"Friend of the Devil" - Blues Musician Gives a Lift to the Devil, Who's Late for a Midnight Meeting at the Crossroads.

Stevens takes a look into the backseat and sees my guitar. “So, you’re a musician?” he asks.

I nod. “That I am,” I say.

“What do you play?”

I flash him my entertainer’s smile and say, “I play anything I can get paid a nickel for.”

“Ah,” he says, smiling like it’s a good thing. “I used to play the guitar myself when I was young. Don’t play much anymore.”

I nod and we fall back into silence for a minute. Then I ask him, “So where in Tupelo you going?”

I watch the way he grinds his hairy country face, and I know that means his story is about to start changing. “Ah, yes, well,” he says, “it’s not actually Tupelo proper, but the crossroads just outside town.”

At that, my ears perk up. “The Crossroads? You mean Highway 61?”

“Why, yes, yes,” he says. “Highway 61. I was supposed to meet a man there at midnight.”

“At midnight?”

“Yes,” he says. “That’s when we agreed to meet. But like I told you, I’ve had a lot of problems and now I’m late.”

“The Crossroads at midnight?”

“Yes.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’ve got to tell you, I’ve been a street singer and traveling bluesman for some years now and I’ve probably had a hundred different cats tell me the same tale about meeting a man at midnight at the Highway 61 Crossroads. I let out a little chuckle. “So what were you planning on doing, Mister Stevens? Selling your soul to the Devil?”

Naturally, I expect him to laugh with me, but instead his jaw drops like he’s in shock.

“Whu, whu, what are you talking about?” he asks.

“Come on,” I say, “Devil at the Crossroads, that’s what you’re talking about, right? It’s only the oldest joke in the world.”

“Joke?” He looks genuinely astounded. “What on earth are you talking about?”

So, fool that I am, I tell it to him. “A musician meets the Devil at the Crossroads at midnight, he hands over his guitar, the Devil fiddles with the tuning and hands it back. From that moment on, the musician plays better than anyone else, and money, women, whiskey, cars and fine clothes all come his way, until the day the Devil comes for him and takes him away.”

Stevens listens in horror. “They tell that story?”

“All the time.”

“They do?”

I nod.

“But you said it’s a joke.”

“It is a joke,” I tell him.

“But jokes are supposed to be funny.”

“You might think it was funny if you heard how bad some of these guys play,” I say and laugh again.

(Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle here)

Speer in the Ruhr: Sharing Confidences with a British Spy

Back in the car, driving through the night, rain spattering against the windscreen as the pneumatic wipers made faltering sweeps on the glass, they had the radio turned up high, blaring enemy fighter coordinates along with Bruckner. Speer was in the front seat, staring ahead into the garbled gray horizon, past the flashes of artillery and streams of tracer rounds, and wondering what was going to happen with them. He didn’t want to go back to Berlin. He didn’t want to answer to Hitler for what he’d been doing here. He didn’t want to be forgiven and be allowed to worm his way back into Hitler’s good graces so they could again spend endless hours talking about architecture or movie musicals or how someday the two of them were going to design and build the finest neo-gothic cathedral back in his hometown of Linz.

At the moment they were driving toward Duisburg, not that there was anything waiting for them there other than a fueling station where they could fill up their tanks with diesel. In the three days since the incident, their crusade had deteriorated into an aimless shuffling about. The Battle of the Ruhr Pocket, as it was being called, was already in full force and with it, the fate of the region’s factories and chemical plants had passed from the hands of the gauleiters and militias to the Americans, who seemed content to bomb and shell it all to bits. Even so, it felt better to remain there than go home. Here they were beyond Hitler’s reach and the Russians weren’t likely to get there anytime soon.

He glanced over at Manni Loerber at the wheel and wondered what he was thinking. Having ended his own personal retribution campaign, Manni also didn’t seem to have any idea what to do next. Odd guy, thought Speer. One minute he could be as remote as an iceberg, the next as energetic and affable as your oldest friend. They might spend hours driving about without exchanging a word, then stop somewhere, brew up some coffee, have a bite, and suddenly he would start cracking jokes, break out the balls and insist they spend the next hour juggling. And whenever they did, Speer, who was normally reticent about sharing confidences with anybody, would end up spilling his guts, telling Manni things about Hitler he hadn’t even told his wife. Afterwards he’d always regret the things he’d said. Speer wanted his rebellion to be on his own terms and didn’t like the idea of being so easily manipulated. But being finally around someone so quick and witty was like a drug for him and he couldn’t help telling him things. It also made it all the more obvious just how mediocre and tiresome even the best conversations he’d had with Hitler had been.

“Night fighters in grid C-1, Mosquitoes in grid B-9, squadron of bombers flying east south east Grid B-14,” the voice on the radio announced, then returned to a piano etude.

That day he’d told Manni about the time Hitler had, on a whim, given the order to melt down all the Luftwaffe’s bombers and build nothing but fighter planes. The day before he told him about Germania, and all the endless hours they’d spend together revising cupolas and shopping arcades and imagining the way the great dome would look in the light of a setting sun. He even told him of the time when he’d been gravely ill the summer before, and Hitler had allowed Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS and Speer’s chief nemesis, to have him transferred to a special SS clinic where Himmler almost succeeded in having him poisoned.

Manni in turn told Speer a few secretsof his own; how Old Gustav was actually from Bulgaria, and their mother’s great uncle had been a rabbi in Riga. The Loerber Brothers, the blue-eyed, quintessentially Aryan Loerber Brothers, were Jews.

“Night fighters in grid D-16 heading north,” said the radio announcer. “Mustangs in grid D-4 heading east. Mustangs in grid A-6, A-7, and A-9, circling.”

Morning found them on the outskirts of Ludenscheid. They’d driven till three, then taken shelter inside a half-wrecked building which a Volkssturm battalion was using as its command post. Partially demolished buildings had become valuable since they were less likely to be directly targeted for additional pounding. Speer stood at its entrance, huddled in his overcoat, staring out at the drizzle and the gray bleakness and wondering if this was the day he’d finally get caught.

In the yard below, some soldiers had a fire going, using wood pulled from the wreckage, with a large cooking pot dangling from an iron tripod above the flames. Nearby stood the volkssturmers, gray and grizzled, shivering in their heavy coats. They were old men, retired bakers and clerks and librarians. Men who’d fought their own wars long ago and having survived them, didn’t see the point in dying now. Speer wondered what Hitler would think if he saw them. Would he continue proclaiming that they were what was going to turn the war around or would he give a wave of his hand and send them all home?

“He can be quite magnanimous when it suits him,” he remembered telling Manni the day before. At that, Manni gave a cruel snicker which still rankled Speer. He didn’t like having to defend Hitler, but at the same time, he felt miffed by such glaring absence of awe. He was, after all, Hitler, not some puffed-up party hack.

(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

"Friend of the Devil," where "O Brother Where Art Thou" meets "Last Temptation of Christ."

Finally, I’ve had enough. I toss the broken rifles aside and just stand there trying to catch my breath. That’s when I hear the music playing. It’s coming from a radio inside the store; one of those hillbilly family quartets they have singing on the border blaster:

Just a few more weary days and then,

I’ll fly away, fly away

To the land where joys will never end,

I’ll fly away, fly away.

I’ll fly away, O Glory,

I’ll fly away.

When I die, halleluiah by and by,

I’ll fly away, fly away.

It makes me happy that while time might be standing still here, somewhere down in sunny Mexico reality goes on just like it always does. It also makes me suspect that this is all very local and temporary and might end any moment so I’d better get a move on, so I go to the gas pump and fill up. Then I run into the store and fill a bag with apples, soda crackers, a loaf of sliced bread and a big piece of ham, then carry them back to my car and load them into the back seat.

I’m about to start up the engine and go, when I look at Hamer and decide I still need to finish the job. So I go back, reach into his jacket and remove his billfold, which is bulging with ones and fives. I can use those. Then I notice he’s got a shoulder holster and a big pistol riding inside it. I reach in and take it out. It’s a beauty, all right; a .45 caliber, single action Colt, silver plated. On the side of it I see inscribed, “Capt. Frank Hamer, State Ranger. Presented by the citizens of Corpus Christi, 7-22-22.”

I decide Imo keep it for myself. But because it wouldn’t do without I let him in on who done this particular deed, I extract the pencil and notepad he’s got in his pocket and I write him a little note.

“Dear Capt. Hamer, I could have killed you now, but, unlike you, that’s not how I operate. I haven’t done anything wrong, I’m not part of Clyde Barrow’s outfit and don’t intend to join. But if you keep bothering with me, by God, I shall kill you with your own pistol.”

And I sign it, “Very truly yrs, Herbert T. Barrow.”

I stick this back inside his holster, then head back to my car and drive away.
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle here).

Doenitz Sends for Speer, Americans Get in the Way with Questions.

"The Old Man wants you to go to the motor pool. Get a vehicle, drive up to Schloss Glucksburg and fetch Speer. It sounds like he’s playing the truant again. Bring him back, no excuses. The Grand Admiral doesn’t care if he’s dying of cancer. Do you think you can do it?”

"Jawohl,” answered Ziggy, jumping to his feet. “I’ll bring him back immediately.”

"Good,” said Ludde-Neurath. “Try not to start any gun battles.” Ziggy could see the glint of amusement in the senior officer’s eyes. Had his time in the doghouse already ended?

The motor pool assigned him a small kubel with exactly one liter of petrol in the tank. Ten minutes later he was approaching Glucksburg. In the daylight, uncloaked from darkness and shadow, the schloss hardly resembled the place where only two nights before they’d fought a crazed gun battle. Instead what he saw was a slightly garish, tall white building, not at all fearsome, with narrow windows and uninteresting proportions.

Driving up to the front gate, he was met by a squad of armed but dispirited-looking Wehrmacht. Ziggy wondered where they’d been the night of the battle. Had they absented themselves by prior arrangement or simply upon seeing Himmler’s men drive up.

The soldiers stepped aside and Ziggy motored slowly through the narrow forecourt passage. As he passed out of the rear portal and began driving over the bridge, something up on the battlements caught his eye. He looked up against the sunlight and saw the outline of two men juggling. Stopping the car, he held his hand up against his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare. One of the men was unmistakably his brother Manni. The other was not so tall, a little heavier and older, but also surprisingly nimble, like he’d been doing it for years. It was Speer.

Ziggy drove on across the moat and into the castle courtyard. A sentry escorted him inside to a small reception room, where a minute later he was met by a thin young man in a gray suit. “I’m sorry, but the Reichsminister is busy,” he told Ziggy.

"The Grand Admiral wants Reichsminister Speer to report to the government building immediately,” said Ziggy.

"I shall give him your message,” said the young man.

"No, he is coming with me,” said Ziggy. “I have orders to bring him to the Grand Admiral.”

The young man led Ziggy into a large parlor which had been converted into a makeshift typing pool, where a half dozen young women sat clattering away at typewriters while two others fed paper into a mimeograph machine. He found a chair and sat down.

A minute later, the door opened and the young man stepped back inside, followed by a long stream of men in American uniform who, except for a few, seemed distinctly unmilitary. And unlike the British up at the Marineschule, who treated any Germans they encountered with a rancid prickliness, these men all seemed relaxed and downright jovial.

The secretary pursed his hands together. “Please excuse the disarray, gentlemen,” he said.

"Oh that’s all right,” quipped a tall, beaky man who looked like he could use a haircut.

"Is all this for us?” asked another, pointing at several neat stacks of documents lined up on one of the tables.

"Yes, it is,” said the young man in slightly labored English. “Those are the reports on the electrical industry.”

"Excellent, excellent.”

"I will go up and notify the Minister that you are here. Please excuse me, gentlemen.”

As soon as the young man had closed the door behind him, the Americans padded around the table mischievously. One of the typists gave them a disapproving glare.

"Excuse us, ladies,” said one of them.

"Sprechenzee English?” asked another with a sheepish smile. The young woman glowered back and continued typing.

Then they spotted Ziggy sitting in his chair. “Hello,” one said.

"Hallo,” answered Ziggy.

"Do you, uhh, sprechenzee...”

"Yes, I speak English,” answered Ziggy.

Suddenly they were all interested in him. “Do you work for Speer in some capacity?”

"Howdja get that Iron Cross?”

"Were you in U-Boats? What can you tell us about production of the Type XXIs?”

"Say! Aren’t you Ziggy of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers? I used to watch you perform at the Blue Star.”

"At that, the secretaries all looked up from their typing. “Ziggy?” Then one of them pointed at him. “Look! It’s Ziggy! Ziggy!” The collective gasp that went through them sounded more gut-wrenching to Ziggy than a torpedo detonating against the hull of a ship.

"Holy Cow, Paul, you’re right, it is him.”

"What are you talking about? Magical who?”

"The Flying Magical Loerber Brothers, Ken. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them. Four brothers, identical quadruplets, the biggest thing in vaudeville, everyone loved them!”

"Paul’s right! These guys are famous. I must have seen them perform a dozen times at the Blue Star. They were fantastic!”

Then they turned to Ziggy. “I saw you perform at the Admiralspalast,” one said.

"I saw you perform at the Mocambo Club,” said another.

"Ziggy Loerber, Holy Cow!”

The women had stopped typing and were staring at him as if they hadn’t decided whether it would be improper to get up and flock around a favorite star who was now a naval officer with the Knight’s Cross around his neck.

Still seated, Ziggy stared back at them and knew something didn’t add up. Why were they acting so excited towards him? Surely they knew Manni was already there with Speer. But maybe they didn’t. So what was he doing there if they didn’t know about it? He had to be there as a spy. Why else would he be juggling in plain sight with Speer? Could he be there to kill Speer? But why?

Ziggy decided he needed to move quickly. He stood up from his chair and gave a curt bow to the secretaries and the Americans. “Excuse me, but I must go.”

"But Herr Loerber, wait!”

He stepped out of the salon, carefully closing the door behind him. Speer was coming down the stairs with his secretary. With his eyes settling briefly on Ziggy, the secretary whispered something to Speer. Speer nodded noncommittally and then proceeded past Ziggy to the salon door.

Ziggy stepped in front of the door. “Excuse me, Herr Reichsminister,” he said.

"Yes,” asked Speer, looking directly at Ziggy for an instant before turning to his secretary with his eyebrows raised slightly in reproach.

Ziggy continued unflustered. “The Grand Admiral has instructed me to drive you to the Marineschule.”

Speer regarded him bemusedly. “But Captain, don’t you see, I have guests.”

For a moment, Ziggy felt completely intimidated by Speer. He had a presence that bespoke superiority and wit and honestly acquired arrogance.

"The Grand Admiral wants you there, immediately,” Ziggy said in the same tone he always gave orders in.

Speer shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Ziggy shook his head. “First I must speak with my brother. Where is he?”

I beg your pardon,” said Speer, looking puzzled.

"Manni Loerber,” said Ziggy.

Speer studied Ziggy like he was a buried memory already working its way out of the ground. “Second staircase on your left,” he said in a guarded tone.

"Thank you,” said Ziggy and started running up the corridor.

The staircase went up five flights, after which the carpet and white walls gave way to wood and bare stone. He reached the top landing and, pushing open a heavy door, stepped outside onto the sun-washed expanse of battlements. He looked about the different stone walkways connecting the four towers, but saw no one. He walked over to the parapet and leaned down from one of the tooth-like gaps to take a look. Below was the lake and the green fields and the carpet of trees beyond. Then he felt something cold and hard press against the side of his neck. “What are you doing here?” asked a man’s soft voice.

"Manni, it’s me,” said Ziggy.

"Zigmund?”

"Would you get the gun off me?”
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

The Statler Hilton Hotel - The Case of the Mysterious Mr. Chiu

 

Hey All,  I decided to post this article I wrote about four years ago for D Magazine, because it just got reported that a new buyer has been found for the Hotel,  an incredibly ironic piece of Mid-Century Modern architecture in Downtown Dallas.  Hopefully, this guy will do what is necessary to bring this building back to life.  Interestingly,  this is the Dallas hotel where Richard Nixon was staying when Kennedy got assassinated nearly fifty years ago.  Bet you all didn't know that!!!  It's also where Tina Turner finally walked out of Ike and where Liberace got nicely relieved of a lot of expensive jewelry.  Read and enjoy,  friends and neighbors!

The Case of the Mysterious Mr. Chiu and the Statler Hotel

by Brendan McNally  Published 5.19.2010 From D Magazine JUN 2010

The two buildings stand together on Commerce Street, frozen by a spell of decrepitude, waiting for a hero to restore their youth and viability. The Statler Hilton and the old Dallas Public Library, once lauded as outstanding examples of midcentury modern architecture, are a wreck. 


Late last year, the City Council and the mayor’s office made encouraging noises about the Statler’s role in the revitalization of downtown. And almost on cue, a new suitor appeared. His name was Richard Chiu, president of Warwick International, a luxury hotel chain headquartered in Paris. Chiu apparently had—or has—ideas for the Statler, possibly combining a boutique hotel, condominiums, offices, and retail. City Hall prepared incentives for him to redevelop the property, including trading green cards for investment. Councilman Ron Natinsky evinced guarded optimism. “We’re expecting a concrete proposal first quarter of 2010,” he told me. Contacted through his company, Chiu promised a face-to-face interview when he came to Dallas sometime in the new year. 

But January turned to February and February into March, and there was no sign of Richard Chiu. City Hall turned tight-lipped. Then Chiu’s publicist revealed that he had already come and gone. I was invited to submit written questions. Having done that, there seemed nothing left to do but go downtown, stand in front of the Statler, and face the void.   READ THE FULL ARTICLE HERE

Von Friedeburg and Surrender Party Return from Berlin

FLENSBURG FINALLY

Even though Flensburg airport was now officially under British control, their presence at this point was still so small that it was hard to tell anything had changed. The Nazi flags were down, but the only Union Jack that was evident was a tiny one tacked up outside the operations hut. Everything else was much the same as before the surrender. The Luftwaffe colonel who’d commanded the base beforehand was still going around giving orders as before. The difference, of course, was that now he was taking his orders from a young British lieutenant.

Everything was grounded. The day before, two German aircraft had been permitted to fly out: one to Prague, the other to Courland, to carry Doenitz’ surrender orders to the respective German Army Group commanders. But other than that, nothing could take off without express British permission.

The airfield was littered with dozens of aircraft, mostly single-engine Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf fighters along with some two-engine night fighters and bombers. They stood scattered in no particular order, certainly not in anything resembling lines. Most were painted in a mottled gray and white camouflage. Others were grey with green or brown spots. Some were just solid gray. Some were under tarps, others were missing

engines or canopies or cowling or sections of wing. Either way, none looked like they’d ever fly again. Their time had passed, as surely as that of the mastodons and dinosaurs. In the course of a few days, they had imperceptibly transitioned from weapons of war into finely crafted detritus.

Peter Cremer had been up to the airfield several times in the last few days. As commander of the Grand Admiral’s security battalion, his authority was officially limited to the grounds of the Marineschule, where the new government had its headquarters, but the reality was that he was free to go anywhere he wanted without permission. The British were mostly interested in keeping anything German from taking off. Other than that they weren’t looking for trouble.

It was not as chaotic as it’d been immediately after the surrender had been announced. Things were beginning to quiet down into a sort of universal numbness as people tried to accustom themselves to the fact that after nearly six years of fighting, the war was now over. But that didn’t mean the anger and tension wasn’t lurking everywhere. Fights would break out suddenly between people who until then had been quiet and orderly. Sometimes at night they’d hear shooting going on along the waterfront or in the nearby woods. It was the uncertainty more than anything. No one had any idea what was going to come next.

This morning he’d come to the airport to pick up Von Friedeburg and Ziggy who, after a week, were finally coming back. From what Cremer understood, the idea originally had been that Ziggy and von Friedeburg would return to Flensburg immediately after signing the surrender to Eisenhower. But of course that wasn’t how it worked out. No sooner had it been completed than the Russians apparently began screeching about how it was unfair to them and demanded another surrender, an official one, be signed in Berlin with them officiating and with representatives of the Western Allies in attendance, instead of the other way around. So while Jodl was allowed to return to Flensburg, Ziggy and von Friedeburg, obedient to their new masters, boarded another Dakota and were flown to Berlin.

He stepped out of the operations hut into the bright morning sunlight and, placing his hand above his left brow to block out the sun’s glare, combed the southern sky for some sign of an approaching aircraft. The British controller inside had told him the flight from Berlin was due any minute. But there was still no sign of it.

Alongside one of the hangars, a line of staff cars and escort vehicles waited, their engines idling. Along with Ziggy and Admiral von Friedeburg, the airplane would be carrying Field Marshall Keitel, head of Armed Forces High Command, and General Stumpf, the newly appointed head of the Luftwaffe. It would have made more sense to have stuck them all in a single vehicle; certainly they could have stood saving that much petrol. But in the Old Man’s eyes, they’d already endured enough humiliation that he figured it would be better to allow them the indulgence. It made as much sense as anything did these days. Cremer thought that as long as the admirals were getting the goodies, he might as well do the same for Ziggy, who he figured was probably greatly in need of letting off some steam.

A group of Luftwaffe officers stood on the flight line ahead of Cremer. One with binoculars was pointing to a spot among the clouds while the others nodded. Then he heard the low drone of engines. Cremer stared hard until he could make out a black dot. A few seconds later it had grown to a full-sized twin-engine Dakota.

With a roar of its engines, and a bounce on its wheels, it put down on the grassy airfield, taxied up toward the tower, then abruptly turned and stopped, its engines still going full force. A door opened on the midsection of the aircraft’s left side and one of the British crewmembers jumped out and began helping the Germans down. It took only a few seconds. There were no exchanges of goodbyes or handshakes with those remaining on board. It seemed more like people being disgorged from a tram. As soon as they were all off, the side door shut again, the aircraft turned, the engines grew louder and, its mission completed, it lumbered its way back to the airstrip to take off.

As the travel-worn group walked towards them, a flock of aides and adjutants ran from the cars to meet them, relieving them of their bags and overcoats. Ziggy had been carrying the admiral’s valise, he handed it to one of them. Spotting Cremer, he bid farewell to von Friedeburg, who gave him a brief nod, discharging him from any further duties.

Ziggy Loerber looked tired, as if he’d just returned from a ten-week U-boat patrol. “Hello Peter, good to see you,” he said glumly. He followed Cremer to his open-roofed Kubelwagen.

“Glad it’s over?” asked Cremer.

Ziggy shook his head back and forth wearily and rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

“How was Berlin?”

“Like a moonscape.”

Cremer waited for the others to drive off before he started up the car. He let off the brake and slowly motored past the hangars and other buildings. Then he noticed a British officer step out in front of them with his hand outstretched, and a big, friendly smile on his face, signaling them to stop.
(This is an excerpt from a chapter that got cut from my novel Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

More Heard It on the "X"

At three minutes to, the light in the announcer’s booth comes on and I can see that Billy Bays, one of the station’s afternoon announcers, has come in. He greets us and then he and Raoul do a quick check and he smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. They’ve got about a dozen different announcers doing shifts at the station. They’re all bright, sunny guys, and everything they say always has an exclamation point attached.

“Thirty seconds,” says Raoul.

I nod and begin quickly playing the melody to the opening instrumental, which is a rolling medley of Sunshine Trails and Happy in the Saddle. When we go on the air, he’ll have me playing in the background and then, once Billy Bays finishes doing his thing, he’ll switch that mike off and bring me up to full.

“Ten seconds.”

Billy Bays and I both nod. Then Raoul holds up his hand for five, four, three... Then the on-the-air light comes on and he points to Billy Bays, who immediately starts speaking: “The Royal Consolidated Chemical Corporation of Chicago, Illinois, is proud to present The Peruna Program! Featuring America’s favorite singing cowboy, Slim Gatlinburg! Take it away, Slim!”

My strumming gets fiercer, as Billy Bays' booth light goes out. I let it go on another thirty seconds or so, then I start talking while I continue to pick and strum.

“Howdy there, friends and neighbors, this is Slim Gatlinburg, your saddle pal, host and good neighbor along the way. Golly, I’m glad you’ve come by my campfire to visit, because we got a really swell program ready for you today, some songs I know you’ll really like. Now here’s an old favorite of mine, My Oklahoma Home.”

When it’s springtime on the prairie, 

And the sagebrush is beginning to flower 

That’s when I’m riding back to my Oklahoma home 

Where the trees sing in the breeze 

And the Sooner Sun starting to tower 

‘Cause that’s where this cowboy’s sweetheart is waiting 

And soon we’ll be celebrating 

On my Indian pony I’m riding 

Over the prairie we’ll be gliding 

Back to my Oklahoma home.

Now I do the chorus. Needless to say, this is something I wouldn’t be caught dead playing in a saloon. But I’ll sing it on street corners when the audience tends toward families and maiden aunts and kids who go to sleep each night needing to believe cowboys all drink soda pop and carry banjos while they’re riding the range. It’s for people who don’t ever think about dustbowls and hungry, thirsty cattle and skies that are always gray. Now the second verse.

When it’s springtime on the prairie
And we’re riding along the trail
Watching the gray white dove above me
And hearing the peeping quail
That’s when my heart is laughing,
And I know it won’t be long
‘till she’s riding her pony beside me,
back in my Oklahoma home.

By now, it’s like a big chunk of my brain has stepped outside for a smoke. The problem with singing in a broadcast studio is there isn’t anyone in the audience to fix on. I try singing to Raoul, but, being an engineer, he’s not hearing any music, only sound levels and interference. Suddenly I start wondering again what the hell I said or did that got him all pissed off so much. All I did was ask about that guy. Is the reason I never heard about him that everyone is so scared of him they don’t even mention his name?

I do another song, one about rolling wagon wheels, followed by one about campfires and shooting stars. And the whole time I’m singing it, I’m thinking about the way Christine looked down her nose at me this morning when I was visiting the office. The nerve she has ordering me to provide song lists without bothering to say who’s asking for it. Those people all act like they’re doing me a big favor having me sing for them and that the five-dollar bill they give me after each show is a lot more than I’m worth, but I know it’s their way of keeping me on a short leash. If I wasn’t pulling mail, I’d be long gone. And if I wasn’t pulling a whole lot of mail, they wouldn’t have added the Good Neighbor Get Together to my workload.

I start to strum another song, but then I see Raoul waving for me to start my first commercial break. I take my left hand off the neck and take the first script from the stand.

“You know, folks, when you’re out riding the range, day after day, I can tell you, there’s nothing worse than having a sluggish system. Do you ever feel like that? Now, you’re probably just like me, most of the time strong and regular, but sometimes we all need a little help. That’s why I want you to try Peruna, with the absolute, positive understanding that it’ll restore you to a regular state or your money will be cheerfully refunded.

“Every day we get hundreds of letters from folks just like yourself who’ve been troubled by sluggishness and, after using Peruna, they’re right back to their old active selves. Peruna, the modern miracle medicine made by your friends at the Royal Consolidated Chemical Corporation of Chicago, Illinois. Just send two dollars to Peruna, care of this station, Del Rio, Texas. And please tell them Slim Gatlinburg sent you!”

And I look again at the clock, twenty minutes have gone by, which means I’ve still got an hour and forty minutes left.

“Now here’s one of my favorite songs. It’s called Under the Blue Wyoming Moon and it goes like this.”

Yippee-kai-yai-yay,
oer the hills the doggies play 
And I’m happy in the saddle again!

 (Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle here).