The Ballad of Sam and Waylon

We started off as all great romances do, as friends.  We met in elementary school and shared out first kiss.  She moved after high school and our relationship came and went like the tide.   

Some years we would be the best of friends, other years we would only talk once a month.  

Then one day something happened.  My dad died.  From then on, Sam made it a point to always be there for me.  I told her at the funeral that there was never a time when she wasn’t there for me, but she told me to shut the fuck up and gave me a hug that I felt to the bottom of my soul.

We lived on opposite sides of the state; she was a junior paralegal in Phoenix. I dug ditches in Flagstaff.  Because of the distance our friendship blossomed over late night conversations and soul-bearing e-mails.   Sometimes we would write stories to one another and issued challenges to write stories about far out subjects like space monkeys or Bon Scott’s demon tattoo.  Sometimes we would just write stories about us. 

Sam was the kind of girl that made you want to be a better man.  She was a great beauty and a dazzling wit. She loved to paint.  Some days she would do a Dahli-esque painting of the Grand Canyon.   Other times she might do an impressionist portrait of her Mother; but she never made a Picasso, she said it was too cliché.  I was a poet on a chopper.   I liked to sit next to the bare- chested lumberjack statue at NAU and drink hot cocoa while writing short stories.   

We were complete opposites.  

She was BB King, art museums and long kisses on a ferris wheel.  I was George Strait, motorcycles and Schwarzenegger movies.   And yet somewhere better between Die Hard and Dahli, we fell in love.   We would visit every two weeks.  I would drive down to Phoenix on my bike, and take her to a see Brooks and Dunn or some other show.   She would meet me in Flagstaff to go see the Grand Canyon. 

One weekend we drove to Vegas on my bike.  We stayed at the Bellagio and got a room with a view of the fountain; they played Frank Sinatra songs all through the night.  It was terribly romantic.  I didn’t intend to kiss her.  I didn’t intend to make love to her all night long.   But sometimes there is no intent; things just happen.   On our way back we stopped at the Hoover Dam.  Like a silly, superstitious boy, I held a silver dollar in my hand and made a silent wish, then tossed it into the icy blue water.   My heart ached as I felt arms around me for the three hours back. 

I wish I could say I have no regrets about what happened. Well, that isn’t true. I don’t regret what happened. I just regret how it happened. She had been dating a guy named John. They were together for three years and Sam suspected he was about to pop the question. She wouldn’t have hurt that boy for anything in the world… except maybe me.  He was an architect, and he was funny, and I liked him very much.   I felt horrible about what I had to do, but I had no choice as I saw it.   My bike pulled up in front of her apartment. He saw me through the window and right away he knew what I was there for.  “Sam!” I cried.

 John ripped open her doow. He rushed towards me and his fist me square on the jaw.  The redneck in me wanted to beat the piss out of him, but the man in me understood that I was the villain in this story.  I deserved worse than he gave me.  When she came outside, it was obvious that she had been expecting me.   He could tell by the look on her face that her mind was made up. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the pain in his eyes.

She went to him and kissed him goodbye with tears running down her face.  Then Sam hopped on the back of my bike, put her arms around me and said “Let’s go.” with a tone that broke my heart.  Just before we rode away she gave him one last look and said “I’m sorry.” 

I had about two grand left over from my Father’s estate.   I just prayed it was enough to buy us a future.  We drove from town to town along the highways of the country, seeing America and living life.  We settled in small town called Franklin, fifteen minutes south of Nashville.    Franklin had a lot of things going for it, beautiful mountains and architecture, consistent development, and quiet neighborhoods where you could raise your kids.   We got a little apartment right off of the interstate.

We didn’t have much besides a bed, so we took long walks in the park where we would imagine our future. At night we told each other romantic stories until we fell asleep in each other’s arms.   I bought a guitar and played bass for whoever would hire me.  Fortunately we were very close to downtown Nashville and there was always call for a good bass player.  It didn’t pay much at first, just enough to pay the rent and buy Sam some painting supplies.   She argued with me about those, saying we were too strapped to worry about art.  But I wouldn’t have it; I told her that I could never forgive myself if I took painting away from her.  It’s who she was, who she always would be; she needed it to breathe.  She took up a waitressing job at the Outback across the street to pick up the slack.  She hated being a waitress, and I didn’t want her to have to do something she hated, but after some arguments that could tear the paint off of the wall, we agreed that for this to work, we would both have to make sacrifices.

Life was hard, but it was good.  We worked all day and made love all through the night.  On the weekends we would alternate.  On her week, we would take historical tours.  On mine, we would go to honkytonks and listen to live music.  We took day trips to Memphis and visited Graceland.   Sam was a huge Elvis fan.  It was a little scary sometimes.  We even took pictures dressed in Elvis gear, wigs, sideburns and all.  I voted against it— especially when she insisted I should be fat, jumpsuit Elvis— but she always got her way.

Eventually I managed to save enough money for a ring. 

It was a small wedding; our parents flew in and we had a few friends by that time.  We stood in a little chapel in Nashville before friends and family and read the vows that we wrote.  She said that the road to us was long and arduous, but if given the chance, there’s nowhere else she would rather be, or any other life she would ever choose.   I told Sam that I wasn’t worthy of her, but that I would spend the rest of my life pining away, making myself the kind of man that deserved someone as special as her.   We couldn’t afford much of a honeymoon, so we packed a tent onto the back of my chopper and drove up to the Smoky Mountains.

We hiked up mountains, swam in streams, and made love under the stars.

As I said, life was hard for a long time.  Then one day, out of nowhere it stopped being so hard.  I had hooked up with a buddy of mine, and we started a band.  He sang and played lead.  I wrote the songs, sang back-up and played bass.   We were moderately successful.  Two gold records and a few decent sized tours.   It wasn’t much, but it was just enough.  It bought us a two story house in Franklin; it provided Sam with an endless supply of paints, and allowed me the time to write what I was sure would be “the great American novel”.   Best of all, it allowed us to start putting aside college money for the twins in Sam’s belly.   After seven years together, and three years of marriage, little Natalie and Nathan were brought into the world.

I sold my bike for a few hundred. Sam protested, but being a father was all the adventure I wanted from then on.

Life moved along pretty fast after that. The twins grew up before we knew it.  Natalie wants follow in her old man’s footsteps and be a country music star.   I told her that I was really a writer, but I just paused for a minute to sing them into the world.  Nathan was quite the artist, like his mother.   He studied art at Vanderbilt, which required me to put a mortgage on the house, but it was worth it to see my boy graduate.  Sam and I couldn’t have been prouder.  

I did eventually put out that novel.   Being the hack that I am, it was all about a painter named Sam and a boy named Waylon who was desperate for her affections.  Contrary to what my loving wife insists, it was not the great American novel. The fact is that Sam loved it and she cried when she got to the end.  If an audience’s reaction defines the value of a story, then I’d say it was a smashing success.  

Sam and I aged well together.  We grew up, but we never grew apart.  We spend our days taking long walks in the park with our grandkids.  We spend our nights telling each other stories until we fall asleep in each other’s arms.   And clichéd as it sounds, I expect us to live happily ever after.

Story originally written in July of 2012. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with this one. Its a story with no clear hook. But I think I like it because its the kind of life I would have liked to lead if things were different. It wasn’t really in the cards though.