Thirty winters of neglect left him as rusty as the abandoned metal automobile shells currently occupying the outer reaches of the large hillock behind his shack. A quick glance out the kitchen window revealed the cancerous advances of corrosion upon their surfaces. Although the thick translucent plastic he’d duct-taped to the window’s exterior to serve as insulation against the cold tended to obscure his view, Thurmond Ledbetter learned to accept the distortions as the necessary result of economy and failing eyesight. Besides, the cars served as rabbit burrows and impediments to hillside erosion, so he figured they served a purpose, even if the county regarded them as an eyesore. He made mental note to remove them just as soon as he received notification that the county was now paying his property taxes… and he smiled broadly, his teeth resembling an octave of piano keys, with a-sharp and b-flat right in the middle.
His new string had arrived yesterday along with John Barnes and his mail sack. John hadn’t cared to step inside, he was a little strapped for time given the fact that his car would never have made the trip up Thurmond’s hill and he was forced to walk. Still, Thurman figured, it would have been neighborly of him to set a spell, but it would have been rude to insist, so he accepted the small parcel with a nod and a smile and shut the front door, although he did watch the diminutive postman walk back down the hill, stepping around and over the mud puddles that formed in the road ruts due to last night’s deluge. This particular part of Kentucky got lots of rain and with the county’s current attitude toward neglect of the less-used gravel roads, it was a small miracle that the route still existed at all, not that Thurmond gave a shit either way; past cousin Purdy’s semi-annual pilgrimage from Elizabethtown and Nellie Freeman’s occasional bouts with Satan and his demon rum, he got very few visitors. And he considered that to be okay, too, even if his songs did have to wait awhile before reaching the ears of anyone except Spottie’s.
Now that he had the sixth string back on his guitar, maybe he’d be able to spot the key change that was screwing up the refrain in his new song and properly figure out if he needed to capo that D-flat diminished to make the lament resound in proper fashion without giving the impression that someone had just castrated Spottie without the benefit of anesthesia. Quietly, he flipped open the aged case that held his glasses and with all the precision his long fingers could muster grasped the thin wire frames and lovingly placed them behind his ears, flicking the tops of his earlobes down to allow their passage. Once in place, he tapped the nosepiece to ensure that they didn’t slip off his face and picked up the copy of his song that he’d labored to write down. Thurmond didn’t really read music, although he understood what to play if he saw the chords written down, so he’d taken the time to write ‘a-flat’ and ‘C-minor-diminished’ and whatever notes were called for atop the words. Most musicians would have laughed at him if they’d ever seen his ‘music’, but Thurmond filed their derision in the long mental list he’d already compiled for anyone who didn’t like what he did, his list of people who could go straight to hell, never once stopping to pass ‘Go’.
With patience derived from years spent in practice of lethargy, Thurmond worked the new string into its assigned position alongside the others, carefully and meticulously tightening the tuners on his guitar’s neck with a strum on the appropriate string. After satisfying himself that his instrument was properly tuned, he stopped to once again familiarize himself with the song:
Loser’s Blues
His new string had arrived yesterday along with John Barnes and his mail sack. John hadn’t cared to step inside, he was a little strapped for time given the fact that his car would never have made the trip up Thurmond’s hill and he was forced to walk. Still, Thurman figured, it would have been neighborly of him to set a spell, but it would have been rude to insist, so he accepted the small parcel with a nod and a smile and shut the front door, although he did watch the diminutive postman walk back down the hill, stepping around and over the mud puddles that formed in the road ruts due to last night’s deluge. This particular part of Kentucky got lots of rain and with the county’s current attitude toward neglect of the less-used gravel roads, it was a small miracle that the route still existed at all, not that Thurmond gave a shit either way; past cousin Purdy’s semi-annual pilgrimage from Elizabethtown and Nellie Freeman’s occasional bouts with Satan and his demon rum, he got very few visitors. And he considered that to be okay, too, even if his songs did have to wait awhile before reaching the ears of anyone except Spottie’s.
Now that he had the sixth string back on his guitar, maybe he’d be able to spot the key change that was screwing up the refrain in his new song and properly figure out if he needed to capo that D-flat diminished to make the lament resound in proper fashion without giving the impression that someone had just castrated Spottie without the benefit of anesthesia. Quietly, he flipped open the aged case that held his glasses and with all the precision his long fingers could muster grasped the thin wire frames and lovingly placed them behind his ears, flicking the tops of his earlobes down to allow their passage. Once in place, he tapped the nosepiece to ensure that they didn’t slip off his face and picked up the copy of his song that he’d labored to write down. Thurmond didn’t really read music, although he understood what to play if he saw the chords written down, so he’d taken the time to write ‘a-flat’ and ‘C-minor-diminished’ and whatever notes were called for atop the words. Most musicians would have laughed at him if they’d ever seen his ‘music’, but Thurmond filed their derision in the long mental list he’d already compiled for anyone who didn’t like what he did, his list of people who could go straight to hell, never once stopping to pass ‘Go’.
With patience derived from years spent in practice of lethargy, Thurmond worked the new string into its assigned position alongside the others, carefully and meticulously tightening the tuners on his guitar’s neck with a strum on the appropriate string. After satisfying himself that his instrument was properly tuned, he stopped to once again familiarize himself with the song:
Loser’s Blues
Ain’t nothin’ in the world for me,
I don’t fit in, as you can see,
I couldn’t even steal
some piece of mind…
I’ve got glass cuts ‘round my mouth
from something layin’ ‘round my house,
I’m a lightheaded loser
burned out from all that booze.
(refrain)
So please don’t bury me
down in that cold, dark ground
while hairy spiders check me out,
they’re crawlin’ all around…
I don’t care what they said,
I just may not be dead,
appearances can be deceivin’,
liquored up from Shayna’s news.
Ol’ Black Jack’s my only friend,
the only one I don’t offend,
he don’t talk back or
leave me for another’s arms.
He won’t walk out on me,
and as you can plainly see,
ain’t much left to imagination
or, for that matter— charm.
So please don’t bury me
down in that cold, dark ground
while hairy spiders check me out,
they’re crawlin’ all around…
I don’t care what they said,
I just may not be dead,
appearances can be deceivin’,
liquored up from Shayna’s news.
Now there ain’t a day goes by,
I don’t get by just gettin’ high,
Eatin’ tater chips and
Sleepin’ in my clothes.
While it certainly may be true
I’d take a bullet just for you,
It also could be argued
You also took a few for me.
So please don’t throw my clothes
out on that cold, wet ground,
you know I love you just as much
as we pass the bottle 'round…
I don’t care what they said
Shayna’s love just isn't dead,
Appearances can be deceivin’,
When you sing the Loser’s Blues.
There’d be no supper tonight. Song followed song like summer follows spring as Thurmond Ledbetter did the only thing he really enjoyed doing, oblivious to time and space, ignorant of all things outside his shack and blessedly so. Spottie didn’t care one way or the other.
There’d be no supper tonight. Song followed song like summer follows spring as Thurmond Ledbetter did the only thing he really enjoyed doing, oblivious to time and space, ignorant of all things outside his shack and blessedly so. Spottie didn’t care one way or the other.
Bob Church©4/27/07
