Also one of her with her dad, Terrence Town, drummer and half of the decades-long partnership of songwriters of the still-touring (except in its fifth incarnation), multi-platinum R&B group, Heaven’s Gate.
I flipped the page and drew in a sharp breath.
And another photo, with me, after one of my shows five years earlier, our arms around each other, smiling big at the camera, my dad standing close and looking proud, the caption reading, With longtime friend, acclaimed rock balladeer, Justice Lonesome, and her father, the recently sadly passed legend, Johnny Lonesome, two of the strong line of Lonesomes spawned by the late, great, mythical rock god, Jerry Lonesome.
I remembered that show. It’d been in Louisville. A smallish venue but a hometown crowd. One of two sold-out, back-to-back nights. The best vibe I’d felt in my life, and there had been some good ones, before and after. But none better.
On top of the world yet sinking down in the mire.
I stared at my father, looking so proud.
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy both had careers. They were good, still toured, cut records, put themselves out there, made beautiful music that was appreciated by many, ticket sales strong, venues not arenas but nothing to sneeze at.
Neither were as good as Dad. Dad’s career rivaled Grandpa Jerry’s. Everyone said that. Even Grandpa Jerry before he died, and when he did, he said it with pride.
To the end, Dad was the closing act at festivals, teeming crowds as far as the eye could see shouting the words to his songs back at him. He rocked football stadiums, not arenas, never anything less after he hit with his first album.
Dad did nothing but soar.
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy also both had kids, but none of them had inherited what they needed to carry on the legacy. My cousin Rudy had tried, and failed, and let it make him bitter which led him off the deep end, so even Aunt Tammy didn’t see her son anymore. But he’d expected the name Lonesome (which he’d taken on, his father’s name was actually Smith—he was still a Lonesome though), would pave his way.
It hadn’t.
That life didn’t accept imposters or anyone riding coattails. You might ride for a while, but you had to demonstrate you were the genuine article and had staying power or it’d cut you out so fast, you’d wonder if it was a dream you ever got in.
Dad had been beside himself with happiness I’d entered the life.
He’d been devastated I’d decided to leave it behind.
But he’d let me leave. He’d seen the life chew people up and spit them out, his nephew not being the first, or the last, and after all that had gone down on my tour, he didn’t want to see that happen to me.
I had it, though. That’s what he said. What the critics said. What the folks who bought my album said. What Grandad said, and that was the good thing.
Granddad got to see me do it before he died.
And I didn’t end it until after he was gone.
I closed the magazine, grabbed the rest of them and went up to the cashier with them, my can of WD-40 and my bag of bite-size Baby Ruth bars (the latter the real reason I’d come in, perfect for nighttime munching while reading in bed and not requiring fridge, stove or microwave).
The cashier gave me a look when she saw the magazines.
“Lacey Town fan?” she asked.
“Big time,” I answered.
Her next look took in my clothes. It registered surprise, for Lacey was not rock or folk or alternative, she was R&B, like her dad, but the cashier said no more and stuffed my purchases in a plastic bag.
I headed out of the store, hit my truck, dumped the bag and then made the rounds. I had time to kill before I went home and now I had a mission that would kill some of it.
Small grocery store in the middle of the town that did have a magazine rack, but that rack didn’t carry Twang. All the way down to the other end of town, doing this window shopping, getting used to my new place. I hit that convenience store and went through almost the same conversation with the male cashier as I bought out their Twang.
I did this even knowing people would eventually know who I was.
So why I was doing this, I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I’d window shop every day, hang out in Carnal, become a fixture like Jim-Billy clearly was at Bubba’s and have my identity discovered (perhaps) within moments.
But I’d be around. They’d see. And someone would remember me. The cat would get out of the bag, I knew it. And in getting to know the people around me, forming relationships eventually (I hoped), I’d have to come clean.
I just didn’t want to be Justice Lonesome for a while.
Just a while.
It’d be soon enough when I had no choice but again to be me.
I was walking back with my plastic bag filled with Twang when I noticed the red Camaro I saw parked outside of Bubba’s was sitting in a parking spot not outside of Bubba’s but outside what looked to be a tailor that specialized in sewing patches on leather (if the plethora of announcements sharing that fact that were taped to the windows all around the door were anything to go by).
I would have ignored the Camaro except it wasn’t parked and empty.
A pregnant 70’s pinup was sitting behind the wheel, hands wrapped around it, the car not on, her eyes staring vacantly out the windshield.
I passed the front of the car, holding my bag close to my chest with one arm, waving at Krystal with the other hand.
Krystal didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Even though I walked right in front of her, it was like she didn’t see me.
This made me stop and slowly approach, still waving.