Pretty Paper Read online

  ALSO BY WILLIE NELSON

  It’s a Long Story: My Life

  (with David Ritz)

  Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die: Musings from the Road

  A Tale Out of Luck: A Novel

  (with Mike Blakely)

  The Tao of Willie: A Guide to the Happiness in Your Heart

  (with Turk Pipkin)

  The Facts of Life: and Other Dirty Jokes

  Willie: An Autobiography

  (with Bud Shrake)

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Willie Nelson

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Blue Rider Press is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC

  Lyrics to “Pretty Paper,” written by Willie Nelson, © 1962 Sony/ATV Tree Publishing. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780735211568

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Nelson, Willie, author. | Ritz, David, author.

  Title: Pretty paper / Willie Nelson with David Ritz.

  Description: New York : Blue Rider Press, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016029220 | ISBN 9780735211544 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Christmas stories. | BISAC: MUSIC / Genres & Styles / Country & Bluegrass. | RELIGION / Holidays / Christmas & Advent. | GSAFD: Autobiographical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3614.E44957 P74 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016029220

  p. cm.

  Illustrations by Matthew Broughton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue,

  Wrap your presents to your darling from you,

  Pretty pencils to write “I love you,”

  Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue.

  Crowded street, busy feet hustle by him,

  Downtown shoppers, Christmas is nigh.

  There he sits all alone on the sidewalk,

  Hoping that you won’t pass him by.

  Should you stop? Better not, much too busy,

  You’re in a hurry—my, how time does fly.

  In the distance the ringing of laughter

  And in the midst of the laughter he cries,

  Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue,

  Wrap your presents to your darling from you,

  Pretty pencils to write “I love you,”

  Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue.

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY WILLIE NELSON

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  EPIGRAPH

  HAPPY HOLIDAYS

  FOLLOWING A DREAM

  BACK TO BIG BILL’S

  SUNDAY SCHOOL

  CHILI RICE IS VERY NICE

  A STELLA HARMONY

  PRETTY PAPER

  GONE

  CHEATIN’ WAYS

  MUSIC CITY

  MAN WITH A MONOCLE

  WARM TEXAS NIGHT

  NO MORE PRETTY PAPER

  ROUND ROCK, TEXAS

  NUTSY PERKINS AND RANGER ROY FINKELSTEIN

  HIGH SOCIETY

  THE LONGHORN BALLROOM

  THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  HAPPY HOLIDAYS

  It was a rough Christmas in a rough town. Back in the early 1960s, Fort Worth was still the Wild West. There was no shortage of honky-tonks. The city was a haven for hustlers who’d mastered the art of living outside the law. Gangsters controlled the bookie joints, the brothels and most of the nightspots. In the midst of all this, I was struggling to get my career off the ground. Actually “career” is too fancy a word. I was a just a broke-ass picker looking to make a living making music. Running every which way—haunting the beer joints that hid in the shadows of the stockyards, soliciting the club owners who ran the buckets of blood out on Jacksboro Highway—I was getting nowhere fast. I did manage to get a gig deejaying on KCNC, but that didn’t last. Neither did my half-baked attempts to peddle Kirby vacuum cleaners and Encyclopedia Americanas. Proud to say, I was no good at convincing people—especially hardworking people—to buy stuff they didn’t need. What I needed was a break.

  And a break meant a hit song. I didn’t care if I sang it or someone else did. If I found a bandleader who liked what I’d written, I’d sell my tune for the price of dinner. That’s how desperate I was. Yet in the midst of my desperation, I also saw that others were more desperate than me. Which is where this story begins.

  —

  A week before Christmas, I was determined to get into the holiday spirit. Wasn’t easy because my wife was singing the blues about bills we couldn’t pay. We were living in a cramped two-room apartment with our three little ones. Most nights I was gone, looking for places to play my music, and by the time I got home, the kids were up and my wife was off to her waitress job. On this particular morning, two days before Christmas, my mother-in-law was good enough to watch the children while I drove downtown for some last-minute shopping. But, as luck would have it, my beat-up Ford Fairlane wouldn’t start, the battery dead as a doornail. So I caught the bus.

  I was freezing. The heater on the bus was busted, and my plaid wool jacket, which had seen better days, couldn’t keep me warm. But what the hell. I was happy because last night I’d found a barroom—Big Bill’s on Main Street near the slaughterhouses—where I could sing some of my songs. Folks liked what they heard and I wound up with twenty-five dollars’ worth of tips in my pocket, a minor miracle. It was just the sort of encouragement that I needed to keep going. So today I wasn’t bothered by the gray sky. Last night’s tips told me that beyond the gray, the sun was shining. Besides, cold can be exhilarating. Best of all, snow was in the forecast, meaning that my kids might get to enjoy their first white Christmas.

  I got off at Houston Street in the middle of downtown. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers, men in fedoras and long overcoats, women in furs, kids bundled up with scarves and mittens. The store windows were decorated with wreaths and poinsettias. I could see my breath in the frosty air. Already a few flakes had begun to fall. Everyone’s expectations were high. Everyone’s heart was full. A beautiful Christmas was just around the corner—a Christmas when, at least for a day, we could forget our troubles and enjoy simple fellowship with family and friends.

  Up ahead was Leonards, the mammoth department store that took up six city blocks, the establishment that advertised ONE-STOP SHOPPING WITH MORE MERCHANDISE FOR LESS MONEY. During the holidays, Leonards was also famous for installing a Santa Claus monorail and an elaborate Toyland department. When it came to Christmas cheer, Leonards was the spot.

  But then, all of a sudden, a few steps down from the store’s main entrance, I saw someone who stopped me in my t
racks: a man, whose legs had been amputated above his knees, supporting himself on a large wooden board resting on four wheels. The board held not only the man but an array of neatly arranged products that he was selling—wrapping paper, pencils and ribbons. In addition to the traditional Christmas colors of green and red, his merchandise also came in blue, orange, purple and yellow. He easily moved around the board, supporting himself with his long, strong arms.

  “Pretty paper!” he sang out in a strong and emotional voice. “Pretty ribbons of blue . . . wrap your presents to your darling from you . . . pretty pencils to write ‘I love you.’”

  He sang like he meant it. In fact, he sang like a singer. He sang in tune. Sadly, he also seemed to be singing in vain. I didn’t see a single person stop to buy his wares. And yet that didn’t stop his singing. I sensed that he sang to lift his spirits and stay warm. I stood about nine or ten feet away from him, off to one side, so he wouldn’t see me studying him.

  What I saw was a man who looked to be roughly my age—in his early thirties—a handsome man with chestnut-brown eyes and a brown beard covering his square-jawed face. He had a broad nose and thick eyebrows. He wore a black turtleneck sweater with big gaping holes. His blue jeans, which covered the stumps of his legs, were tattered. Despite his handicap, he projected a sense of confidence and rugged masculinity. As he sang his song peddling his wares, his eyes looked upward—above the crowds passing by, above Leonards department store, above the streetlights—into a sky filled with snowflakes growing fluffier by the minute. Some of the flakes landed on the man’s eyes, melting on his lids and giving the impression that he was crying.

  Was he crying? Was he distraught that no one found the time to stop and inquire about him or his colorful merchandise? I wanted to stop. I wanted to ask how he came to be doing what he was doing. How had he lost his legs? His deep brown eyes, wet with snow, suggested some story. But like the others, I did not stop. The Christmas rush was on, and even though I was in no rush at all, I picked up the rhythm of the downtown shoppers. I hurried along. I left the man on the rolling wooden board and rushed into the store.

  I bought perfume for my wife, candy for my mother-in-law, a model train for my son and dolls for my girls. When the salesclerk asked if I wanted them gift-wrapped, without thinking I said, “Yes, please.” But then I changed my mind. I thought of the man selling pretty paper. I wasn’t much of a wrapper, but I could figure it out. This guy deserved a break, and buying his goods seemed like the right thing to do. After all, it was Christmas.

  So with my unwrapped gifts, I left Leonards. Now the snow was coming down hard—a rare event in this part of Texas. The wind was kicking up a storm. The temperature had dipped down into single digits. It was hard to see, hard to walk against the howling wind. Folks were hanging on to light poles and the sides of buildings. Looking around, I couldn’t see my man. Where had he gone? Maybe he’d moved on. Battling the wind, I circled all the way around Leonards enormous complex. I went up and down the block two, three, four times. Something told me I had to find him. But by now I was walking through a virtual blizzard.

  I couldn’t look forever. He’d probably found shelter in some nearby coffee shop. Or maybe he actually went inside Leonards to wait out the storm. So I reentered the store, where, for the next twenty minutes, I looked from one end to the other. But he was nowhere to be found. I gave up the search. Feeling a little guilty, I went to the clerks who had sold me my gifts and asked that they be wrapped. I was instructed to go to the third-floor gift-wrap department. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, I asked the gift wrapper—a hefty middle-aged woman wearing a Santa’s cap—if she knew about the man who sold pretty paper, pencils and ribbons on the street outside the store.

  “Oh, that bum,” she said condescendingly. “He’s nothing but a nuisance.”

  “He didn’t seem like a bum,” I said. “He sounded like a singer.”

  Busy making bows on the packages containing my daughters’ dolls, the wrapper didn’t respond. I’m not sure she heard what I said or, if she had, she didn’t think it was worth a reply.

  I took the presents and, still looking for the man as I headed for the exit, left Leonards. Outside, the weather had worsened. With a shopping bag in each hand, I was barely able to fight my way through the wind to the bus stop. Still no peddler in sight. Fortunately the bus came along in a few minutes—this one was heated—and I took my seat and rode back home.

  We had a nice Christmas. Big Bill’s made the difference. I worked there consistently through the holidays, meaning I could pay off some back bills and make peace—not to mention a little love—with my old lady. The kids loved their presents, my mother-in-law loved her chocolates, and I thought if I could keep gigging and save a little money, maybe, just maybe, I could make that move to Nashville, where I might have better luck selling my songs.

  FOLLOWING A DREAM

  A couple of weeks had passed and I’d nearly forgotten all about the man selling his wares in front of Leonards when all of a sudden he turned up in a dream. Now, I’m not one who remembers my dreams, and if I do, I don’t pay them much mind. But this dream was different. This dream was incredibly vivid. The peddler showed up in living color, and he was playing guitar, and he was standing tall. His legs were long and sturdy and he was singing a song. I can’t remember the words or melody. But I was sure it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard. He said that the song was the story of his life. At one point in the dream, I was standing right next to him in the band, playing my guitar, and at another point I was in the audience cheering him on. When the song was over, I went over to congratulate him, but he had disappeared. I tried to find him but he was long gone. I was out there on some lonely highway, looking every which way for this man. I had to know his name. I had to hear this song again, but there was nothing but the cold starless night and the sound of howling coyotes. I woke up feeling the same frustration I felt when I went looking for him the first time outside of Leonards.

  I tried to forget the dream but couldn’t. Had my morning coffee. Drove the kids to school. Came back to the house. Made a few calls about possible gigs.Drank more coffee. Smoked a cigarette. Read the paper. Downed another cup of coffee. But no matter what I did, the dream wouldn’t leave me. So I picked up my guitar to see if I could re-create that haunting melody I had heard in my sleep. I couldn’t. I couldn’t salvage the song. I heard only fragments. The more I tried to reconstruct the dream, the further it floated away from me. That’s when I decided to go back to Leonards to see if the guy was still there.

  My old Fairlane was on its last legs but, coughing and belching, somehow made it downtown. With the holidays over, I was worried that the peddler had moved on. I wasn’t sure why I was taking the time to look for him. Hustling my music—that’s what I needed to do. The gig at Big Bill’s was still on, but the place was feeling the effects of the post-holiday doldrums. Come January, folks were partied out. Half of me was hoping that the legless man wouldn’t be there. That way I could just put him out of my mind. But the other half—the half that probably speaks for my conscience—was pushing me on. Can’t explain why I needed to see him. All I can tell you is that I did.

  He was there.

  He was in the exact same spot where I’d seen him last time. He was there on his wooden board, wearing the same tattered sweater and jeans, crying out with those same singsong words about his pretty paper, pencils and ribbons. Unlike last time, though, the street was not crowded with shoppers. A few women, a few kids, a few businessmen, but nobody taking note of him. Nobody giving him the time of day.

  I parked across the street and walked over to greet him.

  “Hey, man,” I said, “last time I came looking for you it seemed like you were blown away in a blizzard.”

  “Why were you looking for me?” he asked in a Texas accent that echoed my own.

  “Needed some of those wrapping papers and ribbons.”


  “Well, you found me now.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t need ’em anymore.”

  The man didn’t say anything. Didn’t register disappointment. Didn’t blink. Stoic as a stone.

  “Just wanted to introduce myself,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Willie.”

  He took my hand and shook it. Strong grip.

  “Vernon. Vernon Clay.”

  “Nice meeting you, Vernon. You from around here?”

  “Not far.”

  Vernon Clay wasn’t exactly interested in striking up a conversation. He averted his eyes and, using his arms to turn his body away from me, started arranging his papers and pencils.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I could simply tell him the truth—that I was curious about who he was and how he got here. But somehow those words didn’t come out. Instead I said something stupid. I said, “Tough way to make a living.”

  Vernon turned back toward me. His eyes were hard. His eyes said what I already knew: Dumb comment. Obvious comment. Insensitive comment.

  Trying to recover, I said, “I mean, I hear you singing and figured you for a musician.”

  Several seconds passed before Vernon said, “You figured right.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’m a picker. And a songwriter. And something of a singer.”

  “Good for you.”

  I could understand his sarcasm. He just wanted to be left alone to sell his wares. Part of me thought it best to leave him alone. But that other part of me that got me here—the curious part—made me stand my ground. Several awkward seconds of silence passed.

  Vernon finally said, “Look, mister—”

  “Willie,” I corrected him.

  “Okay, Willie. If you’re a songwriter, you need pencils.”

  “I do. Fact is, I’m clean out of pencils. I’ll buy a half dozen.”

  “That’ll be a buck fifty.”