© 2014 sarahfortune.
Every time the seasons change
or a holiday sneaks up
(like Mr. Thanksgiving
is trying to do tomorrow)
I get a little homesick.
For my Midtown.
For my Memphis.
It looks like I’m not the only one.
My wonderful momma
misses home too and
she wrote about it in this
sweet little song.
Hope you enjoy it
as much as I do.
If you’re from Memphis,
I know you will.
hotel room song from kathy mcgregor on Vimeo.
Happy Thanksgiving ya’ll
and, Memphis, I promise
we’ll both see you soon.
I didn’t fully appreciate my life at nineteen.
In Midtown. In Memphis.
Looking back, through a full decade
I can see the fun that was had.
Impressed I made it through
with very little damage.
Escaped with just a couple
etched black tattoos.
My proud little midtown scars.
Nineteen meant a duplex with
a best friend, instead of a mom.
Bike rides at midnight with
tall boys of beer
and boys of all kinds.
Lucero shows at the Hi-Tone.
Standing up front with
whiskey sours and sweaty girls.
Arms around each other,
swaying and singing like best friends forever.
For the night everything was perfect.
Tomorrow we’ll be back to talking shit.
So-called rock stars at the Deli
in town recording at Ardent or Easley.
From Kate Moss to Cooper Young.
Wondering what the hell they think
of no one thinking about them.
Working the opening shift
at Otherlands on Saturday mornings.
Half the staff still three-quarters drunk.
Slinging bagels, downing coffee and
Tom Petty sing-a-longs.
Word at the coffee grinder
was that you got extra tips
if you were extra mean.
Black and white checkered walkway
leading into the Map Room doors.
Bottled beer and no IDs.
Flaunting our fashion
without much thought at all.
Tank tops from A-Schwabs
before the words American and Apparel
ever sounded cool.
Silk screens on well worn t-shirts,
thrifted on Summer Ave.
And the ugliest shoes ever
bought from those coffee shop tips
at the Oak Court Mall.
Weekday afternoons
sifting through seven inches
at Last Chance Records.
Then thumbing through LPs
at Shangri-La.
Adventures to the old bridge,
draped over the Mississippi.
Everyone knew about the door
a little less than half way across.
A broken lock and a ladder leading down.
We’d wait till dark when
the scary climb was well worth the view.
Laying on our bellies,
head hanging over the side.
Nothing between our young faces
and the steel blocks of barges
gently pushing past the city lights.
We’d end the night running
to the Arkansas line and back
just to say we did.
Ten years later and I’m officially planted
on the other side of that bridge.
The view is just the same.
Lots of love,
but always a little better
when you’re looking back.
As of this month
my car is officially
paid off.
A six year loan
on my first brand new car.
It’s finally, really
mine.
Kind of a big deal
seeing as how my
previous cars have been
anything but
new.
My first car was a
1964 Dodge.
Sounds much cooler
than it was.
Worked all summer
at the music store
it the Oak Court Mall.
Slinging CDs,
soft porn,
and cassette tape singles.
In a really ugly
polo shirt.
Saved my dollars,
and my dad did too.
Bought her from a family friend.
No one could tell if she was
green or blue.
Mystery paint felt like
scales.
Long and mean
like a gator.
I named her Allie.
Before we got her
up and running.
I sat still with my morning coffee
in the back seat waiting.
Memphis mosquitos
joined me through the
rear windows that actually
rolled all the way down.
The breaks never fully worked.
Took two feet
to slow me down.
And the gas pedal.
It nearly fell through to the street.
So my dad built me a new one
out of wood.
Cops pulled me over
in that thing
more times than I care to remember.
Once for blowing bubbles
out of the window
while driving with friends.
Cutest traffic violation ever.
Worst time was in Overton Park.
Early one morning,
heading towards the coffee shop.
Noticed a helicopter overhead
curiously taking my same path.
Shortcut through the park.
Red light at Poplar.
Pointed towards the Hi-Tone.
Suddenly surrounded by
a handful of police cars,
motorcycles,
and the chopper
still hovering above.
Frantic yelling instructed me to
put my hands up
as they slung open my car door.
Strangers riffling
through the notebooks and clothes
in the floorboard.
Turns out,
my car matched the description
of the getaway car.
From a bank robbery.
Realizing I could do no harm.
(not that kind anyway)
They left.
Left my doors still open,
tears in my eyes,
and my hands still in the air.
And really left me needing that
morning coffee.
Another incident,
no cops were there.
But they could have been.
Allie and I accidentally
ran over my good friend.
Twice.
But she’s okay.
Many more memories were made,
Some exciting.
(finding strange sleeping dogs inside)
Some romantic.
(the drive-in on Summer Ave)
Some boring as hell.
(downtown car inspection)
But it’s the physical detail I
remember the most.
Bench seat up front.
Useless seat belts,
just lap decorations.
And an oil leak that made me
look real tough
every three or four days.
Popping the hood &
checking it often.
My favorite was the
gear-changing-thing
on the dash.
Like driving a space-ship.
Pushing buttons and
pulling levers
just to make it go.
Of course the radio
was only AM.
But mostly that was
just perfect.
I abandoned Allie
in 2000 when I moved to
Washington D.C.
Lonely, rusting under a carport
in Southaven, Mississippi.
She sat until sold for
her pretty parts.
My second car was a
1981 El Camino.
And that is another story.
For another day.
