TripLit with D. Major

One Night in Macon

“Can you sit down?”

From the aisle a lady stood making up and down motions with her hands; I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.

“What?” I asked automatically. I suspected her intent by now.

“Can you sit down?”

Did she just…no. At this moment and at this time! Yep, that’s what I thought. My brain finally figuring the strange math of her presence plus her sign language. Still, it didn’t make any damn sense. Did I mention Dwight Yoakam was playing live? And that my husband and I had braved Atlanta traffic that afternoon and headed to Macon to see the 67 year old singer/songwriter/actor perform? This was our first time seeing him. He doesn’t get around that often.

The absurdity of her request was roiling in my gut. Why me? With just about everyone in the auditorium standing in front of their seats joyfully toe-tapping and couples two-stepping in the aisles, why was my dancing causing such a disruption? Did my dancing arouse desire in her menfolk? Did I offend? Why amongst all the revelers doing the exact same thing—some better than others—did she select me to sit down?

Now Dwight had just finished one of favorites. The lyrics of “Guitars, Cadillacs” still vibrated in my soul:

Girl, you taught me how to hurt real bad and cry myself to sleep

You showed me how this town can shatter dreams

Another lesson 'bout a naive fool that came to Babylon

And found out that the pie don't taste so sweet

Now it's guitars, Cadillacs, hillbilly music

And lonely, lonely streets that I call home

And George Dickel was warming my veins and certainly might loosen my tongue enough to tell her exactly what I thought about her suggestion. I’ve often thought there’s an old timer sumbitch dwelling in my gullet. About this time, he wanted to make an appearance. If you know me well enough, you may have met him and know him by name—Ronnie Jo. Go ahead and poke the bear, lady. The gall, I thought.

A couple of comebacks ran through my mind: “Can you open your mouth so I can insert my fist?” “Can you f%#@ off?” I can make hand signals, too, lady. I was definitely going to make her repeat herself a few more times. I had hoped after she heard herself out loud she might realize how ridiculous she sounded.

“What?” I asked again.

She was resolute. “Can you sit down?”

Why didn’t someone in her party talk sense into her, lightly restrain her arm, and advise her to think again before approaching a stranger at a damn concert to sit down? I imagine it went like this:

“Nah, nah, Lyn (I have no idea what her name is, but she needs to be called something by now). It’s a concert. People stand up. People want to dance.”

“But, I can’t see!” She complained. Maybe that same person recommended she wait it out for common decency sake in case she had planned to stomp up to my seat during my favorite Dwight song. Such sage advice. If he was playing “Little Sister,” things may have got ugly. Instead, she makes her Mecca when my husband goes to the bathroom.

What irked me about the request more than anything was the fact that she didn’t lead with any of the following: “would you mind,” “I hate to ask, but,” or “sorry to bother you.” But even worse was she didn’t follow up with a “please.”

By the third time she asked me, it came off more like an order ringing true and loud.

“No, no. I heardjah,” I said. “Can you say ‘please?’”

“Huh?”

This is the part where Lyn can’t hear me. I repeat my request, but louder. It works both ways, Lyn. “Please.”

Face shattering realization. It was her turn to be shocked.

Again, “Please. Can you say please?” I repeated.

“Please” came out as though from the mouth of a scolded child.

If you put Lyn’s facial expression into a blender, hit the chop button, then puree, I’d call that look an umbrage milkshake. It’s bad enough she had to leave her seat. This was supposed to have been a quick in and out where she made her demand and got back to “enjoying” the show. She hadn’t considered the lady (me) might be hard of hearing. The friends in my salon, M’ville, have been laughing about when we meet how we can’t hear each other and the fact that we have a good ear and a bad ear. I’m still recovering from an inner ear infection from weathering the weather in the UK for three weeks and right now my left ear is dodgy. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not at that age that I grunt every time I sit down or get up, and I’m sure as hell not at the age where I sit still in my seat at a Dwight Yoakam show.

Imagine all that negative energy directed towards my swaying backside, and me totally oblivious. My wards work well. Clearly, Lyn had waited just long enough to get really pissed at me. By the time she made it to my seat, she was well past the edge of reason. Her mind control tactics had flopped—her telekinesis all wonky tonight because of the sheer number of people surrounding her, many of whom didn’t have the decency to sit down nicely while the Honky Tonk Man boogied on stage. Just so you know, Dwight is a lot like Tom Jones. It doesn’t matter what age they are, those two will always have moves. And if you’re wondering, he does still pour himself into his jeans.

Sidenote: I bet Dwight was as happy as I was when someone decided to add Lycra to denim. In 2020, at 63 years old he welcomed his first kid. I did honor Lyn’s request and rested my boots for a song or two, and it was while sitting politely in my seat that I contemplated the arrival of a child in his later years. Dickel or no Dickel, my frontal lobe was problem-solving, and a few questions were percolating. Was Dwight just like us during the lockdown? Did he live in scuzzy PJs for a week? Was this when he traded in his signature skintight jeans for loungewear? Since he couldn’t go on tour and was confined to the interior, did he finally have time to procreate and did that time coincide with stretch jeans?

I should mention that later, on my way back from the ladies’ room I saw my friend, Lyn. Her seat was four rows back from mine and she was sitting in the aisle seat: I’m sure someone nicer than me forfeited their seat so she could better see. So, it wasn’t like I was pirouetting into her beer all night.

After she returned to her seat, after she had asked me to sit down, the man in back of me said, “Those seats are sure causing y’all a lot of problems tonight.” I hadn’t considered this, but in retrospect, perhaps they were cursed. We had to kick out two ladies who had decided they’d given us enough time to show up and we had confiscated them during the second act, The Mavericks. They suggested we sit somewhere other than the seats we paid for. Uh, we’re from the big city, but it’s not like that. Later, another lady in the inside of our aisle made the poor decision of walking across folding chairs rather than in front of us to get out. She fell into me when my chair folded in (uh, duh, folding chairs) and we had to pull her out of the beartrap hold my chair had on her limbs. Too bad she didn’t have a Lyn like me who could tell her to sit down. Perhaps, this is what happens when Atlantans mix with Maconians.

I came to understand while writing this piece that it wouldn’t have mattered if my pal Lyn were front and center or even backstage because she just didn’t want to be there. She was having a moment and her moment collided with my moment. Not for long though because Dwight got to telling the background story to “I Sang Dixie” and had me rising from my seat to his singing:

On this damned old L.A. street

Then he drew a dying breath

Laid his head 'gainst my chest

Please Lord, take his soul

Back home to Dixie

Lyn, if you’re reading this I’m not sorry you couldn’t see because I’ve been there, too. Concert venues tend to attract lot of people, so if you’re not a people person or in an anti-peopling spell, give yourself a break next time and refrain from attending peoply events. I am sorry out of the thousands of dancing folk you decided to focus your irritability at being at a Dwight Yoakam show and turn it into an issue with my joy at being at Dwight Yoakam show. I am sorry that your laser focus may have caused you to miss out on listening to the stories that Dwight’s lyrics told us that evening.

See, I didn’t go to Macon to drink Dickel, wear my cowboy hat out in public, or take pictures to post on social media to say, “Look what I’m doing. Ain’t my life grand, y’all?” I went there to hear the storytelling and I came home with one to tell. I should probably thank you, Lyn, since have you something to write about for July’s “TripLit with D. Major.”

If I were clever and could actually quote Bible verses I would’ve said to Lyn, “Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with timbrel and harp.” But I’m not that clever, my memory isn’t that good, and I don’t go around quoting the Bible.

Instead of Psalms, I’ll sign off with a line from Dwight, well, a character Dwight played in Billy Bob Thorton’s movie, Slingblade. My husband and I watch it every year. Dale Samples, the villain in my book, The Bystanders, was partially inspired by Doyle’s character. You see Dwight Yoakam transcends this single performance in Macon. He’s in my blood.

Anyway, Dwight plays a nasty piece of work named Doyle and the line is from one of our all-time favorite scenes. The band members are drinking and contemplating what they need to do to get the band off the ground. If you’ve been in a band or you’ve dated or are or were married to a musician, you may have been subjected to a similar conversation amongst band members. It’s enough to drive you to the edge. Dwight’s character has had enough and yells, “We ain’t got no goddamn band” and violently kicks them out of the house calling them some choice names along the way. One of the band members says something so classic that my husband and I use the line in everyday conversation. It’s just one of those lines that applies to anything that simply “ain’t right.”

So, I’ll leave it with this line and call it one night in Macon. This is for you Lyn:

“This ain’t right, Doyle [insert Lyn]. There is something wrong with ya.