Some Glad Morning

SOME GLAD MORNING / Steve Yarbrough //A TOODY," HE HEARD RAE HOLLER. "Tim's waiting." IVl He balanced the guitar case on the arms of his chair, shouted "Bye" to Rae in the kitchen and wheeled himself out. Tim hoisted the guitar into the back of the pickup, then helped Moody into the cab; he folded the wheelchair and stowed it with the guitar. Cranking the truck, he said, "Got any new tunes?" "Been working on a couple." "About what?" "Extinguishment of dreams." "How come you don't write something positive?" Moody shot a long look at Tim: his jaw was full of Red Man, his thinning hair half-hidden by a NAPA parts cap. "What do you mean," Moody said, "by something positive?" "I just mean these songs you write, they're funny and all that and everybody gets a kick out of 'em, but what about you?" "What about me?" "I just been wondering if maybe they don't harm your self-image." "You been going to the junior college?" "Why the hell you ask me that?" "Self-image sounds abnormal on your lips. I figured you heard it said elsewhere, and the junior college is the likeliest place." Tim stayed quiet for two or three blocks. Finally he said, "What about your new neighbor?" "What new neighbor?" "Joe Pritchard's nephew. Just got his ass out of Parchman. I heard he was in for armed robbery. He's moved in with Mr. Pritchman and gone to work at his station fixing flats." "Better remove the keys from my wheelchair at night." Tim giggled. Moody felt relieved. Making somebody laugh at his own expense never failed to make him feel lighter. But it was a talent he could seldom command anymore. Unless he was singing. He knew he could count on it then. The sign on the boat trailer at the Beer Smith Lounge said Tues-Sat Moody Bystrom. There were ten or twelve pickups and a couple of cars in the parking lot. The bar was a windowless room with a concrete floor, bare light 258 · The Missouri Review bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Oak tables claimed the space in front of the stage. A shuffleboard stood far back by the door. Tonight Moody wasted no time. He thumped the mike once and strummed a G chord to make sure the guitar was in tune. Somebody hollered, "Sing about hurt." "I aim to," Moody said. "I've peed in the bushes with everybody here, so we'll dispense with the intro. Just get serious about your drinking and I'll sing a few tunes, mostly about loss and what not. Feel free to weep in your Millers." He started off with a fast one—"On and On"—and came right back with "My Darlin' Corey Is Gone." The sound of his voice, detached and cool, not the least bit whiney, soothed his soul. He liked himself when he was singing. Two more old ones, then: "Here's one of mine—wrote it just this morning. It's called 'The Last Time I Cared,' and here's how it goes." Last time 1 cared a bit Dick Nixon had just quit And Gerald Ford was having His brief day. Aw, but that was such a long old time ago. What I've come to I don't rightly know. But it's a fate a truck-load shares, They mass-produce these chairs. Gerald Ford was in the White House The last time that I cared. He sailed right through the stomping and the laughing into "I Got the Turn Row Blues." When he got home, it was almost midnight. In his music room he took the guitar out of its case and began rubbing Fiddle Brite into what remained of the finish. The guitar was an old Martin; it had an inch-long gash in the top near the bridge, action half-an-inch high. He'd owned it since he was nine years old, and it was still the only instrument he ever played, even though Rae's daddy had given him a new D-45 last Christmas. He buffed the back and sides, wiped off the...