1 - Wasted Days

Cassidy tucked the phone more tightly into her cheek as she took a pencil to her left eyebrow.  Putting on makeup for a workday at Tully’s Tavern in tiny Pasquo, Tennessee seemed a little silly sometimes, but it gave her a sense of security.  A feminine suit of armor, if you will.  The naked eye saw nothing but an attractive, put-together woman while her imperfections stayed safely protected behind a cosmetic shield.  God knew she had no interest in seeing her imperfections, and she sure as hell didn't want to share them with the world.

Now if she could get her sister to quit harping on them, she might be in business. 

“Lib…  No, hush and listen to me for one daggone minute!”  Finished with her eyebrow, she critically inspected it and started the other while simultaneously fussing at her sister.  Cassidy had always been good at multitasking.  “I understand your concern, but you’ve got to trust me on this.”

“But – “

“No,” she interrupted firmly.  “There ain’t no buts.  Everything’s gonna work out fine, but'cha gotta give it a little time.  What have I always told you?”

Her younger sister, Liberty – or Libby, as Cassidy more often called her – sighed loudly.  Sometimes Libby seemed more like a little girl than a thirty-five year old mother, which was exactly why Cassidy felt as obligated to take care of her now as she had when they were growing up.

That no good on-again, off-again boyfriend of Libby's  didn’t help matters, either.  Every single time she almost had her life together, that rat weasel Darren would surface and mess things up by declaring his undying love to her and their children.  Libby, being as gullible and trusting as any babe in the woods, always fell for his promises that this time things would be different. 

Then he'd up and run away with what little money Libby had stashed away.

Well he isn’t the only one disrupting Lib’s life now, is he?

The unfortunate fact was that now it was Cassidy who had wreaked havoc in the life of her baby sister, and that havoc had baby sister wound tighter than a skeeter's ass in a nosedive.

If the girl would only stop, take a deep breath and remember what Cassidy had spent the last thirty years trying to drum into her, then this chat would be a lot less stressful for the both of them.  How hard could it be to remember the simple mantra - 

“Good things happen to good people,” Libby dutifully recited the affirmation with an exasperated sigh.  “But Billy Jack is getting persistent.  He keeps askin’ if I’ve talked to you.”

Eyebrows done, Cassidy reached for a ponytail holder and started gathering her copper locks into a bundle at the crown of her head.  She caught the phone just before it slipped and hit the floor, while still managing to hold the mop of hair captive in her left hand.

Multitasking was definitely going on her next resume`. 

“Exactly!  And we are good people, so it's all gonna work out just fine.  Besides, you know Billy Jack isn’t the brightest light a shinin' in the hall.  Just distract him with somethin’ else when he asks.  Or tell a creative truth.  You used to be real good at those.”

Living under the watchful eye of a conservative Southern Baptist grandmother, teenage Liberty had told more lies and half-truths than all the Congressmen and Senators sitting on Capitol Hill.  There were times when Cassidy knew that even Libby herself had become confused between fact and fiction.  Why was it so hard to divert one dumb redneck?

“I still am, but even I have creative limits!  Do you realize how many times he’s been by since you left?”

Cassidy pulled a chunk of hair loose from the finished ponytail, allowing one of the handful of blonde streaks to frame her right cheek, and repeated the process on the other side so her face appeared somewhat symmetrical.  by fluffing a few strands down to soften her face, she felt like it was an actual hairstyle instead of a service industry staple that kept her from having to wear a hairnet if she had to work the kitchen today.   

“Billy Jack has prob’ly been there more times than I care to think about and, since thinkin’ about it serves no purpose, I respectfully decline to answer the question.”

“You’re killin’ me here,” Libby whined, and Cassidy's eyelids fell closed in frustration.  There was nothing she could do to help the situation beyond what she was already doing. 

“You’ll live.  How are the kids today?”

“They’re fine.  They wanna know when you’re comin’ home, too.”

This was clearly the wrong phase of the moon in which to be talking to her sister, because the girl was like a pit bull on a sirloin and Cassidy didn’t have the stamina to wrestle it away from her today.  Telling Lib that she had no idea when and if she was coming back to Georgia would make her pit bull sister go from tenacious to rabid.

Cassidy wasn't wasting energy she needed to get through her upcoming ten hour shift. It was time for this sisterly chat to come to an end.

“Well, you tell ‘em that I love ‘em and I’ll see ‘em soon as I can.  Tell Calliope the same, if you happen to hear from her.  I’ll send out a money order in the mail as soon as I get paid.  Talk to you tomorrow, Lib.”  Before her sister could do more than take a breath, Cassidy had disconnected the call and crammed her phone into the back pocket of well-worn Levis.

She shook off her sister's negativity with a deep breath and leaned her palms on the edge of the tiny sink to inspect her makeup. Her fair skin looked fairly smooth and unblemished.  The dark eyeliner was smudged just as it should be and made her blue eyes look bright, the light touch of blusher highlighted her cheek bones appropriately and a coat of shiny pale gloss made her lips look wet. 

Brushing a piece of fuzz from her Tully's t-shirt and skating her palms down over her hips, she thought she looked just fine from the outside.  Better than a forty-one year old with her baggage had a right to, in fact.  That, she attributed to positive thinking and (mostly) clean living.  

It was too bad the inside hadn't been kept quite as pretty by those fine attributes, but she wouldn't dwell on the past.  What was done was done and the best she could hope for was to be a better person than she’d been yesterday – or six weeks ago. 

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling of the tiny one room cabin she’d been calling home as of late.  “Lord, I know I haven’t been the best sheep in the flock lately and I’m real sorry about that.  Actually, I really appreciate the fact that You’ve kept me safe and sound this far, so thank You very kindly for steerin' things in a safe direction. 

“I guess by this time you know I’m not one who’s much for askin’ Your help.  I try and mind my own business and take care of things best I can, even though I know You’ve kept Your hand on me and mine more times than I can count.  For that, too, I’m mighty thankful, but I’ve kind of got myself into a situation here.  If You could see fit to work this out so I can be with my family again, I’d be much obliged.

“And…  Well, You know, if there’s anything I can do for You, I’d be happy to try.  Thank ya, Lord.”  

Her prayer complete, she stood as tall as her five-foot-three frame would permit and squared her shoulders. 

Alright Cassidy.  Now put all that heaviness aside and be as happy as you know how to be.  Like MeMaw always said, if you’re gonna infect somebody with your mood it oughta be a happy plague.

With that, she tugged at the hem of her black fitted t-shirt, grabbed the little backpack she used for a purse and stepped into her favorite pair of shoes.  Most bartenders probably wouldn't wear red suede platforms with a five inch heel to work, but they made Cassidy feel good and, by God, today was going to be a good day or she’d die trying.    

###

The countryside on the outskirts of Nashville was pretty, Jon supposed, if you were into trees and windy roads.  Millions of leaves were budding a brilliant shade of green that he should find soothing as the early April breeze swirled through the car, but he wasn’t into trees and windy roads and found nothing about this trip soothing.  If he had his way, he’d be in the driver’s seat instead of the passenger’s and pushing the car toward the end of the trip – back to Jersey. 

He sure as hell wouldn’t be heading an undetermined number of miles in the opposite direction of New Jersey, with no end in sight. 

“I still don’t see why I gotta go to some backwoods dive in the middle of the damn boonies,” he complained to the man who was driving the classic 1969 Chevy Camaro COPO – his long-time friend, Obie O’Brien. 

“Seriously man?  Boonies?  It’s twenty minutes from downtown Nashville,” Obie drolly cited as he executed a turn that brought them into a nearly deserted gravel parking lot.  “That hardly constitutes the need for a wilderness survival kit.”

After strategically dodging two ill-placed mud holes, the car sidled up next to a rusty old signpost bearing an equally rusty sign that may have once read “Sully’s”.  It was hard to say for sure, since the first letter looked like it had been missing for some time.  There wasn’t even a white outline where it had once been, but Jon could make out that they offered beer and chicken wings.

With a heart attack on the side, no doubt.

“Besides,” the man in charge of this road trip continued.  “Mike says there’s a girl here who has pipes like Whitney Houston.  Maybe I’ll find a new birdie to take under my wing... while I have a few chicken wings.” 

Mike was the owner of the hot rod shop where they’d just acquired the Camaro and, from Jon’s perspective, the man responsible for a foray into Mayberry RFD on this perfectly wasted afternoon. If it hadn’t been for Mike and the impeccable midnight blue specimen of all-American steel and guts he'd possessed, Jon wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of coming to Tennessee with Obie.  He would’ve stayed in either New York or New Jersey, writing shitty songs that he kept throwing away before they ever made it to the studio.

It might sound counterproductive, but Jon considered trashing his songs a bizarre form of insurance.  He still had the excuse of working, but, by throwing the songs away, he didn't embarrass himself in the studio and remained the only one who knew that he could no longer write his way out of a wet paper bag. 

There was a quick backhand to Jon’s bicep and Obie crowed, “Ha!  Get it?  Wings?”

Wings.  He'd barely even registered what Obie had said, but Jon nonetheless rolled his eyes behind mirrored sunglasses and offered a bland, “You’re a dumbass.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  One wrist flicked, effectively silencing the vehicle’s engine.  “Keep it up and one of these days you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

Jon’s snort coincided with the click of the door handle, completely unworried.  If he could hurt Obie's feelings, it would've happened decades ago.

Car door safely closed, he crammed his Notre Dame hat down on his head and  pushed his sunglasses more solidly onto his face.  You never knew when a rabid fan might be lurking around, even though this didn't look like the usual Jovi girl hangout.

The place was well-worn at best.  The lackluster exterior was either gray or a faded blue, with enough paint chipped away to qualify it as ‘distressed’ in the decorator world, when it was really just neglected.  Further neglect was evidenced by the knee-high weeds lining the front of the building, which were the baby brothers of the weed forest at the side of the building.  Those gargantuans reached beyond the building's roofline.    

Place looks a helluva lot like I feel lately. he thought as the sparsely scattered gravel crunched beneath his feet.  Old.  Battered.  Past his prime.  Those words spent a lot of time in the forefront of his mind lately, although he'd never admit it to anyone.  Everyone who knew him thought he had the world by the balls, and Jon would continue to play the part for as long as he could convince them to believe it.

He threw a half-cocked smile at his traveling companion. “Man, if you’re seriously gonna eat anything outta this place, I hope your shots are up to date.”

“Hey.”  Obie pointed to the American flag hanging by the four concrete steps that would usher them to the entrance.  “It’s the South and they’re flyin’ Old Glory.  It’ll probably be the best damn food I’ve ever eaten.”

“Right.  If you die from ptomaine poisoning, I call dibs on the car.”

With a crude snort, the slim man tugged open the door and gestured for Jon to precede him through the ptomaine portal.  “I remember the days when you used to be fun.”

Jon's half-smile faded.

So did he.  Vaguely.  Those days were somewhere back in his profitably misspent youth, when dinosaur roamed the earth.  Now he was a salesman who spent all his time trying to convince the public that they still needed a disenchanted rock star with shriveling vocal cords to make their lives worth living.  He didn't even know what 'fun' meant anymore.

"Fun is overrated," he blandly declared as the creaky door slammed behind them, closing the two Jersey natives inside of a dingy, dimly lit bar.  With eyes that were still ensconced behind ridiculously tinted lenses, Jon walked toward the bar as he silently surveyed the shadowy surroundings.

There was the requisite bar, of course.  A big glass mirror behind the bar, along with a lot of booze bottles.  Wooden stools with cracked leather seats.  Equally cracked linoleum floor.  A few dirty windows high in the wall.  A tiny stage with a drum kit, a couple of guitars and a microphone.  Maybe a dozen round tables, each with four cushioned metal chairs and...

Jon came to a halt, and then grunted when Obie slammed into his back.

"What the fuck?" his friend groused.  "Why'd you stop?"

Because I just found the meaning of  'fun'.