(c) INNISFREE 1986 [Please do not use without
author's permission]
RATING: General
JUKEBOX HERO
Dusk. Dark descending slowly, the horizon a vague
shimmer of something unseen. An old knotty oak tree,
bare limbs scratching the reddish skyline. It all
looked bleak and bleary to Tom Winston as he rocked
with the wind on his motorcycle. It was that indistinct
time between daylight and darkfall, and he had slowed
in awe of the Mississippi delta landscape, a flat portrait
in amber mystery.
Tom's eyes scanned the fields that stretched into
forever, and the flat two-lane blacktop ahead. He
shifted gears and roared along -- on his way to nowhere.
Tom Winston recalled the fist-fight earlier
with his violent step-father; Tom had knocked
him on his ass, and with due cause. The creep
was beating his mom and had a gleam of lust in
his eyes when he looked upon Tom's younger sister,
MaryLee.
Life had been torn and confused since his mom
had married Jake Simcoe, a man who'd walked
into their midst and brought loathsome behavior.
Jake drank heavily, gambled his mom's hard earned
money, and was even beginning to squander the meager
savings their dad had left in the form of a life
insurance policy. His dad would have killed Jake --
but then, his dad was dead -- an accident, the
victim of a drunk driver.
Tom pulled off the highway and stopped. The
dust settled around him, and he squinted through
his helmet shield, finally removing it to get a
clear view of the bleak countryside. It was eerily
quiet and unnerving to Tom; he listened, but no
traffic sounds could be heard, no houses could be
seen. Somehow, he'd gotten on a desolate stretch
of highway; his emotional upset had rendered him
dazed, and he couldn't remember exactly which
road had led him here.
Tom studied the shadowy twilight, the long,
long road behind him and ahead of him. Shivering
slightly, he realized he had not taken a jacket;
late fall was bringing chilly evenings, and a
sudden wind whipped through his longish hair,
reminding him of his thoughtless actions.
After the fight, he'd torn out of their small
frame house in Memphis and paid no attention
to his direction. Just to leave, to rid himself
of the despicable step-father who was ruining
all their lives!
Tom stood silently, wondering whether to
continue or turn around. He stomped the ground
and muttered to himself, worried about how he
got here in the first place. He vaguely recalled
crossing the Mississippi/Tennessee stateline,
and then just hitting backroads without any
pattern. The crooks, hills and sharp challenges
of the winding, twisting highways had been a way
of releasing his frustrations. When he'd noticed
a flat endless stretch, that too had been challenging.
He'd pushed the cycle to its limit, sometimes not
caring if he crashed -- maybe he'd be better off
dead?
Tom heard a grinding, growling sound, and
then saw headlights far in the distance; it
was a diesel truck plowing ahead with speed.
Suddenly he swung his motorcycle to face the
oncoming truck and began blinking the headlight
furiously. Maybe the trucker could give him
directions to a nearby interstate connection.
The truck came closer and closer and made
no sign of stopping; if anything, it picked
up speed. He got discouraged and quit blinking
the light. Just as quickly the diesel, now
barreling down on him, let up and geared down,
slowing to a grinding halt.
Tom hopped on the running board and asked,
"Say, mister, could you tell me how the heck
to get to the interstate?"
There was a grunt of acknowledgment, but
Tom could only see the glow of a cigarette
tip and the shadow of a man's slumped frame.
"Kid, what you doin' out here?"
"I musta took a wrong turn somewhere..."
"Reckon so, partner...less you got some
kinda trouble with the bike?"
"Nah, it's fine. I just need directions."
The man leaned over, pushed the
door open. "Climb in a second, let me
show you this here map."
Tom felt a moment of unease, then slipped
inside and was overwhelmed by the cigarette
smoke and oppressive atmosphere of the cab.
"Preciate your help, mister," he muttered.
The trucker made no move to open the map
he held, but instead took a deep drag on
his dwindling cigarette. "Kid, what you
really doin' out here in this God-forsaken
place?"
"I just got lost..."
"Been my experience, ain't nobody gets
here by mistake."
Tom felt increasingly anxious; the trucker
gave him the shakes. He stammered, "Um, well...
uh, I just took a wrong turn somewhere..."
Dead silence. The trucker tossed his cigarette
out the window and looked into the middle
distance as though he sensed something unseen.
"Look, if you don't want to help me, that's
okay, cause, uh, I..." Tom inched closer to
the door, moving his hand toward the handle.
"Ain't no way I can. We both here for a
reason, and all I can tell you, see, is where
to get some help."
The trucker was shadowed but turned his face
toward Tom; he shrugged his burly shoulders.
"Little place up the road apiece, Jukebox
Heaven. 'Bout six miles straight ahead. Man
there by the name of Hector who'll help you,
if'n you let him."
Tom strained to see the trucker's facial
features but realized there was a peculiar
blankness to the face. It could have been the
dim light in the cab, but Tom felt this man didn't
really have a face, just an image...something
sensed rather than seen. He gulped and found
his voice, "Sure, I'll stop in and get a map
there."
The trucker chuckled and switched on
the engine. Tom was startled by the power
rumbling beneath him and said hastily, "Thanks
for the advice."
"Advice, yeah, that's what you'll get at
Hector's place."
Tom didn't wait around for more of the weird
conversation; he shoved open the door, dropped
to the ground. Turning to his motorcycle,
he heard the truck rumbling away. Before he
mounted the bike, the truck had vanished,
nowhere in sight when he looked down the long
flat highway ahead. Christ, how could it have
moved that fast?
Stunned, he stood looking off at the empty,
bleak road, wondering how the truck could
have disappeared so suddenly? It was a good
ten miles straight ahead, not a single curve
or hill to obscure the diesel...
Tom was suddenly cold, almost trembling,
and not from the cool night either. He cranked
the cycle and roared away; maybe there was a
small road ahead where the trucker had turned
off the main highway? But as much as he wanted
to reason away his fear, he knew something
strange was going on here, his eyes adjusting
to the quickly gathering darkness as he sailed
along, switching on the headlight.
In the blackness of night Tom saw bright
lights appear ahead-- almost as if they'd
materialized out of thin air. An enormous
electric sign proclaimed JUKEBOX HEAVEN.
Surprisingly well-lit, several flashing neon
signs offered cheap motel rates, good eats,
and even a night's entertainment by the Jukebox
Hero.
Tom swung in, parked, and got off his bike.
He dusted himself off, glad he'd be out of
the chill windy night soon.
Walking across the small paved area, he
noticed the rundown cement-block building;
it had surely seen better days. Also, he
seemed to be the only customer on this
blustery night. But then, he wondered, who
in their right mind would be out here on this
lonely road at night anyway?
As Tom approached the screen door, he
heard a country song blasting from inside;
it sounded hauntingly familiar, but he
couldn't name which singer had this
high-pitched nasal twang that moaned
about a cheating heart...
"Well howdy son!" The old man behind a
wooden counter greeted him as he strode
inside. "Glad to have your company."
Tom saw the jukebox at once; it occupied
an entire corner and blinked brilliantly
as the country singer twanged away.
Tom's eyes quickly scanned the small
room -- it was badly in need of work
to update the furnishings. The place had
the appearance of a late 30s or 40s cafe
-- wraparound red plastic-seated booths
lining the wall, linoleum floors, a circular
wooden bar with red plastic-seated barstools,
and even yellowed posters still tacked to
the wall announcing Barnum & Bailey's
Circus coming to town.
But that jukebox, an ancient Worlitzer!
It was in super mint condition (not unknown
in these days of refurbishing bygone relics)
but somehow this jukebox seemed uncanny with
vibrant energy: It was shiny, almost sparkling,
and blasting as though it had been made yesterday.
Tom was drawn hypnotically to the jukebox
and studied it critically: It had bubbling
bulbs on either side, dramatic chrome work,
and excellent artistic touches inside the dome.
A perfect replica of a bygone era.
The old man cackled, "A beaut, huh? Every
person comes in has to look at that thing.
It's the latest to come along and folks just
can't understand how it works."
Tom was shocked out of his admiring trance;
he said, "The latest thing! This monster must
be a good fifty years old, mister!"
The old man just grinned and asked, "So what'll
it be? Thirsty or hungry, or both?"
Tom remembered why he was here in the first
place. "A map! Uh, I mean do you have a map
or could you tell me how to get to the
interstate?"
Another cackle. "They's always askin' that
same question, can't never understand that
there's only one person can tell 'em."
Tom began to sense that eerie feeling
he'd had with the trucker. "And who's
that?"
"Why, the jukebox hero, of course."
"Jukebox hero..." Tom repeated absently,
growing more uncomfortable by the second.
"Look, I know you can tell me the way outa
here!"
That piercing cackle again, then, "No way out,
'cept with him."
Tom backed nervously toward the door.
"Guess I'll be goin' now."
His words were interrupted by the sound
of a loud car engine, sliding tires on
pavement, a shriek of protesting brakes
when the motor died. Near the doorway now,
he peered out the screen at the noisy
arrival; a haggard-faced man, tall and
lanky, disentangled himself from the back
seat of a long black Cadillac. He cursed,
"Damnit to hell if I ain't bone-tired."
Suddenly, Tom recognized the songs that
were playing over and over on the jukebox
as those of Hank Williams, the country music
singer who'd died long ago. The voice still
twanged from the jukebox, louder now and echoing
inside the cafe.
Tom felt a stab of fear as he admitted this
was no ordinary cafe. Way out here in nowhere...
The lanky man strode into the cafe, banging
the screen door behind him. "Pops, you can be
on your way now, I'm here."
Tom looked toward the wooden counter,
but no one was there. He stuttered, "Hey...
what's...goin' on?"
The wind slapped the screen door around, and
it banged several times. Silence followed,
the click, clicking of the records changing
on the jukebox. A new song began, an old Ricky
Nelson hit blasting out as they stared at one another.
The man said smoothly, "I'm Hank, pleased to
meet you Tom."
Tom trembled; how did this man know his name?
"Now son, ain't no call to be afraid. I'm here
to help you. I come a long ways to talk with you."
Tom's voice croaked, "Are you, uh, the jukebox hero?"
A soft chuckle. "Hell yeah, at least for
tonight. It ain't always me, like your song
playing there, ol' Ricky's one and so are
Patsy Cline and..."
"Buddy Holly!" Tom declared, surprised he
even remembered the 50s rock and roll
singer, since his musical taste ran more
toward Grunge and Rap...
The man grinned. "Yeah, you got the idea
now. Lots of us went down before our time,
but we got a big mission back here to take
care of."
Tom couldn't stop his hands from shaking;
in fact, his whole body was weak and shaken.
He stumbled toward one of the booths and fell
into a seat. "I'm...scared."
"Don't be," Hank drawled in his slow
southern accent, soothing and pleasant
sounding. "I ain't here to hurt or harm you.
You got trouble son, and you need help.
That help is me."
Tom raked a hand through his tangled hair.
"Yeah, my step-dad, a real pain in the you-
know-what!"
Hank walked toward the boy, placing his
bony hand on his. "Let's talk it over, son.
I may be able to tell you how to work it
all out."
Click, clicking of the jukebox; Jim
Reeves' deep voice sang in a haunting
melody of distant drums calling...
Tom sighed, relieved at last to
have someone listen. "Okay, if you're
sure you want to get involved in this
mess."
The hours passed swiftly; Tom talked
non-stop, and Hank listened attentively.
It was easy to unburden to Hank; he nodded
and sighed, he seemed to genuinely care.
Around five in the morning, with the
jukebox still spinning songs of those
taken by accidental death, Hank told
Tom the solution to his problem.
"Son, I'm gonna give you a couple hundred
dollars. It's for a plane ticket to Las
Vegas, and you gotta see your step-dad is
on this plane."
"But how will I do that?"
"I'm gonna give you several extra
hundred too; you tell him you've save
this money, and you're giving it to him for
gambling. You want him to go to Las
Vegas and never come back." Hank was
chain-smoking, and lit another cigarette
as he smiled calmly at Tom's confusion.
"But he will come back, no doubt!"
Tom wailed, perplexed.
"Nah, he won't." Hank grinned knowingly,
a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. "Listen..."
Tom looked toward the corner as the
jukebox began click, clicking and
dropped another record onto the slate;
a sultry sax flowed and a deep voice
crooned out the lyrics to Ain't
Misbehaving -- an old jazzy tune
redone by...
Tom gasped. "Hank Williams, Jr., your
...son."
Hank's grin turned into a proud smile.
"Bosephus done fine, even with all
the bullshit in this business."
Tom stared at the man lost in his
own sad reflections of the past, his
haggard face now sorrowful, filled with
regret.
A rich melody surrounded them, the jazz
rendition superb; then Tom exclaimed,
"Wait! Hank Jr.'s not dead!"
"Not yet, he ain't. But if you don't
get your step-dad on Flight 211, Delta,
to Las Vegas on Saturday at noon, he will
be. Cause son, sure as hell that plane is
gonna crash, and we'll lose another talent.
Let me explain: Bosephus will be forced to
land at the Memphis Airport due to engine
problems on his private plane, but he has
to get to Vegas. There's gonna be one seat
available on Flight 211...and no way to save
the other folks aboard that doomed plane, can't
be done." His voice broke off, his eyes caught
Tom's, and there was no more need for words.
Tom stared in complete and utter amazement,
speechless. Wind banged the screen. Tom turned
to look at the jukebox, listening to the words
pouring forth, the way the bubbles looked
gurgling in the colorful bulbs, the way the
thing seemed to have a life of its own.
He turned back to see that Hank was gone,
and he was alone. The money lay on the table
tempting him.
Tom sat in the booth for almost an hour,
holding the cash, before he could bring himself
to leave. Was this a deal with the devil?
Or, more likely, a deal to trade off one soul
for another? Was it right? Surely if there'd
been a way to prevent the air disaster,
Hank would have told him -- but Tom
instinctively knew some events were
ill-fated, destined before taking place.
Right or wrong, Tom came to the conclusion
he'd been given a window of opportunity to
change the one thing Hank had suggested: His
step-dad was a cruel, violent man, capable of
future destruction. Hank Jr. was a performer
who brought joy to others -- a giver, and
his step-dad a taker. Maybe universal
justice was being played out?
The jukebox went silent. Only the glow
remained as Tom strode outdoors. Daylight
was coming; fingers of gold stroked the dawn
sky and painted the flatland in an aura of
promise. He climbed onto his bike, revved it
up and soared away down the road.
The flat highway soon gave way to curves;
he saw a sign for the interstate. The wind
was crisp, but he relished it now, thinking:
Yes! Delta Flight 211 to Las Vegas Saturday
at noon. For once the tide had turned and
luck was with him.
And all because of the Jukebox Hero, he
thought with gratitude.
Stopping to pause at the interstate
ramp, he fingered the cash in his pocket
to make sure he hadn't dreamed it all,
knowing that for a brief time the place
where twilight meets darkness, the real
and unreal, had merged and rescued him.
