Off The Reservation

This one’s for Tim and Aivlys, and the rest of my guitar picker pals out there: In which Uncle Nash pays the price for not listening to his best friend’s advice.

Now S showed up at my house one music night, with Bruce and some of my other guitar pickin’ regulars. She was a dirty blond, tall and thin but not too, and attractive in an edgy sorta way. When our eyes met, it was lust at first sight, but as I was still in a relationship, there was nowhere for it to find surcease. We all play, and at the end of the session she pulls me aside and thanks me for “allowing” her to come over. She smells good, and let’s me know in a non-verbal way that there are possibilities. Well, I say good-night, and go back inside to my current lady, who promptly attacks me as a flirtatious cad (true), who is only interested in “what’s under a skirt”. Now that’s just not true! I’m also interested in what’s under a Blouse dotcherknow – but refrain from expressing the totality of my preferences just at that moment.

This turns out to be the beginning of the end of my present hook-ed up status, and within a coupla weeks, Nash is foot-loose and fancy free. Me ‘n Bruce ‘n Coco are shootin’ pool at the Pastime, and I ask about the “Blond with the long legs”. Bruce sez:
B. “Nuh Uh! She’s trouble with a capital T”.
Me. “What does that mean”.
B. “Don’t go there, you’ll end up sorry for sure”!
Me. “Anything that looks that good can’t be that bad”!
B. “I’m warnin’ ya, give that one a wide berth”!
Well, no more was said, and I pretty much forgot about her, as I was just out of one situation and didn’t really want another just yet.

A few weeks later, she shows up at the bar, and comes over to sit by me. I buy her a beer, and we chat it up. She seems very nice, and is touching my hand, arm, knee, and smiling up into my mug. Me 'n Bobo totally forgot my friend’s warning, and after a couple of hours, I reach for my old stand-by…………….
Me. “Do you like to swim”?
S. “Sure”.
Me. “I’m thinking of going down to a sink-hole and going skinny dipping”. Figuring this would either move things along or get me a smack.
She. “Sounds Good, I’ll get us a beer to go”.
Me. “Let’s go”.
We head out, and go to the sink-hole, spread a blanket down, and letmetallya no swimming gets done THAT day!. We fall asleep, and when I wake up she has ahold of Bobo, ready for the next round. We head back to town, and begin one of those scorching relationships where you just can’t keep your hands off each other. She’s very greedy and I’m willing, and we decide to move in together for financial advantage and physical convenience.

Now that we’re a recognized couple, we get invited to parties and other outings. Pretty early on, I find out she’s a lush and has an alcohol problem. She’s also very flirty with other men, but conversely is very jealous. It’s OK if SHE wants to talk with and hang on to a guy, but let me talk to any woman that’s reasonably attractive, no matter how innocuous the conversation, and she’s in my lap immediately, claiming her territory.
As we move through a few months, I, idiot that I am, in my youthful arrogance, become determined to “fix” the situation by being a mentor, chaperone on her drinking, as well as her friend and lover. This doesn’t work too well, as we are either squabbling or doing bone dances. She begins to accuse me of “Sleeping Around” behind her back, which I was not. The level of vituperation eventually becomes more than I can bear, and I decide to end it as gently as I can and get the hell out of there on the next thing smokin’. Well, we have a “talk”, and it goes much better than I expect it to, with both of us agreeing to quietly separate, and remain friends. HAH! I go to work, and get back late in the evening. There is a bonfire on the lawn, with all my clothes, my Gibson J-50 Accoustic, a totally irreplaceable LP collection of Blues and Rock albums garnered over about 15 years or so, and sundry other personal articles burning away. I get out of my VW mini-van and just stand there in shock. I come out of it, get in my vehicle and drive away, as I know if I go into the house, I’ll do her violence.

I start over, by getting a room from J, the house near FSU’s campus you’ve read about, and move on with my life as best I can. The owner of the Pastime, is looking for ways to increase revenue in slow times, and several of us suggest he open up the downstairs, put in a bar, and bring in small combos whom he won’t have to pay, to play music on Sundays from 1-6pm. The idea is embraced, and before you know it, there is a regular jam session going on, with more pickers than space and time will allow for. I myself sit in with a combo or two, spinning out rock and a bit of jazz-rock. The session gets some prominence with the owner digging it, as his register is chiming like church bells.

One day I get there after lunch, and sit at the bar enjoying a cold bottlabeer. Some guys I know come in and chat, while others set up on the dais to play. Folks drift in and here comes S with her new squeeze in tow. We avoid eye contact, and they go to a table. He comes over and orders two beers, and proceeds to tell me that he will kick my ass if I ever touch her again. I tell him I never touched her to do her harm, and he says that’s not what she told HIM. I said, look. What she does now and from the time we parted is no concern of mine, and best of luck to the both of you. He goes back with me thinking that’s the end of the scenario. I’m chatting with the bartender who I know, and he’s thanking me for coming up with the idea for the Sunday afternoon jam.

All of a sudden, S comes up behind me and screams “How dare you call me a c_ _ t! I turn around to confront her, and her boytoy grabs my right arm pulling me half-way off my stool, while she hauls back and fists me just under my right eye. I shake loose, gain my feet and prepare to get torn into the both of them. They bravely run away and head up the stairs. My friend who witnessed this, grabs me and tells me I’m bleeding. Sure enough, she had a ring on and an edge of it cut me about an inch below my peeper.
We get out the first aid kit, stop the crimson from flowing, and I head for the emergency room to get checked out. No big deal, as head wounds have a tendency to bleed a lot and look worse than they actually are.

Going forth, whenever a friend clued me into a potential problem child, Uncle Nash scarpered out the back as fasto as his pins could motor.