I wouldn’t let anyone refer to it as “Nashville”; it was either “Cashville” or “Nash Vegas” or “Cash Vegas.”
My pilgrimage to the Music City began early Friday morning as my fellow pilgrims rolled me out of bed and into a Tahoe.
The previous night I had stayed up far too late singing karaoke in my living room.
Yes, I have a karaoke machine.
The next time they woke me up, we were in Meridian, Mississippi, and it was time to switch drivers and smoke a cigarette.
I had many reasons to travel to Cashville: to make sure the Tigers beat Vandy, to meet up with an old foreign friend and to become a famous Country-Western singer.
I-59 through Alabama was long, and Tuscaloosa smells funny.
Just before we reached the Tennessee line, we stopped at a Dairy Queen -Stuckey’s Combo, and when I asked the cashier for a steak finger basket she looked at me like I was crazy.
“We don’t have steak fingers. I’ve never even heard of it,” she said.
It was like all of a sudden I was white trash because I wanted steak fingers and white gravy, and she was the civilized one because she worked in an establishment that sold glass-blown dolphin wind-chimes and rocks.
Just then a funny looking man in a red Dairy Queen visor walked out from the kitchen and asked the cashier if there was a problem with the chubby fella in the purple hat.
Have you ever had the feeling like you were Ned Beatty in Deliverance?
I left quickly, and without any white gravy.
We were finally there, and Broadway was lit up. Second Street was bustling with tourists, as soft, melodic music poured out of every bar door – except for one … the one I walked into.
“They kicked me out because I turned my hat around backwards,” a young man slurred as he walked passed us in front of “Bar Nashville.”
They wanted to go somewhere like “Fred’s.” After all it was the night before an LSU game.
This was not Fred’s. This had a cage, where pregnant girls danced on poles and pointed down to sleeveless shirted men in Tennessee Titan’s garb. They didn’t even serve Bud Light.
But we danced anyway. A few of us turned our hats around by habit and found ourselves on the curb outside or in better bars, but for the most part – that’s where we were.
The next day, I meet up with my friend, and LSU won the game, and I knocked ’em dead at a Karaoke joint, becoming a famous Country-Western singer.
“So God Bless the boys who make the noise on 16th Avenue.”
Jay has many friends in low places.
Contact him at [email protected]