Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley

Chapter 34: Letters from Blaze

34 Letters from Blaze W e had been each other’s constant solace for over a year. During our first time apart, Depty would complete a short version of “Cold, Cold World” Months later, he would add a final verse. But this was another of those early songs that had been churning in him for years: I’ve tried for a long time But I think I can’t win I could do it all better If I could do it again Wherever I’m goin’ It’s the same place I been Ain’t it a cold, cold world? He returned to Austin at the end of the summer, ragged and edgy, full of ancient sorrows. He didn’t talk much about his experiences on the road, but the lyrics spoke for him. The perennial wanderlust was surging once again: Can’t get no job And I can’t get no rest Started out east But I ended up west And I’m so glad to be here I’m sure I would guess Ain’t it a cold, cold world? His ambivalence about performing had not gone away, and so soon after his return, he turned around and went back to Georgia, this time determined to accomplish his aims. It would be our longest separation. By then, we’d upgraded from Parkway to a furnished flat on Castle Hill Road. The new place was in a row of ticky-tack apartments with the square impersonality of a dingy motel room. It had a small separate kitchen and no amphibians in the 139 140 | Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley tub. A calico cat with mismatched blue and green eyes decided to live with us there. Melissa, we called her, was good company when I was alone. She would sun with me on the concrete breezeway outside our front door as I waited for the mailman to deliver letters from Blaze. I’d quit my job at the Night Hawk and was holding down two more: the morning shift at Les Amis, an outdoor café off the drag, and alternate nights were spent at a Mexican restaurant, La Fonda de la Noche, around the corner from Les Amis. The diner had been good training, but the new jobs didn’t require a tiara. I could show up in whatever I put on that day, and the less the better. The women I worked beside now were artists, hippies, and students from the university, all trying to make a living as painlessly as possible. The revelation—and revolution—of these jobs was that the management actually stood by its staff. We were encouraged to complain if a tip was too small. It wasn’t unusual for a waitress to throw chump change at a departing cheapskate . Customers, I decided, want from their waitresses what they didn’t get from their mothers, that is, your complete and instantaneous attention. We deflected their demands by getting stoned in the alley, or eating mushrooms before going out on the floor. At times this backfired. We had no trouble relating to the customers, but in the kitchen the cooks were hallucinating and service could be slow. After work, I’d hurry home to see what the postman had brought. I’d only heard from Depty once by phone, and I was getting concerned. Finally, a letter arrived, postmarked September 22 and mailed from Atlanta, addressed to “Little Sybil Rosendawg.” The envelope was from Allgood Music Co., a store in north Georgia where the Ralph in the letter worked. He was a musician with Buzzards Roost, the band that had christened Depty Dawg. Ralph had never seen his former roadie skinny. Dep was reintroducing his new self to old friends. For the return address, he’d written “Blaze Foley and the B.V.B’s.” Another Foley inner prize: to be backed by an all-girl band named The Beaver Valley Boys. Here is his first letter as I read it then, misspellings and all. Tues. nite Dear Sybil, I guess your pretty upset because you haven’t gotten a letter from me. But you know how I am. I’m on the bus now from Rockmart to Atlanta. I spent last night with Ralph & all day at the Letters from Blaze | 141 store. We must have played for 6 or 8 hrs. I really enjoyed it. Ralph seemed to enjoy it too. I have never really played in front of any...