Biscuits and Gravy

Bobby was a song and dance man. Bobby was a magical, string slinging troubadour. His songs can peel paint from walls, scratch tears from your eyes and fuel small island revolutions. Bobby traveled in a ragged motor home with a ragged dog on ragged roads.

One day Bobby said to his dog, "It's time for you to leave." The dog said nothing. At the I-90 turn off, a hitchhiker ran to catch up with Bobby's motor home. The hitchhiker didn't get a ride, he got a dog.

Bobby didn't care for hitchhikers. Bobby didn't care much for cops for that matter. They were in the way of the next show, slowing him down and making him feel bad about himself. Cops were the worst; they wouldn't even pitch in for gas.

Bobby was heading for Truth or Consequences. "What a cliché" he thought. "The town elders must have thought the outlaws would forsake their lowdown, triflin' ways because the name of the town they were passing through implored honesty from their delicate sensibilities."

Bobby enjoyed New Mexico. "Less people per square mile than any other state I've passed through," he quipped. "If empty rooms paid gas money, I'd play to one every night."

Bobby stopped at the first dingy diner in town. Pretty girls never worked in these places. All the pretty girls worked at the upscale bars, usually on the side of the tracks Bobby resented. Those pretty girls expected tips too. This restaurant would do just fine.

Bobby played this town enough the locals could recognize him. A few even liked him. Usually just the riff raff that held permanent lodging on splintered bar stools. They were too drunk to know any better.

Bobby headed straight for the bathroom. A few regular customers sipped stale coffee and debated the cost benefit ratio of wood versus steel fencing. They were just unaware of it. The waitress was on a smoke break and the cook and dishwasher played cards, betting with an assortment of condiment packets.

Bobby sat at the counter, perused the menu and waited for a smoking waitress who never came. He poured his own water and left feeling good about the money still left in his pocket.

Before every show, Bobby met up with the promoter, snagged half his fee and spent the next 5 hours sleeping in the cab of his motor home. A faded Jolly Roger hung down as a door between the cab and the rest of the vehicle, which consisted of little more than two guitars and a microphone. A smattering of peanut shells and the bags they rode in on were scattered across the floor. The missing dog was hardly missed. Bobby slept better than he had in days.

Bobby takes the stage, depending on how medicinal grandpa's special juice is, Bobby becomes Elvis incarnate. Not Presley. Bobby is the antithesis of sexy. Elvis Costello. Or that little guy that sang "Mellow Yellow." Just angrier. And sweatier.

Bobby plays protest songs. Mostly about cops and hitchhikers. An occasional song is about peace in the Middle East or driving in cars with girls. It is an unwritten rule that any guitar player who plugs in electrically must write at least one song about cars and girls. Bobby's is called, "Baby (The Cops are After Us)." He always dedicates it to "that girl in Omaha." The bars in Truth or Consequences close up at 2 am. By 2:10 am, Bobby is crawling though the bathroom window he opened earlier at the diner. In places like this, the employees won't clean the bathroom; much less make sure the window is secure. By 2:30 am, Bobby is out the window with ever cent the hungry Presbyterian congregation spent on biscuits and gravy after church that morning. At 2:45 am, he is heading to a show in Mexico. Bobby is an icon in Mexico. Bigger than a fat man's poncho.