Free Twang by Julie L. Cannon Page B

amazing how much food that man could throw down.
    “Women eat that kind of thing up,” he said, licking sauce from his fingers. “You need to put some vengeance in there too. Have the man meet with some misfortune. A barfly shoots him, or he gets hit by a train, or he crawls back to his woman, begging her forgiveness and she shuts the door in his face. That way it would, you know, empower the women.”
    I took a sip of my Coke, sat back in my chair chewing a bite of pizza crust, and pondered.
Surely it couldn’t be that simple, could it? Some formula, some collective fantasy about revenge that got women enthused? Some ‘Ha ha, you deserved it’ kind of mentality?
All of a sudden, I felt a rush of knowing. My heart sped up as I realized the brilliance of what Roy had said. In my mind’s eye, I could see my song forming. It would feel wonderful to let a virtuous, wounded heroine have her vengeance.

    At 2:23 that morning I sat cross-legged in a nest of covers on my bed, nibbling a Chick-O-Stick Roy gave me, my notebookopen in front of me. It was not the slam-dunk I’d assumed. I kept scratching out lines that fell flat and lifeless words that led absolutely nowhere. Words like
He done me wrong, and my heart is breakin
’, and
I gave him my love, it was his for the takin’, but he
—I had no earthly idea how to write about the heart of a woman done wrong, I felt no emotional connections to my wounded heroines. Everything sounded phony. I threw the pen, slammed my notebook shut and switched off the lamp. Sighing and flipping over onto my stomach, I forced my eyes closed. After a spell I began to drop off into that no man’s land, that space between consciousness and sleep where mental blocks crumble. And that is when it came to me.
    First, I heard the unmistakable roar of the V-8 engine in my father’s Chevelle as it approached the cabin, felt my heart beating in my ears as I sat up on my pallet and peeked out the screen at the hazy gray of almost daybreak, the bliss of sleep evaporated. I remembered the sound of my mother’s expectant feet running from their bedroom at one end of the house, through the kitchen, the words just flying out of her mouth, “Thank God, thank God, he’s home; he’s finally home,” and then the front door opening and my mother saying, “Oh, no. No, you don’t, Omer. You’re not bringing another tra—” and him cutting her off saying, “Out of my way, woman!” real loud, laughing, drunk. I snuck to the door to look. My father had a strange woman hanging from his arm. She was glassy-eyed, a loose smile on too-red lips, her blouse hanging off one shoulder so low you could see her bosoms. Mother closed her eyes, said, “Lord, help me,” then looked at my father and said, “Omer, you’re nothing but an old tomcat, prowling around from one honky-tonk to the next, picking up trash and bringing it home.” Then my father threw back his head, laughed, and said, “I’m a honky-tonk tomcat.”
    I lay motionless for several minutes, that final frame frozen in my head and sleep as elusive as snow in summertime. Then I snaked a trembling hand out of the covers to turn on the bedside lamp. Blinking, I sat up, reached for my notebook and scribbled down the title, two verses, the chorus, and some thoughts about a bridge:
HONKY-TONK TOMCAT
    Mama begged Daddy to stay, with tears in her
    eyes,
    He said, “Got work to do,” but she knew it was
    lies,
    ’Cause he’s a honky-tonk tomcat, prowlin’
    around.
    Looking for women and paintin’ the town.
    She oughtta leave him, give him back his name,
    Take back her heart and escape all the pain.
    But she’s a believer in vows, in miracles, and
    Grace,
    So she just closes her eyes—and she prays.
    He went cruisin’ the bars, hunting ruffles and
    skirts,
    Home drunk at daybreak, humming “Love
    hurts.”
    ’Cause he’s a honky-tonk tomcat, who follows
    the trail,
    Of whiskey and perfume, a loud-calling smell.
    She oughta leave him, give him