Maybe This Ain't Heaven

Elsewhere just go ahead and credit the fat lady. But downstairs in the Hooten Holler Taproom it’s never over until Tommy Dick sings Have a Good Time. Tommy shifts from his trademark hammering honkytonk style, slowing to a more tender touch to wrench every twist of painful pathos from that song. It’s about somebody whose lover is leaving for a new flame. The jilted paramour pretends to have no hard feelings and promises to await return of the offender. But you can tell the song means something else to Tommy Dick. Many people stay for last call just to hear Tommy give his valediction with that effulgent smile beaming from one friend to another, radiating warmth as he bids each a good time. One night at closing I was propped against the bar, basking in Tommy’s melancholy sendoff, when I noticed something surprising. The next night I watched more intently. “When you’re tired of being reckless and care free,” he sang in his syrupy Southern tones, “remember that I’ll be waiting to welcome you home, so have a good time.” Alone at one end of the bar a few minutes later, as we sopped up a nightcap, I said: “Tell me if I’m wrong, Tommy, but I thought I saw some tears toward the end of that song.” “Yeah, I usually choke up at closing time,” he said. “How can you do that and smile at the same time?” “I guess it’s like they say. You laugh to keep from crying. When I start that number I usually get a little catch in my voice. I’m thinking of all the people and the places I'll probably never see again. For all I know, any night could be my last here at the Holler and I’ll have to leave everybody behind again.” “But you know we all love you here,” I told him, noticing for the first time that his eyes were slightly different shades of blue. “We’d be devastated if you left.” “Thanks, I know you all feel that way. But for some reason I always leave. Most times I just have to get out of town for one reason or another. When I watch people walking out that door every night I’m wondering if I'll ever see them again. It’s happened, a lot. I could be somewhere up the road again tomorrow, starting over with a bunch of strangers. Sometimes when I get to my room and crawl into bed I start seeing people I’ve left behind. It’s like a parade, right through the room.” Tommy’s voice was thickening in his throat and I was beginning to regret starting him down this path. He took a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and tapped one on the bar. His hand shook as he tore off a match and lit up. “But you know what?” he said, his eyes catching a little sparkle. “When I start playing the next day and my friends begin showing up, it’s like I’m alive again.” “How about your family? I know when I feel down I can always phone one of my sisters. Just chatting with them cheers me up.” “Family’s part of it,” Tommy said. “The people who come in here, like you and the Colonel and Big Al and the widows and all. You are my family. I see you every night. But for me there’s nobody back home. My parents are dead and everybody else sort of disowned me. I wasn’t a very nice guy when I was younger. You might have hated me. So, it’s like, if Mindy Joy gave me two weeks off for a vacation right now I wouldn’t know where to go. I’d probably just stay around and get into trouble.” I knew he meant his struggle with the schnapps. “You’re sure right about one thing,” I said, and I put an arm around his shoulder as men sometimes do late at night in a bar. “Everybody here considers you family. You’ll always have a home at the Holler.” “If I don’t screw it all up again,” Tommy said. When I got back to my camper I started thinking about Tommy and I felt lucky. I’m out of the rat race, doing what I want. I have lots of friends and good neighbors and sisters who always welcome me home. Not to mention my prospects with the audaciously perky and sweet little Sugarfoot. Tommy’s story bugged me. I couldn’t seem to rest that night until I relaxed in my captain’s chair under the big maple by my camper, soothed by the blending of soft guitar chords and the brook’s gurgle. All of the honkytonks in all of the towns and all of the wine and the smokes All of the years and all of the tears and all of the beers and the jokes All of the arms that have held me at night And the friends who have walked out my door All the strange places and all the sad faces And I can’t go home any more I can’t go home, there’s nobody there Out of all those who loved me before I’ll sing my songs And wander along Yes, but someday I will go home once more. You’ve gathered by now I'll never take any prize for common sense. Fool that I am, I sort of thought Tommy would like the song. Next day when I got to the Holler I strummed out the tune for him on my Fender acoustic. He was wearing a ridiculously huge blue cowboy hat and around his neck he had one of those string ties with little metal pistols fastened to the ends. The night before a burly man in western togs loved Tommy’s playing so much that he snatched off his hat and plunked it onto Tommy’s head. You rarely see Tommy in a hat because he doesn't want to spoil his hair. But the big guy had promised he'd be back in a day or so. I guess Tommy wanted to be wearing it when his new fan returned, despite the risk of a toupee crease. Tommy was all bubbly and joking, as he generally is when he starts work, trying to pump some life into the customers. He played an intro to the new song and nodded for me to begin. “I want to hear you sing it first,” I said. Tommy rubbed his hands together, stroking his chin as he studied the lyrics, then retoodled the intro. Hesitantly he launched into my song. His voice was gravely from years of whiskey and smokes but at the same time rich and soothing as honey in hot tea. When he got to the line “All of the arms that have held me at night and the friends who have walked out my door,” he slumped forward. His elbows slammed the keyboard in a discordant clang. The hat toppled off, leaving his hair a mess. Then the tears began. He managed a brave grin and tried to say something but all that squeezed through the sound system was sort of a gurgle. I grabbed the lyrics, wadded them up and stuck them in my hip pocket. It’s a good thing it was early. There weren’t many people in the Holler. The only regulars were Sugarfoot and General Dollar, but I know Tommy was embarrassed. I never did sing that song. Could be I never will.