The Boots My Mother Gave Me (27 page)

Sure, I was still young, only twenty-five, but I had yet to accomplish anything that made me feel I had done something with my life, what I set out to do. I had more dedication at five than I did at twenty-five!

I was anti-commitment, and I wore it like some kind of badge of honor. I reasoned it wasn’t a good way to be, unhealthy, yet I remained so. Letting people and things get close to me meant they would eventually affect my thoughts, my decisions, and the overall direction of my life. I could not risk such control. I felt I had no control as a child, my emotions and my mood, my life, constantly affected by my father, like a yo-yo, relentlessly up and down.

I would not allow myself to be in that position again. The only person I wanted controlling me and my environment was me—or the universe. Oddly enough, a firm believer in the universe, I opted to think things happen for a reason. Go figure! How could I covet my control, yet wholeheartedly believe certain things are left up to fate?

On the road again, unsure of where I would end up, my mind drifting to Willie Nelson and his song
On the Road Again.
Now there was a man I could identify with, a rogue, a nomad. I felt happiest on the open road, behind the wheel, heading somewhere, anywhere. Just Charlene and me, it was empowering, spiritual. I was free to dream at seventy miles per hour, her engine luring me on, almost daring me to make it happen, to claim it.

If anything could help me through the mess I just made, it was music, so I headed south and west, my destination the home of Willie Nelson and the
Live Music Capital of the World,
Austin, Texas.

In Austin, I worked as a personal trainer and yoga instructor at a local gym part-time during the day, and bartended part-time at night, at
Lucy’s Retired Surfer’s Bar
on Sixth Street. The Texas Music / Red Dirt / Americana movement thrived in full swing, with bands like The Great Divide and Cross Canadian Ragweed.

The music was a hodgepodge of influences, a little country, a little rock, a little blues, some folk thrown in the mix, a bit of everything. It resonated with me, lyric-driven, storytelling, perfectly imperfect. You could find anything “music” in Austin, and people appreciated it, not because it was catchy or the number one song in the nation, simply because it was what it was.

Ten o’clock in the evening, Saturday night, and
Lucy’s
joint jumped, a three-piece band played, calling themselves Three Tequila Floor. Jack, a regular of the bar, a burly biker dude who looked like he walked straight out of the Sixties, sat in his usual space at the end of the counter. Jack had a motorcycle, of course, a Harley Davidson, his only set of wheels. He loved my name and thought we were kindred spirits in a past life.

I didn’t know anything about that, but he sure was good company. I never saw him without his black leather vest, full black leather chaps, his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, sporting a doo-rag.

Having Jack at the end of the bar was like having my own personal bouncer; he took good care of me. Every now and then he had a tiny cigarette rolled up, emitting green smoke, always so kind to offer me a
toke,
which I politely declined. I often wondered what it would feel like to put that little roll to my lips, inhaling deeply. I never did try it. I reasoned it was the same as alcohol. What if I lost control, liked it, acquiring a regular intolerable habit? Addiction runs in families, so they say.

The band, determined to get the audience involved, asked people from the crowd to come on stage and sing with them. Jack heard me with my acoustic set a few times in the bar, opening for the main event, the
real
band. He insisted I get up on stage. That wasn’t my style. A bit on the shy side, I certainly would never volunteer.

Jack grabbed me up from behind the bar, throwing me over his shoulder, and carried me to the stage, right into the lion’s mouth, I thought. The place was packed, and I had no desire to be the center of attention, contented to be the opening act, not the headliner. I played for the happy hour crowd, those who smiled and sang along, simply
happy
to hear anything besides the sounds of their workplace. I didn’t play for the party crowd, the crowd that expected you to entertain them, give them something to be happy about.

“What if they don’t like me?” I asked, as Jack stood me up on stage.

“Fuck ’em,” he said so naturally. “I like ya, and I want to hear you sing.” He took the microphone from the guitarist, shoving it into my hand. And there I was, a deer in the headlights. I felt like I participated in amateur night at the
Apollo,
where the crowd chewed at their fingernails with angst at the promise of booing someone off stage, someone like me.

“What do you want to do?” the guitarist asked, leaning close to me to hear my answer over the crowd.

“Do you know any Susan Tedeschi?” I spoke, nervously. “How about
Hurts So Bad?
”

“I think we can do that one.” He smiled at me, identifying with the fear on my face. “Here,” he offered, a glass containing a double shot of tequila someone kindly placed on the stage for him, a token of appreciation for the tunes. I didn’t want to drink it, but I really did want to drink it. Liquid courage sounded great about now, any kind of courage would be astounding.

I took the drink from his hands, quickly placing it to my lips as I threw my head back and downed it, my first drink. It was warm. I could feel it light up my throat and my insides as it went through me. Within a matter of seconds my limbs went tingly, my head felt light, and I had a compelling urge to laugh. The crowd cheered, holding up their glasses, partaking of their own beverages.
Wow,
people cheer when you drink. Maybe this isn’t such a tough crowd after all.

“You ready?” the guitarist asked. I nodded, ready as I ever would be. One more shot of tequila and I think I would have been ready for anything. “I’ll lead you in.”

I heard the guitar intro and before I knew it, my turn to come in arrived. I started modestly, picking up into my vibe with positive feedback from the crowd. I think maybe they liked me. I was going to be okay.

Jack sat on his designated barstool, watching us, beaming with pride. How amazing I thought, that other people would put themselves on the line, willing to believe in me, when I wasn’t even committed to believing in myself. I never would have got on that stage if it weren’t for Jack, a complete stranger until a few months ago. He had no ties to me, nothing to gain from encouraging me, yet he did. I will carry that with me forever.

And the crowd at the bar, they accepted me, allowed me to share my voice, a little piece of myself with them. It was difficult at times, for me to fathom the human connection. How others, maybe even total strangers, would lift me up, while my father, who I thought would love me unconditionally, had a unique way of tearing me down, and how I so often played into that by allowing myself to believe the worst of me. It wasn’t like my father never told me positive things; he did. I found it easier to believe he actually meant the negatives. That night, another
aha moment,
reminded me most people want others to succeed. And for every one person, for every crowd who boos you off stage, there’s another who will cheer you on.

Adam, the guitarist, asked me to join up with the band. After that night at
Lucy’s,
I became the newest member of Three Tequila Floor. I planned on finishing my broadcasting degree at the University of Texas, starting spring semester, January 2005. However band commitments immediately took priority, as we traveled out of town quite often for gigs. My degree would have to wait. I decided it was now or never, Plan A or bust. I took up with Adam and the band without missing a beat, simply happy to create music and make some sort of menial living with it.

Adam and I quickly progressed into an easy friendship, sharing writing and singing responsibilities, along with our beds, every now and then. We had great chemistry. No love, no muss, a kinship through music, heightened by the high of performing every night together, sometimes to a packed house, most often to a small crowd in some hole in the wall.

We lived from day to day, gig to gig, traveling in a van from one town to the next, whoever would have us. I found my band of brothers so to speak, my niche, where I belonged, surrounded by people who wanted the same things I did. My life and my theories validated, normalcy was our antagonist. Nobody called me crazy because I didn’t have a
real
job, or because I wasn’t married with a kiddo. I started to feel like myself again, like that little girl, that five-year-old who allowed herself to dream, believing anything could happen. I felt alive.

Heading to a gig in Dallas from a show we finished in Denver, dawn was upon us. Adam drove, I rode shotgun, everybody else asleep in the back.

“So how did you come to music?” I asked, attempting to start a conversation to keep Adam awake, as well as myself.

“Suicide.”

Adam’s persona, a little dark, had an aura of danger about him, dressing in black, his hair black, a regular contemporary Johnny Cash. But for the most part, I assumed that was his way of expressing himself, depicting an image. I certainly didn’t think his mysteriousness went any further than his clothing. Completely thrown by his answer, I questioned cautiously, “What do you mean?”

“My mom killed herself when I was sixteen. Music was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that let me escape reality.”

“I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“Not many people do. It’s not something I tell everyone.” He smiled briefly.

“No. I wouldn’t think so.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have much experience or knowledge of suicide. I heard about it but was never personally affected.
How awful, your own mother committing suicide.

“The two V’s, Vodka and Vicodin,” he further explained. “Women usually ingest something, men just shoot themselves.”

“Wow,” I stated solemnly. “Your dad, is he alive?”

“Yeah. He bought me the guitar after she died, thought I might need something to concentrate on.”

“You really have a talent for it, ya know...the guitar. No wonder you play with such emotion.”

“You know what they say about musicians, every one of us, a tortured soul. The hardest part is accepting it as my legacy. We’re reflections of our parents, right? What does it say about me that my mother killed herself?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Her actions don’t define you, no more than yours defined her. And it says a lot about you, that you found something like music to cope, to make a difference, to carry on.”

“I miss her sometimes. Is that twisted, to wish someone back from the dead, who wanted to be dead so bad they killed themselves?”

“It’s only natural to miss her, to want to see her again.”

“I just wonder if she felt any pain. Was she scared?” He paused. “When I think about dying, I sure don’t want to be alone. She was.”

“I guess it depends what she thought waited for her on the other side. Some people say when you die, it’s like a release, no more pain, no more hurt, total euphoria.”

“Well, some people say if you commit suicide you don’t go to heaven,” he added.

“The Bible also says Jesus said, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you,’” I reminded. “For everything people say Jesus said, there’s something that counters it. Everybody thinks they know what Jesus said. The only person who truly knows what Jesus said, is Jesus,” I continued adamantly but with a smile, causing Adam to respond in kind. “Sometimes you have to believe what you need to believe to carry you through. To have faith is to believe, right?”

“You have a silver lining for everything, don’t you? I like that. I’m glad you’re with us, Harley. Do you think we’ll get that record deal, with the indie label?”

“I think we stand a pretty good chance. We’ve been out here for a while, surviving the small venues. Imagine what we could do if we had a little development, some real contacts, a label.”

“That would kick ass! I want to do this for the rest of my life.” I laughed happily at his enthusiasm. If anyone deserved the opportunity, Adam did. We were having the time of our lives, and he brought us together, the definitive bandleader. “So, what about you. What torturous experience led you to music? We all have a story,” he said.

“Mine pales in comparison to yours,” I dismissed the subject. “I’m just happy to be here. I feel pretty lucky.”

“Speaking of feeling lucky. How we doing on that song?” He started singing the melody, as I picked up my guitar and followed along:

On the other side of the world, the sun goes down,

A million miles away from your hometown.

They tell you to be all you can be,

While they take you away from your family.

Put a rifle in your hand, send you away,

Keep us all free for another day.

I am a lucky one.

Living here in the land of the free,

It’s gonna be all right for you and me.

Don’t you know we’re the lucky ones?

W
e got that indie recording contract. Two days later I got a phone call from Kat. Mom had left Dad and he wouldn’t leave her alone. She needed me to get her out of there, where he couldn’t find her. The company he worked for closed their doors six months ago, and he embarked on a downhill spiral, never good with idle time. Mom tried to convince him to find another job, a hobby, something. She could see him reverting back to his old habits right before her eyes, and he did nothing to stop it. I guess a leopard never truly changes its spots.

Mom came home from work at the restaurant one night to my father drinking, as he had been since his job dried up. All the old feelings started resurfacing. Every night for the past few months, when she came home from work her stomach grew nervous, as it did years ago, on a permanent roller coaster, my dad at the controls, wondering what she would find. However, this particular night would prove historic. Mom left, for good.