The Singing Brakeman

Charles Langley

April 2006

"T for Texas, Lord it's T for Tennessee," he took a deep breath, then continued singing in that whiskey tenor that was just below the point of breaking, "T for Thelma, that gal who made a wreck outta me."

Bob James took the cigarette out of his mouth and put it beside the one burning a ridge in the top of the upturned orange crate that served as an end-table beside the chair.

Picking up the fruit-jar from the makeshift table, he took a big swig of the colorless liquor.

"Doc says nicotine and corn likker are killing me. Wants me to stop both. Crazy bastard knows TB will kill me in six months. Just wants to take the fun out of living that last six months."

He went into a fit of coughing, then lit up a fresh Camel, ignoring the ones still sending up curls of smoke.

"Those radio men in New York town are just as crazy. Took me up there and wined me and dined me. Only the stuff they give me wasn't fit to eat or drink. Give me an audition and put me on a test program on a Saturday night. No body in the whole town paid any attention, but they got letters from all over the South and the Bible Belt. And the record they made is selling."

Another swig, another round of coughing.

"They got it all wrong. Railroad man is what I am. Brakeman on the C and O. road is the what I was till they said I couldn't cut it no more and let me go. Singin's what I do for fun. They pay me good for it though. I stick it out long enough that three cents a record could mount up. Pay for my buryin' and leave a little something for Thelma. Radio program will help too, it lasts more'n six weeks. You know what she'll do with the money? Buy a red dress and high-heel shoes and go looking for another man. Can't blame her much. I ain't been much good for her."

"This here shirt is one they give me," he confided. The shirt had a button-down collar that wasn't buttoned and the sleeves had been cut off at the elbow. A logo over the pocket read "Dixie Network, covering the South."

Dwayne Pritchett, over in the corner, spoke behind his hand.

"You believe that crock? They took him to the big town to make a record? They took him anywhere, it would be to sue his sorry ass for money he owed them. I can sing better'n him. Just can't git anybody to listen to me."

"I hear tell he didn't cough once while he was cutting that record." Shorty Johnson offered, "Held it in. Session was over, he hunched over and spit up blood for an hour. One lung's gone and the other one's on the way but he sure can yodel when he sets his mind to it."

James twanged the old guitar with the extra holes to allow the little notes out and finished the refrain.

"Tried to make me believe, I ain't got that old TB," He put down the instrument and sat back, exhausted from the effort of the singing.

Three weeks later an official looking envelope arrived. Shorty opened it. It contained a check for eight hundred dollars and was marked "Broadcast fee and royalties to date". Another item was a contract with an X where it should be signed. It was for thirteen weeks of programming on the new Dixie Network. A copy of the show business paper , Variety, had the headline, "Hottest country singer since Hank Williams." It went on to say, "Bob James' first record sweeping the South. NBC assembling regional system like the Dr. Pepper Network to carry his programs."

"Hot damn," Shorty exclaimed. "Wait'll Dwayne sees this. Bob was telling the truth all along. Too bad he couldn't have lived just one more week to see it. Where's Thelma?"

"She went to Penney's," Tess said, "Something about a red dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes."

Since returning to writing three years ago, Charles Langley has published one-hundred and ten short stories, poems, or articles in magazines, ezines, or books.