Jukebox Dreams

Tim's favorite song is “House of the Rising Sun,” and he can make that beat up old Fender of his give you the blues. After a night of smoking, drinking, and jamming, we take his little Kawasaki 85 with the broken lights, and drive ten miles hugging the edges of dark country blacktops to the Highway 190 Truck-Stop. I cling to his wiry body like he hugs that guitar. He sings Van Morrison songs loud over the motorcycle’s tinny rumble. Visions of adoring fans in his head, I imagine.

The Highway 190 Truck-Stop stays opened all night, and the hamburgers are big, beefy, and greasy. We eat burgers, listen to the jukebox hits, and sing along with the songs, Tim cutting the air with greasy fingers.

“Someday,” he says between air solos. “That’ll be me on there.” He nods toward the jukebox, his long oily hair falling over his forehead. "I'll be A1."

A bleary-eyed trucker walks in, glares at us, and sits at the counter. He orders a cup of coffee and stares into it.

"Monkey shit music," he mumbles when a CCR tune crops up.

"You got a pretty voice," the homely waitress tells Tim, as she clears our mess. He tips her a quarter, and she smiles her appreciation, revealing yellow teeth and foul breath.

"Chicks always take to me," he says and shoots me a smile. "Someday, I'm gonna have them clawing my clothes off."

We pop fries into our mouths and nickels into the jukebox until the hot sun burns through the Louisiana fog. The trip home is hot and sweaty, and the burgers sit sour on my stomach. The motorcycle putters forward toward sleep and jukebox dreams.

Tim sings some T-Rex song he picked up at the truck stop. I cling to him and join in, but my voice sounds like an out-of-tune guitar.