I ran out of gas in Paiper Machet, Louisiana, on my way to a convention for freelance bumper sticker writers. My "Watch Out For The Idiot Behind Me" had become an industry classic and I was to be keynote speaker.

This was in days before there was an all-night convenience store with self-service gas pumps on every corner. There was one gas station in Paiper Machet and it would not open until 7:30 following morning. That would get me to convention thirty minutes into late registration, provided my luck held out and my tires held air.

After I shut off my headlights, only other illumination in this little corner of bayou was a thin ribbon of green and red, riding a greasy fog that I traced back to a juke joint just over tracks.

As I drew closer, smell of bar-b-q sang like a Siren in my brain and hastened my apprehensive footsteps.

The creaking door betrayed my attempt at a quick, clandestine peek at place. All eyes rolled in my direction. It was readily apparent that these good people were not accustomed to seeing an apologetic grin wearing a Hawaiian shirt and moccasins.

Relying on raw survival instinct, I sought out bartender. That gave me an excuse to turn my back on somnambulant stares of stoned citizenry, but there they were again in huge, spotless mirror. They had me surrounded.

I knew how to feign fortitude and present myself as a cool customer. After all, I was a keynote speaker, for cryin out loud. My body was inexplicably overtaken by spirit of what sounded like Zippy Pinhead on helium as I eked out, "Ya’ll got ‘nee beer?" I cast quick, accusatory glances around room, trying to pin down offending Voodoo Queen.

The barkeep silently drew a tall glass of Jax beer and sat it in front of me. I put a five on bar. He put it in cigar box that served as a cash drawer and flipped lid shut. The ghost of Barney Fife politely inquired about my change.

"Cover charge."

"Oh, is there to be entertainment?" (Kermit The Frog)

Was there to be entertainment? Were there to be alligator dreams tangled in Spanish moss long about four a.m.? Entertainment? Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Tonight, at this inauspicious watering hole, just north of who-flung-the-chunk, and due west of Bum Fox, Egypt, there was to be entertainment. Blues legend, Blind Lemon Furniture Polish was to give his farewell performance.

I may have looked and acted like a total dork, but I knew my Blues. I knew what this event meant and I silently thanked God for allowing me to be present on this, this night of nights.

I spared no expense to fly these women in from Nashville. They are, I am proud to tell You, same backup singers who did all that “Wah-ooo” stuff on C.W. McCall’s records.

I am laboring under a serious deadline, so singers and I haven’t had much time to practice. We will do best we can. I’ll play part of Trucker (imagine a Red Sovine-ish, Tex-Ritter- On-Acid kind of thing). It goes a little somethin like this:

Singers: It was a Truck Stop Christmas, With a light snow fallin down, In Penciltucky, but it could have been In any other town. The miracle that happened We may never understan, But, here to tell story Is a Truck Drivin Man...

Trucker: Well, I'z—

Singers:

A Truck Drivin Maa-aan. Wah-ooo.

Trucker:

Skewz me. I'z drivin down a stretch of Interstate, an' I'z really gettin hungry. Every time I'd hit them airbrakes, I'd hear 'em sayin, "Peeech Pie!" And my air horn was tellin me how I like my coffee: BLAAAAAK! BLAAAAK! Oh, I know I shouldn of been barrelin down Interstate, hittin my airbrakes and blarin horn like Judgment Day—that’s what too much marijuana’ll do to a man. Prob’ly why I was so hungry, too. Yeah, I’d of given a month’s pay for a big ol’ piece of “Peeech Pie!” I was tryin to remember if there was a Truck Stop on this p'tickler stretch of Interstate; that big diesel motor kept tellin me that there "Wudden! Wudden! Wudden-Wudden-Wudden!"

Singers:

Just a homesick gear jammer Runnin low on love and luck, Thinkin 'bout his woman, And talkin to his truck...

Trucker:

I was 'bout to—

Singers:

Talkin to his truu-uuck. Wah-ooo.

Trucker: I'm sorry...just kind of wave at me or somethin when it’s my turn, okay? I was 'bout to wet my pants when I came whizzin into town; lights of an unfamiliar Truck Stop caught my eye. When I walked in, there was this old waitress draggin a dirty rag across novelty mud flap display. She smiled at me and said, "Merry Christmas, Son." I said, "Lordee, ma'am, is it Christmas already?" She said that yes, yes it was, and I bet my jaw must of hit floor. Seemed like only yesterday it was October—that's what too much crystal methadrine'll do to a man.

She looked at me for a long time, then said, "You know, I had a son who'd be about your age. He took off drivin trucks and I never did hear from him again. I kept hopin he'd stop in here one day—preferably at Christmas, so I'd get a double dose of willies."

Well, I put my coffee back in cup and said, "Ma'am, you can call it coincidence if you want to, but I had a mother who'd be about your age. I talked to Daddy day before he died, and he told me Mama had missed me so bad, she went out and got a job at a Truck Stop, hopin someday I'd stop in."

Singers: A Truck Stop Christmas— Don't it make you weep? The snow continued fallin; It was really gettin deep...

Trucker: She said she—

Singers:

Really gettin dee-eeep. Wah-ooo.

Trucker: