Fast Freight By Jim Watkins Billy Austin struggled to catch his breath more than usual that night a

Fast Freight
By Jim Watkins

Billy Austin struggled to catch his breath more than usual that night as he loaded up his gear in the pickup truck for the drive to Patrice’s Pub. The guitar case and microphone were easy, but the heavy amplifier and the too-big floor monitor had started killing his back and shoulders. His chest felt heavy on this night, something he’d never noticed before. Like there was a dog lying on top of him, as he once heard a guy describe it. His neighbor was sitting next door on his porch. “You okay, Billy?” “Yup,” he managed to answer. Strangest of all, just as the pain in his chest set in, he heard a song in his head he hadn’t played or even thought about in years. But he knew every word of it:

“As I listen for the whistle, lie awake and wait Wish the railroad didn’t run so near
‘Cause the rattle and the clatter of that old fast freight Keeps a-makin’ music in my ear”

“Fast Freight” was a Kingston Trio song from 1958. His Pop bought the record, and Billy played it incessantly, always picking up the needle and moving it back again and again to “Fast Freight.” It wasn’t a typical song for a ten-year-old; it’s about a man, who before leaving the tracks behind, was a bum; a hobo they were called back then, who gathered to drink in dusty trainyards before sneaking aboard box cars heading for anywhere the track took them. Ten-years-old, and Billy didn’t just hear the song. He already felt it. He got a cheap guitar and learned some chords. One night when he was 15, his sorry drunk of a father walked out of their dingy house and never walked back in. He knew his mama wanted to do the same. When he turned 20, he grabbed his instrument, and took off for the tracks. He didn’t say goodbye.
The other hobos and tramps called him Guitar Billy. His ax was his one worldly possession; by this time, he knew how to play it, and he could sing. All the hobos from Tacoma to Tallahassee had heard of young Guitar Billy, and knew that when he emerged from one of the boxcars, it meant a little joy would be theirs for a night. Billy always slept half-draped over the top of the guitar case, a knife beneath him to keep the pawn shop vipers from getting any ideas.
It was the life he’d imagined for himself when he heard “Fast Freight.” It was a haunting, ominous song, a single minor chord thrumming through it like a siren pulling him toward rocks of unknown antecedent. It had him always clinging to one thought: wherever he was, somewhere else must be better.

“Heeare the whistle blow, heeare the whistle blow
Clickity clack, clickity clack
The wheels are singing to the railroad track
Well, if ya go you can’t come back If ya go you can’t come back”

And fourteen-years into the life he chose, barely a mile from his final encampment, he found his “somewhere else”: a little cantina, called Patrice’s Pub on the rent-a-sign out front, so close to the railroad track, you could hear the rumble and feel the rhythm of the rails. Patrice was sweeping the porch when he walked by with his guitar case, looking for food. She looked up. “Howdy” she said “You a picker, hon?” Billy nodded. “Maybe that’s what we need around here,” glancing about the empty parking lot that just looked like it was going to stay that way.
She thought for a minute. “You interested in playin’? Wanna start tonight? Unless you’re really bad, it could only help.” Billy, who had learned countless songs around hobo fire pits while writing a few of his own, answered her with one word: “Sure.” Mostly for the free meal she promised him. She added letters spelling “Live Music” to her sign, and waved him in. And sure enough, starting that night, people came.
Turned out Billy was a natural entertainer. His guitar playing popped like it never did outdoors, and what he lacked in trained vocal chops he made up for with passion and pathos. Night after night, it moved cowboy wannabes in their boots and tractor caps to whoop and sing along with “Jambalaya” and “Ring of Fire,” then get misty-eyed along with their wives and waitresses for “He Stopped Loving Her Today” or one of his own soft ballads.
Whether the songs were quiet or rowdy, people loved drinking to them. Pub owners love people drinking to tunes they love, and they love the musicians playing them. Before long the “play for your dinner” arrangement turned into $150 a night, later $250 as they kept packing ‘em in. Billy was able to afford a good amplifier and monitor to reach the bigger crowds. Patrice expanded to a full-scale diner, with booths and half-a-dozen four tops in addition to a bigger bar and bigger menus. Word got around about this singer�"he’d hear Patrice answer the phone�" “Yeah, Billy’s playing tonight and tomorrow. You’d best get here early.” He was able to grab some side gigs at other pubs, crafts fairs, and tractor shows to help the bank account. Billy even allowed himself to dream that somebody important in the music biz would come in and hear some of the songs he’d written himself. Maybe be more than just a barroom singer
He never married, despite having some girlfriends who took unusually long to figure out Billy was never going to be the kind to settle down. But the music, the respect it won him, and the handful of buddies he made got him through the lonesome times.
He gradually drank less, then stopped altogether. He never could quit the daily half-pack of Marlboros.
Success came to Billy and Patrice in a 20-year blur. The beer and booze flowed, the food even became “dive chic” for a time, according to an article in a local magazine. Folks drove out from the city. The pub near the railroad tracks was the place to be.
Until it wasn’t. Other nightspots in better parts of town with better singers opened up. Billy Austin’s act was getting old and stale, and increasingly, so was Billy. He knew it from the pulled muscles and constant aches from moving his gear back and forth. The singalongs died down. There were more notes he couldn’t reach, more lyrics he couldn’t remember. There were other signs, too. But nobody ever told him, not directly. Not until the night “Fast Freight” came into his head; The night he joked with Patrice during one of their ever-briefer conversations, gasping for breath between sentences, that his gear was getting harder to load in. “‘Course it is, hon. But I don’t think that’s the equipment’s fault.” She gave an unsmiling wink and walked away. Then a snippet of the song came again:

“If you go you can’t come back”

The man was sitting in a booth facing the tiny stage before
Billy even started playing. He was anything but the usual customer at Patrice’s; young, 40-ish, with dark, styled hair, and sharp clothes.
A few songs in, the stranger hadn’t taken his eyes off Billy Austin. It made him a little nervous. He wasn’t having a good night. His chest still hurt and he was short of breath, not ideal for singing. But the young man applauded politely after each tune, usually the only customer to do so. Just my luck, thought Billy. Somebody without a cowboy hat actually paying attention, and I can barely croak out Merle Haggard.
He finished the first set, just wanting to sit quietly and catch his breath. But as soon as he put the guitar back on the stand, the mystery man waved him over, gesturing for Billy to sit down across from him.
He stood to shake his hand. “Hardy Evers. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
They sat down. “Billy Austin.”
“Oh I know very well who you are, Mr. Austin. May I call you
Billy?”
He half-smiled and nodded.
“Well, I know you and your music very well, I should say.”
Billy looked puzzled. “How’s that? I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.”
“Not many people do, wherever I go. But I know the people
I need to know”
“And why do you need to know me? I’m not exactly an up-and-comer in the music business, if that is indeed your racket.” Billy felt a sharp ache in his upper left arm.
“It’s one of my rackets, as you put it. I keep an eye on artists, see which way things are going in their careers as time goes by, hand out some advice and observations, if they’re wanted.”
Billy looked down and half-smiled. “I suppose advice and/or observations from a music business man are always in order. You’re about 25-years late, though. I used to write my own songs. People liked ‘em. Thought once they might be my ticket to the big time.”
“I know,” Evers said. “It must have really hurt when Patrice told you to ditch the originals and only do covers.”
Billy looked up in silence and took his first really good look at the man; a furrowed, slightly frightened look. “How’d you know about that?”
“I just watched a full set of all covers. Just a guess. Why do you suppose the change?”
Billy found himself more irritated by the memory of Patrice’s demand than he was creeped out by Evers’s apparent mindreading.
“She says people don’t want to hear songs anymore they don’t already know. Bad for bar business. I wrote a love ballad years ago called “Lost in Caroline.” Couples got up from their tables and slow-danced to it, sometimes would even request it again later. Now “Sweet Caroline” is all they want.”
Evers looked at him with apparent sympathy. “I know, I heard it in the first set. Didn’t seem to generate much of a singalong.”
Billy’s head snapped up at the criticism. But the dog on his chest had gained weight, and it was time for his next set. “Gotta play,” he mumbled. Another train rumbled by. It seemed louder and closer than before.
He sat on his stool and hiked his guitar to his thigh, his years of standing and playing long-since retired. Hardy Evers stayed right where he was, hanging on every syllable Billy sang. The lyrics and chords all scrolled by on an iPad mounted next to his mic stand, ever since Billy had gradually begun forgetting them. A neighborhood boy had to teach him to upload the songs and set the iPad to scroll at the right tempo. But the technology was confusing for Billy, and when the words started scrolling too fast or too slow or just stopped altogether, he had to simply stop playing. Lately people weren't paying enough attention to even bother being embarrassed for him. Once after he had to end a song because of a scrolling glitch he caught a glimpse of Patrice, shaking her head and looking disgusted. He used to know by heart every lyric and chord of every song; but memory fades, even with the things in his life he swore could never be forgotten. And again, the voice, as the train rumbled by:

“Go bum again. Go bum again,”

The second, final set�"he used to play three, four on wild nights�"was no better. Not a single sound of anticipation or excitement was made when he kicked off what used to be crowd favorites. Not “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” not “Brown-Eyed Girl.” The trains, going non-stop now, were the only music in the dusty old diner. Billy was barely even background noise.
His last song ended with clapping only from Hardy Evers, looking as sharp and alert as when he’d arrived. He waved Billy over again, but Billy pointed to the restroom behind the bar and headed that way. He glanced up at the chalkboard naming next weekend’s entertainment. His name wasn’t on it anymore.
Instantly his knees felt weak, the dull chest ache had turned into a stab, and it was all he could do to get from the bathroom back to the booth. Now he knew why Hardy was here.
“Tough set, Billy. Those high notes have gotten too high, the low notes are down to a growl. And now you’ve been fired.” Again, Billy looked at him in disbelief.
“No trick to that,” said Hardy. “I saw the chalkboard.”
Billy felt dizzy. “Why do you even care? Who are you? The devil? God?”
Hardy paused. “Neither. I’ve come to save you from torturing yourself any further. Music seems eternal, but like everything it has a time, for both the greats and the unknowns. And the time comes to an end. It always comes to an end.”
Billy grimaced in pain. The restaurant was empty
“I can see the energy leaving your body, Billy. I believe this is your final gig.”
But suddenly Hardy’s eyes brightened. “But you still have one more song to play before…before you go. You know the tune, it came into your head today for a very special reason. It’s the song that’s always been in your head, and the song to help you know where to go now.”
Billy slowly turned and looked back at the stage.
“Go ahead. Play it, Billy. Play “Fast Freight.” Hardy glanced at his watch. “You’ve got time for one more verse.”
Billy stood. The pain shooting through his body was suddenly gone. He walked steadily to the stage, sat on his stool, and began chugging the E-minor chord in precise syncopation with the pistons of the passing locomotive. He remembered every word and chord, and in a surprisingly strong voice, Guitar Billy Austin began singing his final words:
“So every night I listen, wonder if it’s late
In my dreams I’m riding on that train
I feel my pulse a-beatin’ with that old fast freight
And thank the Lord I’m just a bum again

Billy looked down at the floor until the vibrations from the last chord evaporated. He looked up. Hardy was gone. The amps and other equipment, he knew, would be divvied up in the morning. He put on his heavy winter coat and stepped out into the black night. Then Billy suddenly stopped, turned, and went back inside. He took his guitar off its holder and placed it into its battered case, closed the latches, grabbed the fraying handle and once again walked outside. He headed into the exact part of the woods he’d headed out of so many years earlier. Peering toward the boxcars, he saw in the distance three hobo fires burning in rusted steel drums, with the shadowed silhouettes of hard and broken men grasping out to the flames seeking warmth.
Billy disappeared into the darkness, and soon a cry went up:

“Hey, everybody look. It’s Billy. It’s Guitar Billy.”
“How ya been, Billy? It’s been an awful long time.” “So where ya think you’re headed tonight? Engineer told me there’s a fast freight leaving for Wichita. Come with us!” “But play us a song first. The one we all loved about the girl named Caroline. Would you play that for us, Guitar Billy?”

Reviews

[Ein Ashton :)]

The story of a failed success. Eventually, he found himself back where he came from, with the people that cared and loved him.

I am not even exaggerating when I say this actually made me CRY! I BURST OUT INTO TEARS BY THE END. This was unbelievably heartwarming. Extraordinary and inspiring. Bittersweet like a lemon dessert!!!!

This also got to me in a different way, since I also do music. It never occurred to me that it may not last forever. :)