Hank was my father. My teacher, my buddy, my mentor, my hero. When I bought my first Hank CD, 20 Golden Hits, I could feel myself being pulled back 50 years into the front row at the Ryman Auditorium. Hank was up there, knee-knocking and yodeling out “The Lovesick Blues,” while the honky tonk girls rushed the stage, breezing by like a cloud of honeysuckle with an aftertaste of Maker’s Mark. And when Don Helms would whine out the opening strains of “Cold, Cold Heart” on that steel guitar, Hank Williams was the undisputed king of Nashville.

            But Hank wasn’t my father. We never hung out, we never traded songs, and when I was born it had already been a long 39 years, four months, and twelve days since ol’ Luke the Drifter died in the backseat of his powder blue Cadillac on New Years’ Day 1953. And yet, when I hear him drawl out over my iPod “If the good Lord’s a-willing and the creeks don’t rise, we’ll see ya again ‘fore long,” it’s an easy oversight to make. I can forget that the guy from Hootie and the Blowfish is being billed as a top country act. I can forget a few years ago there was hit country song called “Honky Tonk Badonka-Donk.” Even for three minutes I can forget those things, so I might as well be back half a century when no one could have believed such atrocities would happen.

            People love to throw around the line “If you play a country song backwards you get your wife back, your dog back, your truck back, and your job back,” but things go wrong in country because things go wrong in life, and no one knew that better than Hank. He was the country-fried Shakespeare of the backwoods and the cotton fields, with a quill dipped in the tears that everyone sheds but no one likes to talk about. It’s as if he walked into every home in America and personally asked every person “What’s wrong, pal?” “What’d he do to you, darlin’?” “How’s that make you feel, son?” He knew what made them hurt, and he knows what makes Jim Gedda hurt. And chances are he’s going to know what makes people hurt 50 years from now, as long as men and women fall in and out of love.

            Hank’s not for everybody, and I’m not going to claim he is. But for me, all it takes is a lonesome fiddle, a whining steel guitar, and the simple eloquence of a cowboy who, at one point, went by the name “Hiram.” I’m not from the country, I’ve never known a hard day’s work in my life, and I couldn’t ever hope to accurately describe “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, and filet gumbo.” And sure, Hank’s French was a bit off when he sang, “Tonight I’m gonna see my ma chaz ami-o.” But from the first time I put in that CD, those old songs put an arm around my shoulder and said “This one’s for you.” Just wait until the next time you feel like you just can’t face another morning. Be sure to keep an eye out for a powder blue Cadillac.

Detective Milton struck the match and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette he held between his lips.  His eyes were tired, but sharp and focused nonetheless.  He adjusted his hat, unbuttoned his overcoat, and crouched by the body, peering into the dead eyes of a dead man.

   The blood had pooled in the mortar grooves of the brick street.  It had stopped flowing and was beginning to thicken.  The bricks the blood flowed between remained dry save for those immediately beneath the dead man’s head.  There were no signs of injury on the side of the head that was exposed to the detective’s eyes, though more blood caked the man’s scruffy hair.  It, too, was beginning to dry, but still gave off a telltale sheen in the gaslight of the streetlamps.

   “Has the corpse been moved or touched in any way?”  The detective spoke in a voice as weary yet sharp as his eyes.

   “No sir, Detective,” said the constable who’d discovered the body a few hours earlier.  “I merely checked for a pulse, being careful not to place my hands on any part of the body covered in blood.”

   “Was the blood in the mortar cracks flowing when you happened upon this place?”

   “If it had been, I was not aware of it.  It seems thicker now than when I first saw it, Detective, but there appears to be no more of it now than before.”

   “Have you searched the body for identification of any kind?”

   “No sir, I thought it best to leave that to someone of your stature.  I’m not much of an investigator, you see.  I just walk my beat and handle the drunks, vagrants, and thieves.”

   “Was there any person nearby when you discovered the corpse?  Any passers-by then, or whilst you were awaiting my arrival?”

   “No sir.  Quiet as a tomb, it’s been.  All night.”

   “Is that usual for this area at this time of evening?”

   “Quite so, sir.  It’s rare to see anyone about after nine o’clock, even more so after ten.”

   “Is there anything else, small though it may seem, that you could tell us?”

   “Not that I can think of, sir.”

   “Very well.  Thank you, Constable.  You can return to your patrols.  If I need to speak with you again, I shall leave word at the station.”

   “Thank you, Detective.”

   The constable left, leaving only the detective and the gray-haired coroner that stood beside him.

   “Well,” began the detective, “let’s turn him over, shall we?”

   The body had been on its stomach this entire time, a tweed jacket, brown trousers, and black, recently shined boots being all that was visible in that position.  The detective and coroner knelt by the body, being careful so as to disturb as little of the blood as possible, and carefully reached under it to turn it on its back.  The dead man’s jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a white shirt with red patterned stitching under a pair of matching red suspenders and a deep crimson bow tie.  The side of the man’s face that had been lying upon the street was badly bruised, and his temple on that side had a deep gash.

   “Well,” said the detective, “what do you make of this?”

   The coroner studied the corpse a moment before providing the detective with his opinion.  “I would say that this man had been dead less than an hour before his corpse was happened upon by the constable,” he said.  “It seems clear that the wound he suffered on his face bled until the poor fellow no longer had enough blood coursing through his veins to keep him alive.  Moreover, the blood on the opposite side of the man’s head indicates, to me, that he was likely knocked unconscious after the initial laceration to the face.  He bled to death while unconscious in the middle of the street.”

   “Then it stands to reason that the murderer may not have intended to kill this man.  Had they, then they would not have done it, as you say, in the middle of the street.  Likely, a dispute arose between this man and another party, which led to a physical altercation.  The other party slashed the victim’s face, and then beat him upon the head, knocking him out.  Fearing that he’d killed the poor man, and wishing to avoid facing the consequences of his action, he fled, the irony being that his flight was the likely cause of death, for if he had attempted to help the man, he may have saved his life.”

   “That certainly seems a reasonable line of deduction, detective.”

   The detective nodded and took a final drag from his cigarette before standing and dropping it in the drying pool of blood next to the dead man’s head.

   “Take the corpse to the morgue and see if you are able to ascertain the man’s identity, and any more evidence that could tell us how he was killed.  Be sure to send along a report to my station by Monday.”

   “Monday, sir?  Do you think it wise to wait that long before investigating further?”

   “I think,” said the detective as he walked toward the horse-drawn-carriage taxi that had brought him to this scene, “that this man’s killer will never be found.  There were no witnesses, and the man’s death appears to have been an accident.  Therefore, it is very unlikely that any evidence we uncover from the corpse will lead us to his killer.  And, to speak quite frankly – and, you must understand, this is not to be repeated to any other person – our resources are spread quite thin, and there are more pressing issues for us to be concerned with than an accidental murder that is quite unlikely to result in an arrest, much less a conviction.”

   With that, the detective entered and closed the door of the carriage cab.  The driver cracked his whip and the horses sprang to life, carrying the carriage and the detective inside to their next destination, as the coroner watched it recede into the distance, stunned beyond the ability to move by the detective’s parting words.

The carpet has that vomit green color that always looks dirty no matter how many times the underpaid maids feign vacuuming it. In the pressboard nightstand drawer there’s an ironic Holy Bible that hasn’t been thumbed through in five years’ worth of hourly room rentals. The springs creak and whine expectantly, like an old man getting out of his recliner. The orange glow of parking lot lights seeps through the window onto the wall, where two shadows merge like storm fronts. The woman in the hiked up skirt plays the same part she plays every night, an “Ooooh” here, a “Yeah” there, with all the life of a department store mannequin in her eyes. The man is too naïve and too lost in his own sin to critique her performance. As the bed trembles and knocks against the nightstand, a wedding ring rattles and rolls to the sickly green carpet. 

Eagerly, the clumsy but adept little boy clung to his childish glee. He walked through the halls of the Sisters of Destruction, only slightly aware of his surroundings. After all, he was but a boy and had no need of being circumspect.

Though it had scarce begun to approach midday, the child’s shadow was in the process of lengthening when the first of them, Lachesis, spoke to him.

“Poor child,” she murmured. “You are lost, you must be.” She continued in such a fashion, with the most nurturing of voices. “Let me care for you, I have much to give. So much to offer… you poor, poor child.”

Cautiously, but without hesitating, the boy replied. “Well, I must be honest, ma’am. I haven’t a clue where I am, or how I’ve arrived here. I just… sort of am.” He smiled sheepishly.

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“Anything in the car I need to know about?”

One has to be delicate when informing an officer of the law that you’re carrying almost a quarter ounce of shrooms. Comedic timing and tone are both essential. Or, if you’re feeling like your social skills aren’t up to par, omitting that fact entirely is also an appealing option. What you might also choose to omit is the fact that you’re .BAC is .29, which is enough alcohol to put a 7th grader in a long, drawn-out coma. Fortunately for you, the police officer doesn’t suspect that anyone would be twelve Steel Reserves in at 2 P.M. on a Tuesday afternoon. Feel free to speculate about my priority list at this stage in my life. Spoiler alert: skewed.

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