George Strait and Jimmie Rodgers: The American Way

"It doesn't really bother me"; Roger James says quietly when I quiz him about the spectacle of the 2000 presidential election. "I think they're all doing what they need to do to win." He gives a short, thoughtful pause and then adds, "They should have had that attitude in Vietnam, ya know? It's the American Way. Like (Norman) Mailer wrote once, its ego, which's the word best describes the American century. Of course, he was writing about Ali then, and unfortunately, neither of these two fella's have near an ounce of the personal integrity that Cassius had."

I am curious about James reference to Vietnam. "Funny you mention Vietnam, what about Korea? Your war. Why doesn't that apply?" "Ahhh", James grunts huffily. "That don't matter to no one. Others have given more for a helluva lot less. I think we're all the better for it. I'll get up tomorrow, you'll get up tomorrow, we'll have our coffee, read the paper, go down to the shop, and we'll all say our peace about this and still go home without any real worries. That's freedom man, and this is the price for it. Nothing more."

November 7, 2000

The Cragen is one of those old musty downtown hotels that fell from the people's grace over thirty years ago. It slowly devolved into a flophouse for wandering townies, and then in the mid-to-late 1980's became a hip re-urbinization project that handed out blankets to its inhabitants as it booted their asses out the door. Today it's a trend-ridden faux up-scale banquet hall/conference center/hotel that houses the local Republican Party election night soire. Suits and ties mingle with jeans and button-down shirts, all sport fine looking haircuts and most seem abundantly clean. This is to be my first stop of a journey into the dark depths of street root American politics. I have no invitation or passes, just the word of an acquaintance that he'll "vouch for me" if anyone gets testy with my presence. I walk right in and ask the gal at the desk where the deal is going down. She aims me for an elevator and goes back to pretending to be swamped with work. I know the feeling sister. I stumble my way down to the banquet room where handfuls of GOP faithless are gathered in this democratic northern Ohio stronghold. Not exactly the sight of many celebrations for this bunch, so I don't expect much. In fact, I wasn't even sure there would be any sort of grub or cash bar so I'd tossed a half dozen Foster's oil cans in my bag along with my portable CD player, my word processor, a bag of peanuts for shelling, and a dozen CD's or so for entertainment. The discs were an afterthought. This entire exercise was supposed to be about music anyhow - their music. I was going to spend the evening bouncing from the GOP and Democratic part headquarters in a vain effort to diagnose each party through the music they played at these election night get together's. The CD's were pretty much my concession to that which I suspected I'd hear.

Premonitions:

GOP

A lot of George Strait and Garth Brooks A little Sinatra, maybe some dull replacements like Steve and Edie Kenny G.

Dems

Barbara Streisand, Barbara Streisand, Barbara Streisand! Sadly, of course, some wretched Fleetwood Mac (it seems to be the official soundtrack to these folks lives - that says enough for me) Perhaps some trying-to-be-hip R.E.M.

All in all, this story was starting to feel like a miserable and failing idea.

I walked right in! It was 6:31 PM and the place wasn't nearly half full yet. Not a soul questioned me or asked for any sort of identification. I found a round table in a far back corner and set my satchel on the table. I scanned the place for drink service and was pleased to see they had a full well at no charge. The buzz of conversation soaked the place and no music was to be heard. I cracked open a Foster's and started shuffling through my discs.

"You some sort of reporter?" a gruff jagged voice asked. I looked up and was caught in the cold stare of John-fucking-Wayne. He stood a semi-solid six and a half feet tall and looked as though he'd taken every election the past 40 years on the face. Wizened was written for men like this. I almost shuddered.

"Uh, yeah, sort of", I said.

"I figured. Your kind always seem to be prepared for the worst." He nodded toward my foaming beer.

"Uh, well, yeah. I've come to find that these things aren't always what they're cracked up to be. Want one?"

"Naaah, got my own." He smiled and pushed a small blue cooler up to the table with his foot. Pulling up a chair, he slid the box open and grabbed a dripping cold can from within. He cracked it open and took a long draw from it and then pulled a hand wrapped cigar from his pocket.

"What you writin' about? The election I s'pose, eh?"

"Sort of", I replied sheepishly. "Actually, I write about music. I was gonna see what type of stuff the Republicans listen to at a thing like this."

He let out a low cynical chuckle.

"I'm not sure that'll do you any good son. I don't think people tidy up that well."

He had a point and conveyed it with keen authority. He knew what I was getting at without me even laying hint to it, and I felt like diving through the little hole in my Foster's can and drowning myself. I took a gulp, too much of a gulp, and belched.

Roger lifted his now half-empty and mocked a toast. I returned the weak gesture.

"Anyhow", he barked as he drained his beer, giving the can an effortless squeeze. "I could use a little something stronger. But, the bar here don't open until the polls close down." He leaned over, shuffled some ice, and produced another glistening can from his stash. "So, what kind of music do you listen to boy?"

Turns out that it didn't matter what these people listened to at the local Grand Old Party shindig (although the first [and last] thing I remember hearing was Little Jimmy Scott belting out "Mood Indigo" - not a bad selection at all). Roger James was right; what good does that do? People just aren't that tidy - although we spend an awful lot of time and energy trying to make it all that simple. Roger himself was a veteran of the Korean War ("they used to just call it a 'conflict'" he constantly reminded me) who refused - not overtly - to speak about his experience. His lovely second wife Nell, who happened to be the Republican of the two ("I don't accept labels" Roger laughed), filled me in on Roger's story. He'd enlisted in the Army at age 18 "just to get the fuck out of the town I was born in". He wound up buried alive for three days in a foxhole that was relentlessly mortared for hours. Pvt. James and one other were dug out alive. James lost a lung but got a ticket back to the same town he'd been running from. When he finally got home he didn't even go home, a friend stopped by his parents house inquiring as to when Roger got back. His mother in shocked surprise said that she didn't know he was home, just that he'd been injured badly, was alive, and would be shipped home when stable. The friend replied that he had just seen him driving around town in a new used car.

I ask James about this story and he pauses. He then runs his slender freckled fingers across his chin thoughtfully. "Yep, that was me, and that's exactly what I did. Got me an old Chevy and just drove around...for three days."

I survey if it would be uncomfortable for him to explain why. He laughs. "Because I could, friend. Because I could."

"What were you thinking about all that time?" I pushed.

"Ha!" he smiled. "Girls.cars. I listened to a lot of music too. Like you do, you know? Turned that AM radio up so loud that it didn't seem as if it would ever get loud enough."

What did he listen to? I had to find out. I had to know.

"I knew you'd ask me that," he cackled. "But to tell you the truth I don't remember. Ol' rock an roll, popular tunes, whatever was music. Just wanted to hear something other than...just wanted to hear music."

We both took long quiet swigs of beer.

"Whatchyou listen' to there boy?" he nudged at my discs. "Anything I'd like?"

At his sixty-four years old, I doubted it.

"Wanna listen? I have a headset here..."

"No, I don't listen alone no more" he said turning for his jacket. "C'mon, grab something and let's go for a ride, I gotta get me some more drink. And this fuckin' place is gettin' to me."

He grabbed his little cooler and I stashed my last Foster's in a jacket pocket. I guess we'd stopped discerning the ebb and flow of the swollen crowd as returns spewed from a half dozen televisions around the room. I put my hat on, slipped a disc in my pocket and walked out of that place. It felt like someone took a humdred pound weight off of my chest and I could finally breathe again.

I'd have wagered Roger to be a pick-up truck type of guy, and this time I would have been right. We saddled up in the cab of a truck that sat high enough to look down on the SUV beside us. It was a newer model and had a CD player onboard. As we wheeled out of the parking lot Roger told me to "toss the thing in". I grabbed the disc from my pocket and slipped it into the wincing slot. Josh Ritter's guitar plucked slowly at first, then picked up as he whisper sang:

If I could trace the line than ran / between your smile and your slight of hand / I'd guess that you put something on my sleeve

Roger seemed to smile. Golden Age of Radio. We drove around listening to this cat named Josh Ritter beat any connection to traditional folk music into a series of quiet dissipating memories. We stopped at a convenience store and Roger grabbed another six-pack and I gathered up a forty ounce Bud. We drove quietly back to the story I'd been seeking only knowing that I'd found another. Josh Ritter was singng about leavin'.

"Jimmie Rodgers," James said quietly.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Jimmie Rodgers...he's the one I listened to in the car that day. I'd heard a lot of songs, but 'ol Jimmie was the only one I listened to. His voice was like someones soul singing out. Just seemed like he knew, ya know? Just seemed like he knew the score before he even got into the game. It took a two tons of dirt for me to figure it out."

We got back to The Cragen only to finally become aware of the sadly historic bent that was developing in this election. There were smiles and tears. There was anger, confusion, and oddly enough, fear. I'd noticed that the sound system was playing "Yellow Rose of Texas". I walked quickly over to the table where some of my stuff lay and nobody noticed me at all. They sat around dumbfounded and staring at others on the television that looked even more foolish. I didn't bother to say goodnight to my new friend, I just got the hell out of there. I turned on the radio to listen to more election coverage but found myself drawn in to the AM cackle of Neil Diamond and Babs Streisand yowling "You don't bring me flowers / You used to sing me love songs". I listened to every last note and shook my head.

I got home and left the house dark, stumbled around to my stereo, and tossed Josh Ritter into the machine. Track 10 - "Lawrence, KS." the plaintive dispirited ode of a man who can't reconcile the instinct to keep moving on with the hopelessness of where it'll all take him. People aren't so tidy are they?

November 20, 2000

We still have no president-elect, but we all keep waking up every morning, having our coffee, and read our papers. People, it seems, are becoming hoarse and tired. A certain piece of everyone's American Dream has been peeled away like a scab on this wound that won't heal - and there seems to be no solace. When it's all said and done many people will have departed whatever innocent faith they had in the possibilities of that Dream buried deep within themselves. Roger James left his buried in the dirt on a cold Korean hillside.

I looked up Roger's reference - Norman Mailer's piece titled "Ego". "Everything we have done in this century, from monumental feats to nightmares of human destruction," Mailer wrote, "has been a function of that extraordinary state of the psyche which gives us authority to declare we are sure of ourselves when we are not." It was only then that I figured out the score Roger spoke of myself. It's never so obvious, but in these Days of Fear, nothing is ever gonna be. Then I muttered out loud to no one in particular, "Ego my ass!"

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