A NEIL YOUNG SONG ADVENTURE
Tonight’s the Night
For a cowgirl in the sand
My Alabama apartment, looking like a hurricane had landed, made me, the quintessential southern man, realize that a man needs a maid. Straightening the place quickly, before the old laughing lady woke up, I could feel all of my old man’s years.
Last night she was slingin’ booze at the old watering hole, and I was singing my old barstool blues. I look her up and down, and realize she ain’t no natural beauty but that there comes a time when a man’s gotta either grab life by its fullest or walk on. With a dry smile, I say “Hey babe, this note’s for you,” and drop a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar. “Wanna be my motorcycle mama? We can go for a ride on that human highway all night long.”
Grabbing the C-Note, we had a couple of shots, and she says, “You and me, baby. Let’s go to your place and bang till the morning comes. Just look out for my love, Cortez the Killer. He’s usually packing his 45’s.”
Usually, being the loner that I am, my Harley only has a single seat. She jumped on the rear fender and wrapped her legs tight around me, and we rode that white line up to Sugar Mountain, to dance the old country waltz.
We rode down by the river to watch the harvest moon reflecting in the still water. I pulled out some herb, 100% homegrown, and we smoked and wished that we could sail away on a great big clipper ship.
Neil Young sings that welfare mothers make better lovers, but she was the best that I had ever been with. We made love all night, on the banks of that river, and after the gold rush, I felt helpless in her arms.
She was slow to wake in the morning, but she wasn’t too far gone. The smell of coffee brought her to life. We split the pot between us — coffee and Jack to start the day, with a couple of nice T-Bone steaks and fried eggs.
She said, “I have to go downtown.”
I joked, “It‘s a long walk home. You should stay a bit and we can see this town later in my trans-am.
“Honey, I’m just a fallen angel, and I have to get home to my man,” she replied. “He’s a soldier, and he’ll be home from Ohio any day now, driving his big ol’ Coupe De Ville.”
My heart dropped like a tonne of bricks. Right there was when my lonely heart breaks. So, showing a brave face, I pointed to my hawg, and gently said: “Ok, hun. Get back on it.”
It was twilight, and I rode her back to the dive bar where we had met, only the night before. I had the will to love, but she was in love with another man. She gave me a peck on the cheek, and I left, too lonely to even have a drink.
She was such a woman, I never did know her name. I remember her as my Pocahontas. She may have had a lotta love to give, but I ain’t going back for my peace of mind, but for her heart of gold. It may just be a hippie dream, but I think that it’s a dream that can last. I never thought that I’d be a married man, but she’s the girl to do it.
Motor City — Detroit — was where I’d heard she’d ended up. In an act of love, I rode on up there and pounded on her door.
“Babe, what you want me to do? I’m in the prime of life, and I’m waiting for you,” I said to her.
She replied, “You’re dreamin’ man. I was once an angel, but that time has passed. This life in the city has worn me out. It’ll never work. My heart is broken, and one of these days, it’ll just stop.” She shut the door, and I heard the lock slide shut.
Fuckin’ up, that’s all I ever do.
She always said one thing, don’t cry for me, because the ways of love are strange. While I hold back the tears, I realize she’s gone now. I thank Mother Earth for the memories, and babe, long may you run.
Now I ride the back roads at night, never wondering where is the highway tonight. Someday I will bite the bullet. Someday I will go back to her. Someday I will find her again. Maybe one of these nights…
If you haven’t noticed, this story is full to the brim of Neil Young's song titles. Seventy-six in 767 words, giving me a score of 10.12 Not the best score, but the story being told matters more than your score.
This story was inspired by Michael Whalen’s challenge,
that I discovered through Danielle Loewen’s story
and I believe she discovered it through Paul Combs’
and Aimée Gramblin’s
