Another Dead Palm Tree

     It's all about Johnny Cash being a bad ass when he was young. It's all about Johnny and his crew dragging one of those vacuums that landscapers use to suck up leaves into June Carter's room and inhaling all of her shit, including the motel room bed sheet she had been standing on in dismay. And June began the dark process of trying to tame her man, but that was a hard and smoky beast to kill. And still to this day, when the winds dance at night, JC wishes he was crazy, and so do I.
     I had some business to take care of in another new city and all I owned was a rented car. I met a sweet little girl in the red light district downtown named Honey. Honey kept calling me sugar. I don't know why. She wasn't black coffee and she wasn't southern pecan pie. She was decaf cream and diet coke. She was plastic boots and a fake tattoo ripped off out of a gumball machine. She was the midwest moved west on the fast track to hell in a handbasket. She was a streetwalker with a cell phone but no home. But what she needed was a house.
     Honey came on to me from the beyond. Beneath the façade of some folks, you can see the mask of doubt and the danger that lurks beneath. You can see and smell and touch the death that waits behind the door and the more you can sense, the more you want. You can flip the coin any way you will, but it is dirt and truth and dark that you want and there is no avoiding it at times. Hold your head to the light. It is beautiful and direct. But it will burn out your eyes.
     I was minding my own business which is when you are bothered the most. She sat down and ordered a drink. Shirley Temple. Jack Daniel's. Janis Joplin. Jimmy Hendrix. 1-2-3-4.
     She (Honey) began rubbing her bare legs and the nape of her neck along me flashing her Charles Manson Tattoo. I knew I was in trouble. I knew I was in love. Wasted and unwanted and coffee and cream, sugar and spice. She sure was nice. She asked me if I wanted a date, which isn't precisely how I would have put it, but she got into my car, so I was in no position to argue. 5-6-7-8, who do we appreciate? For he is a jolly good fellow, but I am not. Army, navy, air force, marines and the last thing I would ever do is hurt you my sweetheart. Keep calling me sugar and I may forget all about all that haunts me. Ask me if I am a cop and make a grab for where it counts.
     Cut to the chase. I was in Honey's hotel. She was primping and preening and calling me sugar. I got my membership into the clubhouse and sailed on into the victory sun when there was a knock at the door. I smelt sour grapes. There was no particular set-up, but somebody had been. But before I would have to face the music my brain kicked in and I did whatever I had to do. I took whatever I could from her purse and figured on facing the accomplice. Her face looked sad and innocent and blue-eyed. She looked like she had once been someone's daughter. And as the rigor mortis all around me began to settle in, I felt less guilty and more gratified and high as a kite. The walls were white and I made the decision that I was going to love Las Vegas.

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