Me and Paul Read online

  Paul Buskirk and Freddy Powers weren’t the only two musicians who came by KCNC. A drummer named Tommy Roznosky and a guitarist named Oliver English were also in the mix. Like Buskirk, Oliver wasn’t just a virtuoso; he was a scholar. He taught me about Spanish guitarists like Andrés Segovia and jazz guitarists like Charlie Christian. A Fort Worth native, Oliver had jammed in every club you could name, from the buckets of blood to the fancy ballrooms. As a white guy, he was so great he got a pass to play at the downtown Black hotel, the New Gem, where he sat in with beboppers who were knocked out when they heard him riffing over lines written by Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk.

  Sometimes Oliver would talk about his granddad, who, back in the day, was considered the finest fiddler in Texas, even better than Bob Wills. Oliver did more than play guitar; he made guitars. He bent the wood in the bathroom. He sculpted the instruments by hand. And he learned to electrify the guitar and use a television set as an amplifier. Oliver was a certified genius.

  He also had a brother whom he brought over to the station.

  It was Oliver who made the introduction.

  “Willie Nelson, meet Robert Paul English. He goes by Paul.”

  “Hey, man, I thought you were a lot older,” Paul said in his nasal Texas twang.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Listening to you on the radio, you sound older. Hearing you sing, you also sound older.”

  “How am I supposed to take that?”

  “Take it as a compliment,” big brother Oliver said.

  “I meant it as a compliment,” Paul added. “You sound like a guy who’s been around and has something real to write about.”

  “Well,” I joked, “I been to Waco and Waxahachie.”

  “Willie’s being modest,” Oliver said. “He’s been to Eugene, Oregon. He was a big star on the radio up there.”

  “More of a big bust,” I added. (I’d been a deejay in Eugene when I’d gone to visit my mom, but then my ratings tanked, and I wound up working as a plumber’s assistant.)

  “Looks like you’re doing all right in Fort Worth,” Paul said with genuine encouragement.

  “Are you a musician like your brother and granddad?” I asked.

  “More a bookkeeper like my dad,” Paul explained. He said that his father had also been a clerk at the county courthouse. Mr. English, who started off in pre-typewriter times, had perfect calligraphy. Later he became a machinist at Convair, the aeronautical giant that turned into General Dynamics and Lockheed. He and his wife, both Pentecostal Christians, had four talented children: Oliver, Paul, Nadine, and Billy.

  “A bookkeeper.” Oliver smiled. “Paul, give the man your real story.”

  “You mentioned Waxahachie,” Paul whispered with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not allowed down there no more.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Got myself into some trouble.”

  “What kinda trouble?”

  “Running a craps game.”

  I had a soft spot in my heart for guys who ran craps games.

  As a kid growing up, my best buddy, Zeke Varnon, ran craps games all over Hill County. He was a dominoes champ and a card shark. Zeke was six years older than me. Paul was only six months older but, in some ways, reminded me of Zeke. He lived outside the law. Decades later, Bob Dylan said, “To live outside the law, you must be honest.”2 That describes both Zeke and Paul.

  Paul was long, lean, and lanky. When we started talking, he was also candid. Nothing to hide. Like Huck Finn, he was a free soul, eager for and unafraid of any adventure that might come his way.

  “As a young teenager, I was arrested a hundred times,” he told me. He also said he’d made the Fort Worth Press’s Top Ten Most Unwanted Criminals list five years in a row. He wasn’t boasting. Just explaining what he’d been doing with his life.

  He said, “Whenever there was a murder, the cops would come and ask, ‘Where’s Paul?’ If I wasn’t there, the cops always made the same remark: ‘He must have just left.’ They linked me to three murder trials, but none of them stuck. The only one where I was out-and-out accused happened when six of us were in a shoot-out. Me and my buddies had been cheated at cards, and I wasn’t about to let the cheaters get away. One of those cheaters got hit when he ran out of bullets. Well, that’s not murder—not in Texas anyway. The jury agreed, and I was set free as a bird. Later I learned to pick locks. That’s how I wound up in a Waxahachie jail cell. But I picked that lock too. They never bothered to recapture me because they didn’t think I was worth it. The way I made real money was running willing women. Good work, but hard work. Ran it like a regular business. Fixed it with certain hotels so that customers could charge the ladies as an entertainment expense. Might have been the first guy, at least in Texas, to make that arrangement.”

  You might ask: Why would I decide to trust this guy with my entire life?

  My answer is easy: I liked him. Liked being around him. Liked his gutsy outlook on life. Liked that he was razor-sharp and the best damn storyteller I’d ever met. His rebellious streak brought out mine. Paul made me braver, more willing to take chances, more ready to tackle life’s big challenges. Instinct rarely steers you off course.

  Paul also really appreciated my music. His brother Oliver—ten times the musician I’ll ever be—must have also told Paul that I had a future as a singer or writer.

  The fact that I was quite literally a Sunday school teacher at the Metropolitan Baptist Church at the time (and also a salesman of the Encyclopedia Americana and Kirby vacuum cleaners) didn’t mean I looked down on anyone who was off the beaten path. I was interested in the whole wide world, and the world of Fort Worth—especially its underworld—was downright fascinating. In that world, twenty-three-year-old Paul English was already a legend.

  If Dallas had ambitions to be high-class, Fort Worth didn’t give a damn about all that. That’s another thing I liked about Paul. He was Fort Worth to the core. Regret wasn’t part of his vocabulary. My tiny hometown, Abbott, was agricultural. I was a country boy. Paul was a city boy who’d grown up with the kind of gangsters I’d only read about in books. When we met, I’d already had a good taste of Cowtown culture.

  I’d grown up on westerns. My heroes were Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Lash LaRue, and Whip Wilson. They sang, played guitar, and got the girls. But that didn’t mean that I hated the bad guys. No, sir. The cattle rustlers, card sharks, and gunslingers who tore up the saloons made those movies fun. Without them, the heroes couldn’t be heroes. Sometimes the guys on the wrong side of the law were more interesting than the heroes themselves.

  That’s why I found Fort Worth, a city I called Honky Tonk Central, a scintillating scene. It smelled of the Old West. It claimed to be “Where the West Begins.” Slaughterhouses over here. Whorehouses over there. A section south of downtown called Hell’s Half Acre where hell was raised every night of the week. Even more hell was happening on the Jacksboro Highway, a six-mile strip on the north side heading toward Wichita Falls. Some called it Thunder Road. Others called it the Highway to Hell. I got to know it well because that’s where live music was pouring out of a long lineup of nightclubs, restaurants, and motels. Some of those places were fancy, some nasty. It was anything goes, so that’s where I went.

  When I arrived, things were turning a little seedy. The old-timers told me about the glory days when Sinatra sang at the Showboat with Tommy Dorsey and the big bands of Benny Goodman and Harry James played the Skyliner. In my day, there were still a few fancy joints, but, if I was lucky, I got a gig at a barroom called the Bloody Bucket.

  Paul knew these places like the back of his hand. That day we met at the studio, he asked me if I’d heard of the City Dump. I hadn’t.

  “It’s over on Handley Drive,” he said. “You know why it’s called the City Dump?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cause it’s next to the city dump. You don’t wanna play there.”

  “Cause of the smell?”

  “Cause of that thing that happened a few months back.”

  “What happened?”

  “A cowboy shouted out some song he wanted the band to play. When the band didn’t play it, the dude pulled out his pistol and shot up the joint.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Only the guitarist.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “Well, if you wanna see for yourself, he’s over at the morgue.”

  This was no joking matter, but the way Paul told the story, you had to laugh.

  “Something like that wouldn’t happen to me,” I said.

  “Why’s that?” Paul asked.

  “I’d play any song the cowboy wanted to hear.”

  “Are we gonna play anything tonight?” Paul’s brother Oliver asked as he started tuning his guitar.

  “I’m missing a drummer,” I said.

  “Paul’s a musician,” Oliver said. “He plays trumpet. And he can also keep time.”

  “Unlike myself,” I admitted. “Get that carboard box over there, Paul, and grab some brushes. I think I have a snare somewhere.”

  “Don’t I need more than a snare?” Paul asked.

  “I reckon there’s an old Salvation Army bass drum around here as well,” I said.

  Paul found the drum in the closet along with a set of bongos.

  “There’s no stool,” Paul said.

  “Sit on that wooden Coke box,” I said.

  Paul looked a tad uncomfortable but determined.

  “Just let Willie lead you,” Oliver said. “Wherever he goes, you go.”

  Oliver’s instructions proved prophetic. Paul was able to follow my spur-of-the-moment musical meanderings. That’s no easy task, but Paul was up to it. It came to him naturally.

  When we got through, I turned to him and gave a nod of appreciation. He nodded back. That was the first of our meaningful silent conversations. Over our lifetime together, we’d have millions.

  It felt good having Paul around—so good that for the next month, he became my drummer on The Western Express. That’s about when I started singing “Red Headed Stranger,” a song I first heard sung by Arthur “Guitar Boogie” Smith. I’d sing it for my baby daughter, Lana, who was at home listening to the radio with her mama, Martha, a high-spirited, full-blooded Cherokee who’d become my wife three years prior. She was a carhop, a waitress at a Waco burger joint. She was sharp as a tack and drop-dead gorgeous. Was she spoiled? Hell yes, but so was I. Was she stubborn? No more than me. I was broke, but she didn’t care. Martha made more money than me, a situation that lasted longer than I care to remember. Mainly, though, we couldn’t stay away from each other. I loved Martha—loved all my wives with all my heart—although, in the case of Martha, I can’t say for sure whether we spent more time fighting or making up. It was a close call.

  That “Red Headed” song got to me because it was a cowboy story about a man’s wandering ways. The character is “wild in his sorrow,” a man you better not boss or cross, fight or spite, because he’s “ridin’ and hidin’ his pain.” I related, not just because of the color of the hero’s hair but because of his restless spirit.

  Playing behind me, Paul felt that spirit. A virtuoso drummer would have done a lot more, would have put in all sorts of accents and added a whole lot of flare. But flare and accents weren’t what I needed. I needed someone willing to go on that journey with me, not too fast, not too slow, pause when I felt like pausing, and then get back on the trail when it was time to move on. It wasn’t anything I had to teach Paul. No explanations were needed. He could feel the offbeat rhythms and rhymes of the Red Headed Stranger. He could feel the beat of my heart.

  KCNC didn’t give me any money for the musicians who played on the show, but when I was hired at Major Joe’s, I could pay Paul eight bucks a night. That’s when we really got to know each other.

  Major Joe’s was another hole-in-the-wall on one of the highways to hell that crisscrossed the city. Back then, there were big-time venues for country music—the Big D Jamboree in Dallas and the All-Star Country Road Show in the Fort Worth North Side Coliseum. Those were places where thousands thronged to hear Elvis sing “Don’t Be Cruel” and Gene Vincent & His Blue Caps do “Be-Bop-A-Lula.” At Major Joe’s we’d be lucky to get a couple dozen paying customers. A couple dozen, though, could cause a small riot, which was why we were protected by a sheet of chicken wire strung up in front of the bandstand.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need protection from someone looking to launch a beer bottle. I needed protection from one of my many fascinations: women. I loved smart women, witty women, and shapely women. I was especially vulnerable to women who showed an interest in me before I made the slightest move. I found that exciting. Most musicians will admit that getting girls is a main motivation for going onstage. Ladies like men who make pretty music.

  As a young man, I took my marriage vows seriously—but seriousness had its limits. I told myself I wouldn’t go chasing, but what if someone chased me? And what if that someone happened to have the sultry eyes of Ava Gardner and the body of Bettie Page? What was a man to do?

  In front of a few dozen dancers, I was standing up there picking my guitar and singing “Don’t Rob Another Man’s Castle,” recorded by Eddy Arnold. My favorite version was by Ernest Tubb, who recorded the song with the Andrews Sisters. Of course, I wasn’t thinking all that much about the lyrics, which even quote the Bible about “thou shall not steal.” Stealing wasn’t on my mind. This gal was. She had long brown hair and was wearing a blouse and blue jeans that had to be two sizes too small. She was a lot to look at. The more I looked her way, the more she looked at me. Her bright smile seemed to be saying yes, yes, yes as she swayed to the music, twirling around and around to give me a 360-degree view. The closer I came to the mic, the closer she came to the bandstand. Best of all, she danced alone.

  “Is that lady flashing me the green light,” I asked Paul after we played our last song for the night, “or am I crazy?”

  “You’re not crazy,” Paul offered.

  I figured I’d best obey the traffic signs and get going. She was ready. I can’t remember her name, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Discretion is important. That night I thought I was being discreet when she approached me. I simply shook her outreached hand.

  “I don’t stay far from here” was all she said while slipping me a matchbook from the Landmark Lodge Motel over on Highway 80. On the back she had written “Room 12.”

  Then she turned and headed for the door. She walked slowly, giving me time to take in the view.

  “What do you think?” I asked Paul, showing him the matchbook.

  “Careful not to get a speeding ticket driving out there.”

  I packed up my guitar and made my way in a borrowed car. It was late September. The long summer heat had finally given way to what we call football weather. I thought back to those times in Abbott when we roughed it up on a rocky field. As a kid, I played all the sports. I liked contact sports. Driving through the night, I couldn’t help but think that romance was a contact sport. This little lady was dying for contact. And I wasn’t one to deny her.

  I passed by the Coyote Drive-In where they were showing a double feature of East of Eden and The Seven Year Itch. I could see dozens of cars parked in front of the giant screen, but hardly a head was visible. One two-toned Packard Clipper was bumping up and down something fierce. Might have been the full moon. Might have been the starlit sky. But Fort Worth looked mighty pretty. Even the pawn shops. Even the liquor stores. Even the junkyards. Everything had its own charm. The big neon sign in front of the Landmark Lodge let you know that they had air coolers, televisions, and a swimming pool. It wasn’t a dump. My new friend was sitting in the lobby. She saw me pull up and started walking to room 12. I followed and was able to park right in front.

  “You gonna bring in your guitar so I can hear you sing a little more?” she asked.

  “I never refuse requests,” I answered.

  She had a candle placed on a table beside the bed. When she lit it, the smell of lavender filled the room. She was drinking out of a bottle of Bellows Bonded Bourbon and offered me a swig. I accepted. Neither of us was feeling any pain. She sat on the edge of the bed. Always trying to comport myself in a gentlemanly manner, I knew better than to move too fast. We had all night.

  I sat in an easy chair in the corner, took out my guitar, and started to strum.

  “I got a request,” she said, “but it’s a corny one.”

  “I don’t mind corn.”

  “You know ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’?”

  “I’d be a damned fool if I didn’t.”

  As I started singing about stars at night being big and bright, prairie skies being wide and high, sage in bloom smelling like perfume, the lady took her time. One button at a time, she undid her blouse. Inch by inch, she unzipped and stepped out of her jeans. She reclined on the bed, a sight to behold.

  I put down my guitar, but she wanted to hear more.

  “This time something real romantic,” she said.

  Singers sing for their supper, so I had no problem accommodating. I was a patient man.

  “What’s your favorite romantic tune?” I asked.

  “What’s yours?”

  I answered with “A Sinner Kissed an Angel,” a song Frank Sinatra had sung when he was with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra. For all my love of the country music heroes—Jimmie “The Singing Brakeman” Rodgers, Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Ray Price, and all the rest—Sinatra was my favorite singer. There was something about his phrasing. He had that eighteen-karat-gold longing in every word. His voice was his heart.

  As I sang, my friend closed her eyes and leaned back. I strummed the last chord and was ready—finally ready—to embrace all that bliss when we were both startled by a thunderous knock on the door and a man’s voice yelling, “Who you got in there with you?” The man didn’t sound friendly.