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| Waits Tom Nighthawks Putnam County I guess things were always quiet around Putnam County kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane, that was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers would hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work they's be suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Day's Work until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of 2am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors, the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration as they knit their brows to cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book and the old National register was singing to the tune of $57.57 until last call, one last game of 8 ball and Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables, someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?" and all the studs in town would toss 'em down and claim to fame as they stomped their feet boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat. And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords were coughing and wheezing and they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders to weave home a wet slick anaconda of a two lane with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin' with a tool box and a pony saddle you're grinding gears, shifting into first yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse with the melodies of "see ya later" and screwdrivers on carburettors talkin' shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry roans See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs. money to borrow and goodnight kisses the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich sure can sing that sonofabitch and you weave home, weavin' home leaving the little joint winking in the dark warm narcotic American night beneath a pin cushion sky and it's home to toast and honey, start up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal where the hell are my goddam sandals and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans staring down from the knick knack shelf with the parent permission slips for the kids' field trips pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet and the impending squint of first light, that lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam and would be pullin' up any minute now just like a bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner and be blowin' its horn, in every window in town. |
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