The Billy Goat Hill Pundits

Billy Goat Hill Pundits

They were sitting on the tailgate of the pickup, bathed in the soft glow of a full moon, cold longneck in hand, parked on the highest hill in this flat, brushy county. The lights of the little town they grew up in were splattered across the valley before them. It was a beautiful, if melancholy, night, just right for reminiscing.

"Remember the night just like this, full moon overhead, when we were sittin' out here with seis amigos, just playing guitars and singing songs we made up as we went along?"

Will snorted. "Hell, yeah! Damn, Woody, we were - what? Seventeen or eighteen? Earl paid The Creeper twenty bucks to get us two bottles of Mad Dog 20-20, and we were all approaching shit-faced by about this time of the night! I wanted to die the next morning! Still hate wine!

"We wrote some great stuff that night, though. Speaking of, whatever happened to our classic that you guaranteed was a hit?"

"I include that in the drunk set - that's the third set - of every show we play, as long as the crowd is drunk enough, fired up, and ready to party! It always brings down the house! Hell, there are fans that follow us around who know all the words and sing it with me!"

"Not that I don't appreciate the royalties I do get, but why haven't you recorded our classic?"

"For some reason, Will, the country music labels don't like the title, much less the content."

"Oh, come on! The shit I hear blasting out of jacked-up car speakers in every city makes 'I Love You So Fucking Much I Could Shit' sound like Sunday School music! It's just a love song with some descriptive lyrics, W! it isn't racist, sexist or misogynistic!

"Okay, it's a bit vulgar, but not like the Rap music I hear: 'fuck' ain't even mentioned, much less sung in the background throughout the song, son, like one of those I heard the other day!"

"Dude, you've lived in the sticks too long - it's Hip Hop music now!"

"Well, then get a Hip Hop label to record it! I've written a drawer full over the years, being married to that hard-headed cunt, but they are all as bad or worse. Shit, I've written a dozen in the past month! Get a label to record and distribute that shit and we can both make a fortune!"

"I know you're bullshitting me, Will, but, seriously, brother, come join me! The Bitch kicked your ass out, lied so you can't even see your children, and took up with your arch enemy. How many more signs do you need to know that your time here is over?

"Grab your pen and paper, your MacBook, iPad, and iPhone, whatever clothes she let you keep, fire up your old pickup, and let's head for Interstate 40! Hell, even the assholes in Nashville recognize your talent as a songwriter! We'll do fine, I promise."

"Damn, that's a tempting offer, Woody, but a big part of me wants to keep tilting at the windmills here! The problem is, Donny-the-asshole has his uncle-the-judge so far up my ass I can't get a running start.

"Well, I guess that's not the only problem; her family believes all that crap too, and you know how much clout they have!"

Will took a long draw on his fresh beer, and contemplated the impossible.

"What the fuck, Woody? How could anyone with eyes and a brain think I beat my kids and my wife? Has anyone EVER seen one of them with a bruise? Have they ever been to the doctor for a broken bone, for bruising, or for ANYTHING I ever did to any of them?

"Fuck NO they haven't, because it never happened!

"The problem is, how do I prove nothing ever happened when my wife lies like a dog, and my kids - who aren't even in school yet - aren't considered 'reliable sources'? Oh, and the judge is her lover's uncle, and the social worker is her cousin!"

Will sat there on the tailgate, beer bottle in hand, took a sip, and asked the obvious: "I'm fucked, aren't I?"

***

Dawn found them on I 35 north of Waco. Woody (Woodrow Wilson West) and Will (William Andrew Callaghan) had a 72 quart ice chest full of Lone Star beer and another full of venison and venison and wild hog sausage in the bed of the truck. The second seat contained the only earthly belongings Will wanted, and it was only partly filled.

Starting over meant starting fresh, so he left anything that reminded him of his wife. When he finished loading, though, it struck him that he hadn't acquired much he cared about in his first 28 years. Maybe the next 28 would be kinder.

Woody, who usually slept until at least noon after staying up all night, was so wired on coffee and apple fritters he would not shut up. After telling Will for the fourteenth time how great this was going to be, writing songs, having his buddy along on the road, and chasing wicked women together, Will finally asked him to calm down and stick to the immediate future: "How many more stops on the tour you're committed to?"

"Only three more, buddy, and all are drivable from Nashville in the bus," Woody replied.

Three more stops to fulfill the contract, and then they could return to the studio; that made Will feel better.

"But don't think you're along for the ride, Bud! You're going to be playing and singing right alongside me. I already have approval to add you; you won't make much, but you get room, board, transportation, and all the groupies you want, assuming there are any that meet your standards.

"We don't play in the biggest and finest places, you know, and sometimes you need paper sacks, but there are always a few that want to 'make love' to the famous musician, even if they don't know his name!"

Two weeks later they, and the studio musicians the label supplied, were a leased bus headed for The Coyote in Charlotte, NC, a compact dance venue, and then down to the Savannah Arena for a bigger concert. After that, back to North Charleston's outdoor venue, Around the Bend. Neither of the two concert venues were sold out, which Woody attributed to the poor reception to his second album, featuring songs written by the label's pet songwriters.

The songs were proficient, targeted to the young audience that bought a lot of the music sold nowadays, but lacked every element his fans expected: substance, soul, heart. All fluff, no meat, and Woody's audience wanted red meat. Actually, they preferred raw meat, like the songs on his first album and those he played in dancehalls, and when a got a slot at one of the drunken all-day, all-night outdoor concerts, like Willie throws in Texas.

Instead, the record label dressed him up, smoothed him out, provided polished musicians to back him, and sent him out to win over the Florida-Georgia line fans. They liked him about as much as he liked them, and, after his meteoric start, his career was trending sharply down. Fortunately, this was his last obligation to the label, which had cooled on him as rapidly as the 'new country' fans they targeted.

When they met for the final practice before leaving for The Coyote, Woody handed out music for "some new songs we're going to try out this weekend." The musicians - he couldn't call them a band, because they were only together for a few more days before they returned to what they do best; play on recordings - shrugged. They were getting paid no matter what they played.

After practice, Woody offered to buy everyone a round at Commodore Grill, but only the drummer, Gary, and the bass guitar player, Danny, were interested. About three pitchers in, Woody and Will fell in love with a young singer/songwriter who played keyboard. Her smile was infectious when she played the coy, lighthearted 'fun stuff', but it was her dark side that they loved.

"Boys, you know as well as I do that this is our last hurrah," Woody told Danny and Gary. "The crap we're playing ain't my kind of music, and I'm going back to my roots. That probably means I'm moving to Austin with Will here, who is going to be my bass guitar player. Sorry about that Danny, but he's also the guy who wrote most of the hits on the first album, and my best friend."

"Dude, I play seven instruments, if you include the harmonica and accordion, but I'm best at steel guitar, fiddle, and banjo. We know every real country band needs all three of those, and hell, I even play a mean Sax if you want to get bluesy!

"So if you're asking if I'm interested, hell yes I am - IF you are really gonna go back to playing the good shit instead of bubble gum country! I am still unattached and available, and I hear Austin has some mighty fine women."

"Sounds like you still need a drummer, and I'm freshly unattached and available. Wife served me with divorce papers last month. Said I wasn't 'meeting all her needs', so she traded up. But that's okay with me - what she was giving me sure wasn't worth what it was costing!"

"Will, with Gary on drums and Danny playing whatever else, we only need a keyboard player who can sing backup, duets, and take the lead some. Seen anybody lately you think would work?"

"Yes, and she's offstage talking to the manager; anyone know what she drinks?"

"Dark beer," came the answer from the table beside them. "I know 'cause I've bought her a dozen trying to get her to go out with me, with no luck. Maybe it will work for you."

Will stopped by the bar, picked up a dark beer, and walked over to where the two women were chatting. He stopped far enough away to offer privacy, but the dark-haired, dark-eyed singer noticed him and paused. The stage manager turned to Will and asked, "May I help you?"

"No mam, but maybe this talented young lady can." He addressed the singer. "We're sitting right over there, and we were mighty impressed with your songs, singing, and playing. Any chance we could visit with you for a few minutes about a band we're putting together?"

"I saw the four of you and appreciated the support. You say you are putting a band together? I'm not sure I'm a good fit for Mr. West's style, but I'll come listen.

"Is it okay if we finish our discussion later, Dot?"

"Sure, Lila, anytime. Sounds like it might be a moot point anyway, if you take the job."

Will facilitated Miss Lila Livingston's introduction to the boys, she took a seat, and asked, "How did you know I drink beer?"

The eavesdropping cowboy at next table doffed his hat, and Will gave him the credit. Lila smiled and admitted, "Perhaps I misinterpreted your intentions before. I'm sorry, and thank you for remembering."

"No, mam, you didn't misinterpret my intentions, but I do accept your thanks. You are a fine lookin' woman, and I'd love to wake up to your angelic voice singing in my shower. If things don't work out with the band, I'll be right here for the next songwriter round!"

The "negotiation" with Lila was a foregone conclusion once Woody assured her he was leaving the pop country scene for good, and Will asked how many more songs she had that 'explored the human condition' like those three songs did.

***

Woody and his backup musicians, plus Will on bass guitar and Gary on banjo, sax, harmonica, and accordion, and Lila on keyboard, did the mini-tour that freed Woody from his contractual obligations from the second album. It was a good thing it did, because the audiences were tepid at best, and sometimes rather nasty, about most of the songs from said album.

What they did like was "the new stuff we're trying out", which was raw and unfinished, but told a hell of a story, made you get out of your seat and dance, or made you sit and laugh, or cry.

The obligations completed, Gary drew his last check, fired his manager, and said his goodbyes. The label offered an insulting contract for a new album, which he rejected with a flourish, and they parted company with no regrets on either side.

***

Danny had a nice passenger van, Gary had a recent-model SUV, and Woody had a tricked-out white pearl Silverado, but Lila had her clothes, personal belonging, keyboard, a couple of other instruments, and no ride. Will was the first to offer, and she quickly took him up on it.

Their heavy-laden little caravan merged onto I40 at 6 am, rolled through Memphis to Jackson, caught I30 through Little Rock and Texarkana, and on south of Dallas to I35E. They took restroom breaks and stretched along the way, and bought some of Slovacek's fruit and poppy seed Kolaches in West. The Kolaches weren't a meal or snack; they were for dessert after they ate at Heitmiller's Steakhouse in Waco, a short distance down the road.

They rolled into Austin at 7 pm, and went directly to the apartments Woody had rented online.

The apartments were old but had been somewhat updated inside. Their appeal was in location - South First and Barton Springs Road - just a few blocks from the running trails along Lady Bird Lake, a mile from Barton Springs and the green fields around it, and only minutes from the live music scene for which Austin is famous. Woody had enough money to have a 2-1 of his own, but Gary and Danny were sharing a 2-2, as were Lila and Will.

Woody had rented a place to practice further out on South First, near the food trucks, and they dropped off their instruments there after picking up the key from a mechanic at the garage next door. It was solid and secure, having been equipped and used by a Tejano band that folded a few months back. The owner was happy to have a new band and some income from the place; property taxes in Austin ain't low.

Will experienced another moment of contemplation when he discovered it took only a few trips to move all his stuff in, and it took up little to no space. Not much to show for a man pushing thirty.

The apartments weren't furnished, so Woody had acquired top of the line Rent-A-Center furnishings. They weren't certain if they were renting to own, but they certainly hoped not. Another cool thing was that there were no washer-dryer hookups, but there were two laundromats on site. Will thought he had regressed back in college; no one else seemed to care.

Will had what Woody called "a treasure chest" of songs he had written over the years that celebrated life's big events and mourned its losses. They also depicted his loving wife in the early years through the joys of adding children to the family and finally as the selfish shrew she became. The contents of the cardboard bank box had grown rapidly since she and her lover pounced on him and took his kids, home, and property.

They would have taken his money too, but he had set up a trust for his kids when he first started making "real money", so he quickly moved all but a few thousand of his cash and investments into their trusts, and installed Robert Hart, his attorney and good friend, as the trustee.

When Will made the decision to leave with Woody, he resigned from his job and simply disappeared, leaving power of attorney with Hart.

Lila also had a treasure trove, albeit of a very different type. She tended toward folk and blues, while Will was country, western, southern rock, and outlaw. There was already an element of folk in his western and outlaw, and he was fascinated by the prospects that folk music, especially that from the Great Smokey Mountains that Lila called home, offered the storyteller.

Their hard work was successfully turning the words into songs that touched people and/or made them move. The other, more experienced, band members took the lead there, while Lila and Will used each other as sounding boards as they refined their lyrics. Most of that work was in the apartment; Woody, Danny, and Gary worked primarily in their new studio.

Having been gone 10 weeks, on Friday Will borrowed Gary's phone to check in with his attorney. As expected, the Shrew had amended the divorce petition to include abandonment and was asking for everything and the kitchen sink. To date, Robert hadn't responded to her request for an accounting of Will's finances, but he had to respond within the next two weeks. He had the information, but wanted to talk to Will before proceeding.

"Sure, you can release all my financials. They will show all my savings and investments were used to endow the trust fund for my two children. Other than my 401k, all I own is my old pickup, a few guns, and that damn house she just had to buy! The bank owns more of it than I do, and she can have it if I get to keep my 401k; otherwise, we can sell it and split the profits along with my 401.

"There is plenty of money in their trust funds to take care of the kids, but The Shrew does not get a dime! She submits legitimate receipts for the children to you, and you pay them. No gym memberships for my 4 year-old-son, no hair and skin care and no Victoria Secrets underwear for my six-year-old daughter - none of that shit!

"I'm also not paying for full-time childcare so she can stay home and fuck her buddy; as long as she has no job, I will not pay for child care. If she gets a job, I'll pay half. Get it?"

"You know his uncle the judge is going to fuck you over in the judgment, Will. He will order some kind of maintenance, and require you to continue paying for the house and utilities, at a minimum."

"F' him and her! She moved that rich SOB, his nephew, into the house I've been making payments on. They can either get the hell out and sell it, or make the payments themselves. Bitch has spent all of my money she's ever going to get!

"He can order whatever he wants, but I'm a couple of five or so states over, and the order don't mean shit here. Tell them this: you can't get blood out of a turnip! The only income I have is a few hundred a month in royalties. I'm living on a shoestring with no sudden influx of cash on the horizon!"

"Remind her that charging me with abuse of my wife and children made me toxic, and now no one will even talk to me about a job. I'm moving around working as a day laborer just trying to keep a cardboard box over my head, and it's all because of her and the lying asshole she's living with! Now if she would recant all that, offer generous visitation rights, and accept the division I spelled out above, I'll sign the divorce papers in a heartbeat and the lovers can get married and live happily ever after!

"Finally, Robert, tell her that I said 'what goes around comes around, and she should expect to hear from Karma herself in about six months or so'."

Robert reminded him to stay cool, keep away from Texas, or at least the Bexar County area, and asked how he could reach him if necessary. Will replied to call this phone, which was owned by another itinerant worker like himself. It was a Kentucky number, which he figured would throw off anyone who got hold of it.

Upon seeing the look on his face when he came back inside to return the phone, Gary asked if things were alright. Will responded "No, and yes. My bitch wife cut out my heart and shit on it; now she wants to cut off my balls. That's the 'No' part.

"The 'yes' part is, I intend to take a break from creativity today, put on my work boots and clothes, and clean up all the debris along the creek our decks overlook so when I drink a beer on the deck I can see nature's beauty instead of trash!

"After that, I intend to clean up, put on my dancin' shoes, and take a gander at Sixth Street; maybe figure out what all the fuss is about. Now I'd prefer to do all this with friends, but I'll do it alone if you guys and gal prefer to wallow in creativity while I'm out getting drunk and dancin'."

While they were cleaning up their section of the creek, neighbors appeared and asked if they could join them. Will and a couple of the neighbors had axes, so they could cut up and pile the big limbs more easily, and could clean up the brush along the creek that impeded their view of the gently flowing waters. Okay, the creek bed probably belonged to the city of Austin, but no one was worried that the group would get in trouble for cleaning it up a bit.

When the work was done, they had cleaned up along the entire section of creek running beside the apartments, and had quite a pile of debris for the city to haul off. One of the neighbors said she would call to get that done.