Pretty Paper Read online

  I gave him two bucks.

  “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.”

  He handed me six pencils. Transaction complete. Now that I was a paying customer, I figured I had the right to ask him a couple of more questions. But right about then, a talkative woman in a wide-brimmed cardinal-red hat came up to him and started asking about his wrapping paper and ribbons. He turned his attention to her. I didn’t want to be a nuisance, so I took my pencils and went home.

  I felt a little frustrated. I hadn’t learned a damn thing about him. But being a private person myself, who was I to pry into this guy’s life? He had a certain pride that should be respected. And that was that.

  Except it wasn’t.

  BACK TO BIG BILL’S

  By early February, business had picked up at Big Bill’s. I’d put together a little band and built up enough of a following to where I could work five nights a week. I was also coming up with a few ideas for new songs. I’m one of those writers who can’t force it. Like babies, songs come down the chute when they’re good and ready. Unlike children, though, songs don’t have a gestation period you can roughly measure. Some songs take years to come alive. Those are the years when your unconscious mind is doing the work. You gotta be patient. I learned that early on.

  But this one song I called “Pretty Paper” found its way into the world damn fast. Naturally it was based on seeing Vernon Clay that snowy day in December. That convinced me that the emotions I was feeling for him—whether it was curiosity or sympathy—were real. The mystery surrounding the man really intrigued me. Of course, the song didn’t answer any questions or give a clue to his story—because I really didn’t know his story. The song merely set the scene that was still so vivid in my mind. I guess my reasoning was that now that the song was written, I didn’t have to solve his mystery. He could remain a question mark, a man frozen in time whose past, present and future would always be unknown.

  And then—wouldn’t you know it—he reappeared out of nowhere.

  Well, not exactly nowhere. Big Bill’s is definitely somewhere. It’s a rough-and-tumble barroom uncomfortably close to the slaughterhouses. I say “uncomfortably” because if the wind’s blowing in a certain direction, the air ain’t exactly perfumed. There’s no sign outside, just a neon replica of a bottle of Pearl beer. There didn’t need to be any sign ’cause everyone in the neighborhood knows Big Bill. For years he worked on the kill floors where the cattle are slaughtered. That’s where he got into a fight with one of his bosses, who Big Bill caught shortchanging him. He slit the man’s throat. The man survived and Bill served six years for attempted murder. Once out, he was recruited by Nathan “Nutsy” Perkins, a well-known gangster, as an enforcer. At six-foot-six and three hundred pounds, Bill was good at his job. But he soon tired of doing Nutsy’s dirty work and quit. This was unusual. No one quits Nutsy, at least no one who values his life. But as testimony to Bill’s menacing stature, Nutsy let him walk away. Fact is, Nutsy owned the building where Bill put his bar. Rumor was, Nutsy was so anxious to stay cool with Bill that he didn’t even charge him rent.

  From time to time, you’d see Nutsy and some of his boys at the bar. Nutsy was a talker. Had an opinion about everything, especially the local politicians. He liked to brag how most of them were in his pocket. He’d come to Fort Worth from Chicago as a teenager and never lost that Midwestern nasal twang. He had a lanky frame, a long nose, dark thinning hair and alert eyes the color of dark chocolate. He usually wore a white fedora with a purple feather on the brim. No Western getup for Nutsy. He went for pin-striped suits, white shirts and white silk ties. He also had no taste for music. Didn’t matter who was on the bandstand, Nutsy never shut up. Unless Big Bill told him to.

  Because Big Bill liked music. He respected musicians. I first won him over when I played “Blue Christmas.” He especially appreciated that I sang Ernest Tubb’s version, not Elvis’s. Towering over everyone as he stood behind the bar, Bill was serving up drinks when, hearing the song, he cracked a broken-tooth smile that lit up his scarred face. When I sang Tubb’s “Waltz Across Texas,” I saw tears in his eyes. “Mama and Daddy used to dance to that ol’ tune,” he told me later that night—the same December night he hired me to play weekends.

  Big Bill also prided himself on maintaining the best jukebox in the city. Of course there were the current hits of Porter Wagoner, George Jones, Buck Owens and Patsy Cline, but Bill also loaded it up with his favorite singers from a bygone era—Eddy Arnold, Lefty Frizzell, Hank Thompson and of course Hank Williams and his Drifting Cowboys. Every night around closing time, Bill would walk over to the jukebox, and while he cleaned up, he’d play Williams’s “Lovesick Blues” four times in a row.

  The crowd at Big Bill’s could get rowdy. It was a place where men came looking for women and women—some of them pros—were just as rowdy as the men. You’d see an occasional fistfight or knife fight, but, because of Big Bill’s reputation as an enforcer, you wouldn’t have to worry about shootings. The bandstand—rickety old wooden planks—ran across the back wall to where I could see who was coming in and heading out. There were no tables or chairs. You either drank at the long bar or just stood around. Dancers tended to dance right in front of the bandstand. If the music was right, though, folks would be dancing all over the place. The sign said it was unlawful to have more than eighty people in there, but on a good Saturday night, at least twice that number of party people were packed in like sardines.

  It was on such a Saturday night—a chilly night in late February—when I was feeling especially good. I’d finally found a drummer who understood my personal sense of rhythm. Not everyone does. But Brother Paul, a Fort Worth native, did. If I ran a little ahead or lagged a little behind, Paul followed me. He sensed where I wanted to go. He was also at home at a joint like Big Bill’s. He was friends with Bill and had done business with Nutsy Perkins. Paul knew his way around the underside of the city. In his wide-brimmed black hat, his red-lined black cape and his shitkicker boots, he made a statement: I am here, and I’ve got your back. He also packed heat, and wasn’t shy about letting shady promoters know it. Brother Paul turned out to be a rock-solid bandmate and protective friend.

  On that particular night I didn’t need protection. There was a warm feeling all around. Big Bill was happy that I played a few of his favorites by Bob Wills and Gene Autry. The crowd seemed to like my rendition of hits by Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins like “Ring of Fire” and “El Paso.” I snuck in a couple of my originals that went over pretty good. In between numbers, I could hear Nutsy Perkins yakking at the bar, but when I started singing I also saw Big Bill give him the high sign to shut up. Only Big Bill had the balls to do that.

  If I’m to be honest—and I always try to be—I had my eye on a little lady that looked like she had her eye on me. She’d been coming to Bill’s nearly every Saturday since I started there. My marriage was going through a bumpy stage and I guess you could say that I was easily tempted. Hell, bumpy stage or not, I’ve always been easily tempted. This gal stood about five-foot-five, with long black hair, flashing dark eyes and curves in all the right places. Sometimes she came in with a man, and sometimes she came in alone. Tonight she was alone. Right in front of the bandstand, she even danced alone, swaying back and forth to the songs I was singing. As she swayed, she kept her eyes on me, and quite naturally I offered her a big smile.

  I found this flirtation so exciting that I ended the set early in order to make her acquaintance. Turned out her name was Barbara Lou. She worked as a beautician in Arlington and had aspirations of becoming a singer. She told me she also wrote songs. I said I’d love to hear them.

  “Oh, they’re not nearly as good as yours,” she said. “They’re silly ideas. Just little poems.”

  “Far as songs go,” I said, “the simpler the better. A lot of songs began as poems. Let me hear one of yours.”

  “Right here?”

 
“Why not?”

  “They’re all about love,” she said.

  “Well, the world can always use another love song.”

  “Might be easier to let you hear one if there weren’t so many people around.”

  “How ’bout after the show?” I suggested.

  “Well, maybe,” she said, with what seemed like insincere hesitancy.

  “I got one more set. Any requests?”

  “Something you wrote.”

  “I was actually thinking about singing something I wrote around Christmastime. It’s a different kind of song for me.”

  “A holiday song?”

  “A moody holiday song. Little bit of a sad holiday song.”

  “Well, I’d love to hear it.”

  That’s all the encouragement I needed to sing “Pretty Paper” in public for the first time. I’d gone over it with my bass player and Brother Paul a few days earlier. It was an easy song to play. I figured it was good to end a long night on a calm, thoughtful note.

  The last set started with a couple of up-tempo tunes. The place had thinned out a bit, but there were folks who still wanted to dance. I slowed it down for all the hopeful guys who needed cheek-to-cheek time to make their final plea. Then, after a couple of ballads, I got ready to sing “Pretty Paper.” I’m not one to talk much on the bandstand. I hardly ever introduce songs. I learned that as a kid watching Bob Wills. Folks don’t come to hear you talk. They come to hear you play.

  Singing “Pretty Paper” for the first time in public gave me a real eerie feeling. On that Saturday night—actually it was nearly three a.m. on Sunday morning—I felt a chill pass over me. The chill seemed to affect everyone. As I sang, the room froze. Dancers stopped dancing. People stopped talking. Even Nutsy clammed up. Behind the bar, Big Bill stood still as a statue. Maybe it was my imagination, but I got the idea everyone was fixated on the story I was singing.

  “Pretty paper,” I sang, “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.’”

  When I got through, I had a lump in my throat. I saw that Barbara Lou had a tear in her eye.

  “That’s it, folks,” I said. “Thanks for coming out. Be careful getting home, and see ya next time.”

  My initial idea was to make a beeline for Barbara Lou and see exactly what she had in mind. But as I walked off the bandstand, she had melted into the crowd. Hoping she hadn’t already left, I looked outside. That’s when I saw Vernon—the same Vernon Clay I’d seen at Leonards—roll by on his board. Could be no mistake. It was definitely Vernon. Had he been in the club when I sang the song, and I just hadn’t seen him? Did the song piss him off and did he take off in a hurry? Or was he just passing by and hadn’t heard me at all? One way or the other, I had to know. I had to catch him.

  I quickly made my way to the door, but before I could get there, a bear of a man grabbed me by my arm.

  “You been chasing after my woman,” he said in a voice that let me know he was out-of-his-mind drunk.

  I saw his eyes were raging red. I also saw a switchblade in his right hand. Standing next to him was sweet Barbara Lou. She just shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “I didn’t know this would happen.”

  What happened next was that the switchblade sprang open. Then the man sprang for my throat. It all happened in an instant. With no time to react, I saw my life flash before me. But fate interceded. A split second before the blade reached my skin, an empty bottle of Lone Star beer came crashing down on my assailant’s head. The man crumbled to the floor. I wasn’t scratched. Standing over the guy with a broken bottle in his hand was my drummer, Brother Paul. Not missing a beat, Paul stomped on the man’s hand. The blade went flying across the floor and stopped at the bar stool where Nutsy Perkins was sitting.

  “Your drummer’s good,” said Nutsy. “He’s right on time.”

  “Throw the bum outta here,” Big Bill ordered.

  Brother Paul picked up the man, who was half-conscious, and flung him on the sidewalk. In all the confusion, Barbara Lou had managed to disappear and, even more disturbing, so had Vernon.

  SUNDAY SCHOOL

  I was raised up in a Methodist church in the small town of Abbott, Texas. I’ve never had reason to doubt the lessons I learned there. I was told that a Perfect Man came to earth to teach us a couple of basics—love everyone and help those in need. I’ve tried to follow that code but, as an imperfect man, I haven’t always succeeded. During my Fort Worth years, struggling to make my way in this world, I felt moved to reconnect with my roots. So I volunteered to teach Sunday school. I liked reading the Bible stories and discussing them with kids. That meant I had to keep things simple, which is how I like it.

  Not all the church elders were keen on having a picker teach the young ones. But the senior pastor was a good man who saw I was sincere. He signed me up, and every Sunday I arrived with Bible in hand. Many were the times I left the barroom at three a.m., went home to grab few hours of sleep before showering, putting on my suit and heading to church.

  After the incident at Big Bill’s, we had a week of dangerous weather. A twister had ripped through the city, destroying a trailer park and killing three people. The building where Bill housed his bar was badly damaged and closed up for repairs. All week long I thought about going back to Leonards to see if Vernon was there, but the storms stopped me. I wondered how the storms affected Vernon. The man was still on my mind.

  By Sunday, the weather broke and the sun came out strong and unseasonably warm. The air was crisp and clean. Because I hadn’t worked Saturday night, I got a good night’s rest. I arrived at Sunday school early. Before I even began discussing that morning’s lesson, Danny, a ten-year-old, raised his hand and said, “I saw on the television how that big tornado killed some people.”

  “I saw that too,” I said. “Terrible thing.”

  “Were those bad people who died?”

  “Wouldn’t think so. I have no reason to believe so.”

  “Well, if God is good, why did God let it happen?”

  “Wasn’t God who did it. It was nature.”

  “But isn’t God in charge of nature? Isn’t He in charge of everything?”

  Danny was bringing up a serious issue, and I had to pause. I owed him a truthful answer.

  “The truth is that we don’t understand everything about God. Our minds aren’t that big. But I can tell you this for sure—when we let God take charge of our hearts, we always do the right thing.”

  “How can you tell it’s the right thing?” asked Danny.

  “It’s like when you share your food with someone who’s real hungry. It feels good. Feels good on the inside.”

  “My granddaddy busted his hip and can’t walk too good. So I helped him down the porch steps this morning. Is that what you mean?”

  Smiling, I said, “That’s just what I mean.”

  For the rest of the morning, I abandoned the planned lesson and let the kids tell stories of how they had helped out others—and how good it felt. Freckle-faced Mary talked about directing a fireman to the family cat caught up in the tree. Manuel proudly explained how he helped teach the alphabet to his younger brother. Paulette told us how she watched television with her blind aunt and described everything that was on the screen. Last Thanksgiving, Tommy joined his mom at the food bank serving turkey dinner to destitute families.

  When everyone had a chance to talk about their good deed, Danny pointed to me and said, “Your turn.”

  I had to stop and think. What had I done? Vernon Clay came to mind. I wanted to cite him as
example, but what could I say? He was simply someone I had written a song about. I couldn’t say I’d helped him, because I hadn’t.

  “I’m working on a good cause,” I said, “and you all have inspired me to keep at it.”

  After church I went out of my way to drive past Leonards. Vernon wasn’t there. In those days, department stores were closed Sundays and downtown was deserted. But I was back Monday afternoon, and sure enough, he was at his usual spot. He was still selling pencils, but in place of holiday wrapping paper he had a stack of school supplies—spiral notebooks, yellow pads and crayons. He had replaced the tattered sweater with a worn red-checked flannel shirt. He still wore the same jeans cut off where his legs ended above what would have been his knees. His singsong cry had also changed from “pretty paper” to “pencils, pads and crayons.”

  “Hey, Vernon,” I said as I extended my hand. He took it and shook it forcefully. “Didn’t I see you outside Big Bill’s a couple of Saturday nights ago?”

  His eyes regarded me quickly and then turned away.

  “Don’t know who you saw,” he said indifferently.

  “Well, it was definitely you. Wasn’t sure whether you’d been inside or were just passing through.”

  “What difference would that make to you?”

  “I was performing that night. I was singing with my little band, and I was wondering if you got to hear us.”

  “Didn’t hear nothing. These days I don’t go out of my way to hear music.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “That’s just a fact.”

  “Music lifts our spirits. That’s the whole point of music, isn’t it?”

  Looking away from me, Vernon didn’t say a word.

  Looking to fill in the long silence, I said, “Didn’t you say you were once a singer?”

  “I didn’t say anything. You here to buy something or ask a bunch of questions?”