loved it."

"When she got sick, and found out chemo would cause her to lose her hair, she cried for days. Then, the day before the first treatment, she made me take her to a salon that participated in Locks For Love, a group that donates hair to cancer victims. I was never so proud of her as I was that day."