Marty stood of the edge of the front porch watching it rain. He carried a water basin to the edge of the porch to wash his hair. He smiled at his Chrysler and always thought of the piece of shit cars he drove before he made it big. He dunked his head in the water and heard his daughter come out on the porch. “Daddy you washing your hair? “Yeah baby, got to down town tonight.” Water dripped on his bare feet and the porch. He looked at the yard again, the green grass was so bright and lush. It was pouring the rain. The wet made everything glisten. Water was pushing out of the drains making tin echos. Marty lathered his scalp. He danced in place tapping his feet while he leaned over the edge of the porch watching the rain. He heard a plane overhead. He thought, who in the hell is out flying in this mess?
He dunked his head. He buried himself to where the water covered his ears and the world went silent. He held his breath. He could hear his voice. He hummed in his head. He came up and the water slung itself onto his back. Dotting a small space in his tank top. He pulled a comb from his pocket and pulled it through his hair, tracing each pull with the palm of this hand fast and meticulous. He put some cream in his hands and rubbed them together and then ran them over his hair again. His palms flat and pressing. He thought he heard something but was in a hurry and decided he didn’t. He went inside and put on a white suit. He put on his sunglass, though it was raining. He prepared to drive to the Opry downtown. He figured he’d go up Franklin Road till it became 8th and then let out into town. He smiled at Marizona in the kitchen. She was already ready to go as well. A girl from down the street came over to stay with their daughter and son.
Outside Brown’s Diner Camera Men sat. They were waiting on an order of Burgers. They sipped Coca Colas. They smoked. Their California accents stuck out to the locals that passed them entering. They looked like hippies. They smelled like pot and patchouli. One woman said they smelled like a dirty dog. From their group, two women sat in the car with the AC running. One, talked to the other woman. She couldn’t have told you her name if you asked her. But they were both from L.A. and both ready to be out of Nashville. What’s with this place? They have stars why don’t they have something like a Hollywood Reporter? It’s like they are all protected in some nice little cocoon. Well they are all do gooders aren’t they? They all got religion. She laughed. She smirked and shook her head high. The other girl snorted. We should start a scandal rag here. Call it Hillbilly Babylon! Junior Sampler murders Stringbean over Hee-Haw Honey! Jamie Widener Meets For Sex Gets Smoked! Roy Acuff Is Part of a Cult!! God, doesn’t this reverence these people have for these Stumblebum hillbillies make you want to run their names through the dirt? They want to be stars don’t they? They should get treated like stars. I mean these people aren’t holy. They act like they are some damn bunch of angels because they perform in a church.
One of the men has come to the car window and asked them to roll it down. The other woman says but this ain’t LA, this is a small town. It’s homey. It kind of reminds me of where I grew up. Well, shit it’s like they never read The Day of the Locust or something. Don’t they see it’s all a game? “All they read is the Bible honey,” the man said and handed the girls the burgers and got in and backed the car out of the lot.