Coming Through The Back Door Of The Olde Hickory Inn

The next morning I woke up and tried to make it to church - unfortunately, every service in the state of Kentucky starts at 9:30 and Joe told me 10:00. I wasn’t about to come bumbling into a church, especially a Baptist one, half an hour late and catch hell from people I didn’t even know. So instead, I went and killed things.

Well, it was an accident, seriously. I was driving through the outskirts of Barbourville, just admiring the little shadow patterns the leaves made in the late summer sun. The road was full of winding curves, so I went slowly, making people behind me impatient. They cut past me on a double yellow. The cars turned right ahead of me, into a driveway, and I kept heading straight, around another curve. There, in the road, was a huge turtleshell. It was just far enough into the road that I couldn’t avoid it without losing control around the turn. I wouldn’t have had time to try anyway, that’s how quickly it appeared around the sharp curve. It collapsed under my tire with a sickening pop, like ceramic shattering. I only had time to take the Lord’s name in vain before I ran over it. Then I stopped short in the road, making a clumsy U-turn to go back and check on the turtle.

“Maybe it was just a shell,” I thought as I made my way back at a snail’s pace, afraid of what I might see when I came around the turn again. “It looked...empty.”
Well, I wish it had been empty, but sure enough, it wasn’t. There, in the middle of the road, was a splattered turtle, head still intact and blinking at me with accusing eyes. I could only cry and whisper apologies to the bloody mess before driving off, the turtle’s confused, blinking eyes seared into my mind. I pulled into the nearest parking lot and called my dad, blubbering “th-th-the t-t-t-t--turtle was-was l-loo-l-looking at meeeeeeeee!”

He finally calmed me down. “What are you planning on doing today?” he asked.
“Well, the one restaurant in town opens at noon, so I’ll probably go there and get some writing done.”
“Sounds good, honey.”

At noon, like clockwork, I rode over to the town square, and the Old Hickory Inn. A hand-written sign in the window read, “OPEN NOON SUNDAYS”, but the sign on the door was turned to “CLOSED”. I tried the door, it was locked. “So much for that,” I thought. “Might as well just drive to Cincinnati.”
As I turned back to the car, a man’s voice seemed to come from miles away. “Hey, yoooooou! Noooo! Wait!”
Turning back to the window of the cafe, a tall, thin man stood plastered against the glass, motioning me towards him with wide eyes and a crazed smile. “C’mere!”
I came closer, marveling at the oddity of the entire morning.
“Mah momma’s got the keys, and she’s at church!” the man shouted through the glass. “Come ‘round the back! We’re open!”
I laughed. “Okay!”

I mounted the high stairs to the place from the back parking lots, entering through the kitchen. I was the only one there. The tall man met me at the door, smiling and apologizing for “momma not bringin’ the keys!”. He looked about 35, but with youthful eyes. Two pre-teen girls milled around the kitchen, looking lost. “You kin sit anywhere ya want,” the man said. “Only thing on the menu’s the buffet raht now. Whatchoo want ta drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Bobby! Coffee, boy!” He called down a hallway jutting out of the kitchen.
“What?” A chunky boy of about 10 appeared in the doorway. iPod wires grew out of his shirt collar, into his ears.
“Coffee for this lady here, I said!” The man turned back to me. “Just find yourself a seat, little missy.”

The whole place - the whole town, really - was so random I found myself blinking back tears of laughter as I found the only booth with an outlet nearby. I wasn’t necessarily used to the degree of Southern hospitality I was being shown; the come-on-in-through-the-back-door-of-the-cafe-and-kick-off-your-shoes kind.

Or the egregious-defiance-of-child-labor-laws kind. I say this because soon after I sat down, a party of nine sat down. Bobby, the 10-year-old, waited on them. Why he waited on them and not his father, I may never understand, but bless his little heart, he was a terrible waiter. He screwed up the drink order and could only bring two at a time. The place had no trays, and his little hands couldn’t have carried one anyway. It actually took him 15 drawn-out and uncomfortable minutes to get the drinks right, but by this time the party had become so annoyed that they just left. In the meantime, my coffee was cold and Bobby never brought me any cream or sugar, but I couldn’t bring myself to complain. I mean, come on; he was only 10. I just drank it cold and black.

I wasn’t hungry, I was just there for the free electricity, but the tall man insisted I visit the buffet, which was a tiny table set up with hot pans of things I didn’t recognize. Thankfully, a woman came in about the time I caved under pressure to fill a plate, so she answered all my questions on the nature of the food.
“What are those?” I asked her, quietly, not wanting the tall man to hear.
“Oh! Them’s soup beans!”
“Awesome,” I whispered. “Joe and Rusty would be so proud.”
I piled some on my plate, making sure to scoop the shreds of bacon up too. “And what’s this stuff?”
“Hamburger steak.”
“And this?” I asked, pointing to a tray of long brown things.
She laughed. “Them’s ribs, suga!”
“Oh.”

Way to go, Jess. I’ve worked off and on at a barbeque joint for six years now, but I don’t know ribs when I see them. Nice. Anyway, I filled the plate, mostly with soup beans and canned peaches, and went back to writing. Or at least trying to write. It seemed every time I got a clear thought or a fresh sentence, the tall man or Bobby would breeze through and distract me. “Here’s some cornbread!” “That’s a nice laptop!” “Whatcha typin’ about?” But I welcomed it. It offered a welcome change of pace from sitting in my motel room moping over Justin.

Somehow the topic of music came up with the tall guy and he got very excited, telling me about his band. “We’re tryin’ to get signed raht now!” He was very serious about his music; he disappeared for a moment and returned brandishing two CD’s. “The first one is our EP, with all the vocals. It still has to be mixed, but it’s all there. This one here’s just instrumentals. We ain’t got no lyrics for it yet. Say, you write stuff. You think you could write me some lyrics for one-a these here songs? We’ll credit ya on the album! It may be hard ‘cause it ain’t your song, but hell, give it a try if ya want! Ah’d be honored!”
I was so flattered but uneasy. It’s hard enough to write lyrics to my own songs, but I figured I’d give it a shot. At least if I churned out a sheetful of uninspired crap, chances were I’d never have to face the gentleman again. I popped in the disc and listened to some of the melodies, trying to find one I liked enough to work with. It was track 4.

There was a lot of piano and repeating acoustic guitar riffs, so it was easy to jam to. As I listened in my headphones, I typed quickly. The tall guy.... Chris? Joe? I can’t remember his name, I meet too many damn people... anyway, he kept walking by, trying to look at the screen before I was finished. He and I had a quick, goofy way with each other, which made it easier to write his lyrics, but I still didn’t want him to see them until they were done. He snuck up behind me a number of times, but couldn’t keep from laughing, giving himself away. I slammed the laptop shut each time, giggling furiously and chiding him for not playing by the rules. “No peeking!” I shouted.
He looked out the large bay window painted with pictures of logs and pumpkins. “We better stop ‘fore someone come in and done think we’s married. We’s fightin’ lahk we is.”
“Good idea, get away from me,” I teased, shielding the laptop with my elbow like a 4th-grader taking a test. We had a good laugh.

Finally, after 40 minutes of heinously-interrupted songwriting, this is the pile of cheddar I came up with:


Remember that old dream we had about running away?
when we were kids we’d said we said we’d blow this town someday?
It came to me the other day, what’s stopping us now?
It may not be too practical but we could make it somehow

let them look at us like we’re crazy
let them tell us it can’t be done
I’ve got a credit card, you’ve got an old guitar
two grown kids starting over just for fun

let’s pack some sleeping bags for that old truck bed
I’ll grab the dog and the camera as you kiss me on the forehead
leave the map, baby, we can go on faith
your love is a compass and I don’t want to wait

let them look at us like we’re crazy
let them tell us it can’t be done
I’ve got a credit card, you’ve got an old guitar
what else could we need to have us some fun?

Anywhere that we end up,
I know you’ll be with me
Sleeping in parking lots, making love in crazy spots,
til we find a place we can feel free.

(Bridge)

(Chorus)

When we find that place we’re going
We’ll know it when it just feels right
you’ll squeeze my hand as you step on the brake
I’ll put my head on your shoulder and we’ll know we’re gonna stay

(Chorus)

Anywhere that we end up,
I know that you’ll be with me
Sleeping in parking lots, making love in crazy spots,
til we find a place where we can feel free.
Til we find a place where we can live free.



Okay, so that’s the song I wrote in the booth of the Old Hickory Inn in Barbourville, Kentucky. When I was finished, when the email had been exchanged and the money taken care of, I thanked the tall guy, high-fived Bobby, and left the same way I had come in - through the back door. Like old friends do.