Thoughts on the Tennessee Old Crow Medicine Show New Year's Eve Show. No offensive to anyone, particularly R. and J. who are both highly lovely people.
In the break between Old Crow Medicine Show sets, S.T. grabs my hand in one of those friendly two-hand shakes and says, "I know this was a big deal for you." Sweet of him to say that, but no no, something wasn't right. It wasn't a big deal, because I didn't risk anything.
I thought about it ever since I ran into S.T. (the subject of "Yankee Bones Lament") at the West Virginia Old Crow show in November. He told me to come to Nashville for this epic gathering of Old Crowites, this all night party. I thought about asking friends, I thought about how we'd get there, and I thought a lot about going by myself. I thought about taking the bus, I thought about asking for some floor space from a guy I'd never met. I asked females who were going whether the gentlemen were reputable sorts. And I tried to picture how I'd pull it off. How I'd not get scared if I ended up walking in a "foreign" city in the middle of the night. How I would just be able to figure everything out.
I ended up going with a friend and his friend -- I liked the new girl, liked my old friend, of course. I like a road adventure with people. J. turned on her beloved Johnny Cash and we passed signs that said "Hell is real." I was feeling the South.
But one thing turned to another, and the intriguing folks I wanted to see I just saw for a few minutes. I chickened out and didn't ask things like "hey, can I stick around and hang out with you two?" Or "just in case it's somehow possible, can somebody drive me back to my hotel?" Limping around Nashville for half an hour searching for the rental car, I kept thinking about who I could call, what I could do besides go sleep and then go home to life. But I chickened out.
When R.P. sent me a ticket in the mail and didn't want to be paid for it, I knew I was going no matter what. But I didn't have to risk it, so I didn't. And as perfect happiness as the show was. The Ryman Theater was beautiful. I counted down to midnight with nobody I knew in sight, just Ketch Secor on stage looking sweaty and beautiful. Balloons came down, and I wouldn't have minded a good kiss with my boy back home, but I also was perfectly content by myself for the show.
I met K.K. who was dressed in an elaborate Western shirt and came well supplied with a thick Tennessee accent and a sweet Southern friendliness. R.P. and a slightly whiskied me wandered off to lean against a building, surrounded by neon celebrations. We talked about the hierarchies of the Hank Williamses. For some reason I sang a part of "Political Science" -- "We'll save Australian, don't want hurt no Kangaroos." He said something about taking in the scene, and at the moment I was so happy my face was about to crack. So happy because where the hell was I -- in Nashville in the drunk streets, talking to a stranger.
I met S.S. and R.S. for far too short of a time. They had been so sweet and helpful when I schemed to come to Nashville by myself. S.S. seemed shy, R.S. not so much, but both friendly as hell and seemingly glad to meet me for 30 seconds. And then they all went off to drink beer and God damn I was low and jealous.
Not friends -- none of them less than 11 years older than I. Maybe they have no interest in me. Maybe we got nothing in common besides our undying love for the Old Crow. Likely none of them is my undying soulmate true love best friend or anything like that. But it was just me not being able to hang with the cool kids again. Me not quit pushing hard enough because I was dying to meet new people.
While S.T. and I limped and trailed behind J. and R. on the way to our rental car. When I jumped out of the car later at Broadway, so sick of waiting, and walked into the Barbecue Place by myself. I was pretending, like I pretend on every trip, no matter how much I love who I'm traveling with, that I was by myself. I did it in Guatemala and Belize in the markets, trying to talk. I did it a hundred times in airports, walking ahead of whoever I was with, pretending I was alone with just a backpack.
When I nervously recognized beards and hats and suddenly worried what I was thinking in thinking these people wanted to hang out with little old me. When I wandered down Broadway with R.P. and my friends had disappeared and it might have been a bad idea because I was a little drunk but it wasn't. When S.T. gave me a sip of whatever good whiskey he keeps in his flask, and this time my mama wasn't around to make me hesitate for a second. That was what I wanted this trip to be. But it was just bits and few minutes.
I don't mean to fetishize the South exactly, "Yankee Bones Lament" and its possible-hopefully-not-cliches-not-withstanding. It's just that's it's culture shock and the home of music that raises the hair on my neck and hurts me so well. That the people down there are different and seem darling. That I've spent so much of my life comfortably following older people about and some more of it standing around wishing I could follow them. And it's that my life is what it is, that I'll finish my college, but after that it's go to be different - whether I go South or West, I got to get out of this town. And these people are different and they're disconnected from the rest of my life. They're more signs that the world is nice and big and not the same and oh fuck, I can't even explain it.
It just broke my heart to not drink with them. It broke it strangely sharply.
7 comments:
Dang...you about made me cry. I know that feeling of not really belonging all too well. At least you're able to express it. I can't even do that.
Oh, that you would not have chickened out! That night kept rolling for about another six hours and would have given you countless scenes to recount in your able and artful way. I'll bet a spot on the floor with R.P. or R.B. and myself is looking pret-tay good for next time?
You're right. I am shy. Too shy to say, "We'll take you back to your hotel later if you want to hang with us." Though the thought did cross my mind... you might remember the little moment of hesitation where the invite was supposed to come out of my mouth, I know I do.
Now we know for the next time. You can ask and I can offer. Because I know there will be a next time.
Your heart was broken so strangely and sharply because it knows we are all friends, it is our brains that don't know that yet.
Aw, thanks a million. I always like a good floor space.
So awkward to communicate this way, but old data miner asked if he could link it and I said what the hell.
Bean, I liked our 1.5 minute conversation very much.
I feel like I am a good friend to have, but the age difference with all of yall makes me feel like a little kid pestering the big ones. And worrying that's me makes me shut my mouth. But thanks. And next time, yes ma'am.
I only got to wave "hi" to you from the end of the table. I remember thinking later on that I wished I'd gotten to say more than that! Reading this took me back to about a year and a half ago, when I was first meeting Crowites. It's like you were there and are writing my story, not yours. I remember looking at you meeting people for the first time and thinking that you looked exactly how I felt the first time. I had to remind myself that just because I felt such a connection with strangers, there was really no way for them to know that, or for them to know my intentions. Somehow real life is very different than talking on the internets. And I am completely shy (until I get to know you, then, watch out!). Wish you lived closer, but hope there is a next time.
Hey, thanks. Glad I'm definitely not the only one who was all disconcerted.
I know it. I want to collect all these clearly exciting people, but going from internet to real life is very peculiar in some ways. You forget that they know stuff about you and vice versa, but you still have to remember how to talk.
Next time, definitely.
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