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We pull up to the guy and I say hi and he says, “Hi, y’all,” and bends down to look in my window, at which point Jimmy yells out “HEY!” in a happy greeting, andtheguysays,“Hey,Mr.Martin!”cheerfully,andJimmy,lookingacrossmeout mywindow,hollersback,“MisterMartin?Mister?JustsayJimmy....I’mgoin’rabbit huntin’ tomorrow. . . .” Awomancomesover,anotherguard,alsobundledupandcarryingaclipboard; she approaches, hollers, “Hi, Jimmy. You got you a driver now?,” and Jimmy says, “Who is this? Candy?” “Yes,” she answers, coquettishly, and Martin says, “Candy . . . I love you.” “I love you, too,” she answers. Jimmy says, “Can we just pull in over heresomeplace?”andtheguysays,“Justpullinthedock,overontheothersideof the van,” and Candy says, “Over on the other side of that van, there by the canopy inthatseconddock,”andJimmysays,“JustwhereIcangetoutofeverybody’sway,” and they both smile and say, sure, go ahead, and as we start pulling away, Martin hollers, “LOVE you. MERRY CHRISTMAS!” As we pull away, I breathe deeply in relief;theyknewhim,theywerehappytoseehim,hewasongoodtermswiththem, and I begin to think that the evening might smooth out after all. A tall, rangy lookingguyindenimwithacowboyhatandcarryingaguitarcaseiswalkinginfrontof the limo, toward the entrance in front of us, and I slow down a little. “I don’t want torunoverthisguywiththeguitar,here,”Iexplain. “Fuck ’im,” Martin says. I get the limo situated right next to a loading bay; before we get out Martin finds the bottle of Knob Creek, which he had been looking for, and we both take swigs, then we get out and head for the stage door. Swarmsofpeoplemillaroundinsidethebrightlylitreceptionarea,underthe gazeofasecurityofficerandatough-lookingmiddle-agedladyatthesecuritydesk; peoplearegreetingeachother,comingandgoing,musicianswalkinginwithinstrumentcases ,andthefirstimpressionisofahighschoolonthenightofabigbasketballgame .TheladyatthedeskknowsJimmyandwavesusin,andbeforetenseconds havegoneby,heissaying,“Hey!Willie!”toashortguywithshort,salt-and-pepper hair and a well-trimmed mustache. His name is Willie Ackerman, a drummer who playedonanumberofJimmy’srecordingsinthe1960s.“Iputthebassdruminbluegrass music,” he says. “Good to meet you,” I say. We mill along together for a few momentsinthecrowdandheandMartinexchangesomesmalltalk. I am at the Grand Ole Opry, backstage. It feels, indeed, like a big night at the highschool,downtotheputty-coloredmetallockersthatlinethehall,thedressing rooms off the hall, with people crowding in and spilling out into the general stream—laughter,snatchesofjokes,andgossipoverheardasyoupassalong—the hallsevenhavethesamedimensionsofahigh-schoolhall,crowdedwithpeople, menandwomen,menwithverydyed-lookinghairandrhinestone-studdedsuits and guitars around their shoulders; at one point I recognize Charlie Louvin, of the Louvin Brothers. I follow Jimmy, who is alternately oblivious and glad42 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 42 handing people as if he’s running for senator. He attracts a fair amount of attention , even here, where flamboyance is part of the recipe. Eventually, we come to the dark, cave-like stage entrance, with heavy curtains going way up into the dark rigging above. The curtains at the front of the stageareclosed,andIcanheartheaudiencefilinginoutfront.Peopleinthisarea comeandgowithamorefocusedsenseofpurposethanoutinthenoisyhalls;by theentrancetotheareastandaguitaristandanotheryoungmanandwoman,harmonizing a bit. We walk into the bright, comfortable green room, just to the left of the stage entrance, and someone, a big man with stooped shoulders, comes over to Jimmy. “Jimmy, how you doin’ there?” he says, putting his arm around Martin and shaking his hand. “How’s the old Hall of Fame member?” “Well,” Jimmy says, “I’m a Hall of Fame member, and the big booker ain’t booked me shit.” Glancing at me a little embarrassedly, the other guy says, “Well, you never know;tomorrow’sabrand-newday.”Westandforaminutelisteningtothelittle group singing their song. “They’re singing some bluegrass right over there,” the man says. Martin grunts. This must be difficult for him being here, I think, like crashing a party. He seems to go in and out of his drunkenness; sometimes he’s lucid, other times he has trouble putting a sentence together. Now another man comes up and asks him, “Are you on the Opry tonight?” Martin says, “No. They won’t let me on it.” “Well, when are you going to get the hell on it?” “Hey,Charlie,”Martinsays,grinning,“Icangetoutthereandsingitandput it over!” “I know it. I’ve seen you do it. Get out there and sing one.” Martin seems pleased by the encounter. He gets the two guys seated; he’s goingtotellthemajoke.Twowomenarewalkingaroundashoppingmall,carrying heavy baskets full of all the stuff they bought. They get tired at one point and theysitdown.Afterthey’vebeensittingfifteen,twentyminutes,oneofthemsays, “I tell you, I got to get up here; my rear end done plum went to sleep on me.” The other one says, “I thought it did; I thought I heard it snore three or four times.” Greatlaughteratthejoke.“Nowyoubeatthat,goddamnit,”Martinsays,triumphantly . We walk away, toward the stage area. This is going okay, I think. He’s seen some old friends, his ego’s getting stroked,peopleseemtolikehavinghimaround.Whoknows?,Ithink.Maybethey...

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