Country Blues ...Part 3
a one-minute phone call. No matter how busy they say they are.
― Candace Bushnell
LeAnn
Being alone on the road gives me time to think--when I'm not with a woman, that is.
I go over and over in my head why I do the things I do and try to come up with some kind of justification for my life.
I always fall short though because the one thing that's missing, the mysterious x factor in all my equations is Bonnie.
I have a wife, but do I have a life? That is the question
What I like best, beside sowing wild oats, is writing my songs and hanging out with other musicians.
Most people think country singers are cut-throat—like they’d drive over you in an eighteen wheeler if you got in their way—but it’s not like that.
Sometimes we sit around till three or four in the morning jamming and playing our songs—and when I play something good they’ll get thoughtful and cry, or laugh along and be as proud as if it were their own.
That’s the side of country I’ve seen. But lately, I’m getting tired of all the honky-tonks and bars and women whose names I forget the moment I leave.
It’s just after two am and the joint’s finally emptied. Cal’s counting his take and LeAnn’s waiting for me to pack up my equipment.
I’m feeling rusty like I’ve had too much of people, and don’t want to go back to the motel with LeAnn—just want to go home to bed.
An aching starts inside me as it always does when I’ve had enough and I know the gig is over.
My cell rings and I check the Caller ID and see it’s Bonnie. A cloud of guilt overshadows me, but I push it away and pick up.
“Hi Babe—it’s kinda late—what’s up?”
“It’s not Bonnie, Charley—it’s Jackie.”
Jackie is Bonnie’s best friend. I feel a tingle of fear start up my spine.
“Jackie—is anything wrong?”
“Yeah, Charley—Bonnie was in an accident coming home from work—she’s in St. Joe’s Hospital in intensive care.”
I’m afraid to ask, but have to. “What’s her condition?”
“Not good, Charley. She’s in a coma. The doctors think you should come.”
“Okay, okay.” My brain’s working at light speed, processing images. I see our entire life pass before me.
“Look,” she says, “I’m going to stay until you get here—how long do you figure that will be?”
I know driving at the limit will take three hours. “I’ll be there just after four,” I lie.
“Hey, Charley—don’t kill yourself getting here. I’m with her. Be careful.”
“I will.”
I’m already heading out the door. LeAnn catches my eye and one glance says it all. We’ll be frozen forever in this moment, caught in the amber of sin.
“Take care,” she shouts and I nod to acknowledge her words.
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