Waylon (21 page)

I had gotten a Nudie suit one time; he was
the
tailor to the country-and-western stars, and while I didn’t want to be a flashy dresser, Merle Kilgore talked me into getting
outfitted when we were on a Hank Williams Jr. tour. I had a white one made, with just a little sparkle. I should’ve known
better. The first night I wore it was also the first night I’d taken uppers and downers together. Mix those white crosses
and red devils and you’re crazy. Loretta Lynn walked me all over the dressing room trying to sober me up enough to get out
there and sing.

That night, when I left the show, I went back to the hotel with a woman detective Barbara had put on me. I kept falling asleep.
When Barbara found out, she ripped the Nudie suit to shreds with a straight-edge razor. I found pieces of white sparkle for
weeks. Then she took a Martin guitar Chet gave me out of the case and smashed it against the wall. It looked like ten thousand
boxes of matches all over the floor. She just wanted to get back at me; that’s how knock-down drag-out she could be.

Barbara helped me out of a lot of jams, and I tried to forgive and forget. Maybe I thought I deserved whatever she put me
through. One time, working the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas, I went on a gambling jag and lost my whole week’s paycheck. I didn’t
even have money to pay the band, or enough cash to get out of town. Barbara wound up calling her millionaire daddy, and he
wired us a bunch of money so we could get to the next show.

It was just a constant battle. We’d fight on the phone; we’d fight on and off the road. All of my ex-wives hated what I did.
They were so jealous of the music. It was like another woman. They kept hoping I would give it up for them. And they were
right to be concerned; I wasn’t about to stop playing guitar to keep my home life together. I remember Duane Eddy talking
to Lynne, telling her she would have to grow with me in order for it to ever work. She had flat out told him she did not want
me to be a star. Lynne, or Maxine, and now Barbara, knew that music, the real Other Woman, was taking me away. It had to hurt.

I don’t blame them. I guess I left all my ex-wives, when you come down to it. They didn’t leave me. What I’d say to the lawyer
is “give it all to ’em”; I’ll make it somewhere else. I just wanted out. I don’t know why I just didn’t find some good-looking
woman, buy her a new house and a new car, and shack up for a little while and then go about my business.

Barbara is still a dear friend, along with her mom and brothers, and is still beautiful to this day. Even after we split up,
she’d come to my apartment to sleep over. I’d wake up in the morning and she’d be in bed with me, snuggling up. But she might’ve
died living with me. At the least, she would’ve killed a lot more guitars.

Sometimes, especially in a relationship with someone you love, you bring out different qualities. I brought out a meanness
in Barbara that I couldn’t believe. After a time, I knew that it was never going to work anymore, and I’d never be back. I
took her home, for the last time.

Then I went wild.

* * *

I was everywhere, all in a day that became night that became day again. I would never just go into a room. I went all over
it.

Curtis Buck was a crazy sonofabitch, and he ran around with me. While I was singing, he’d go find the girls, and if we needed
drugs, he’d find the dope.

I had two secretaries that didn’t know how to secretary. One—I called her Squirrely—was my driver. She couldn’t see as far
as the hood. She’d be up in the front seat with Curtis, wearing the cutest little chauffeur’s cap, and I’d be laying out in
the back seat with the other. Suddenly there’d be this bloodcurdling scream. “Look out!” Curtis would be hollering and waving
his arms. We’d be going around a truck on a curve with another truck aiming right at us! I thought, There ain’t much I can
do here. I’d just lay right back down, close my eyes, and pray for the best.

We’d pull up at a show. They’d get out of the car, all low-cut blouses, plenty of boobs, up-to-the-point miniskirts and black
hose, and the hillbillies would come running for miles around to get a glimpse of these girls. I’d tumble out of the back
seat, and they’d escort me to the stage. I had given up hope of ever being able to keep a marriage together.

If you saw the movie
Payday,
you’ll know where they got the idea. Me, the limousine, and the women, driving up and down the road, shooting at signs with
a .22 Magnum buntline. That’s what I do for a living.

One night I even outdid myself, talking this guy out of his wife in Cincinnati, Ohio. We were on a bill with Wynn Stewart
and Buck Owens. Wynn came running backstage saying “Goddammit, you’re not going to believe this girl about three rows back.”

Sure enough, I got out there and spotted her immediately. She was blonde-headed and beautiful and stuck out like an angel.
All the time I’m up there, she’s just going nuts when I’m singing, looking at me, giving me the eye. Sitting beside her is
some old boy who doesn’t understand what’s going on, or maybe he does.

After the show I went up to the promoter. “If you want me for nothing tonight,” I said, “you get that girl in here. It won’t
cost you a dime.” Sure enough, two minutes later she comes around the corner, with that guy right behind.

“I want to talk to you,” she says, all smiles, “but he won’t leave me alone.”

The guy she’s with is fit to be tied. “I know what she wants to do,” he hollers. “She don’t want to talk to you. She wants
to fuck you.”

I’m thinking ninety miles an hour. I said to him, “Why, what makes you think that?”

“We’re separated. We’re getting a divorce. I know that the only reason she came with me tonight was to see you and get to
meet you.”

I said, “Wait a minute, son. Girl, you go over there and wait.” I pulled him aside, put my arm around his shoulder. “Let me
tell you something. You got your blonde, and I have my blonde. I was fixing to get a divorce from my wife. She did me the
same way.” I made up a story about how she was always running off and everything. “And then, one day, I took her back home
to her momma and it all changed.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. He was dumber than a rock.

“She calls me begging to come back every day, and do you know why? Because one time I dropped her off and said that’s it.
You better let her do the walking when you leave. A woman can’t stand it when a man makes the first move.”

He considered that for a moment. You could almost see steam rising from his ears he was thinking so hard. Finally, he said,
“What do you think I ought to do?”

I closed the trap. I said, “Well, tell her to go to hell.”

“But we’re eighty miles from home.”

“That’s even better. Root hog or die, she’ll never forget it. She’ll be pounding your door down. She’ll have to hitch home
or find her own way. If I was you, I’d tell her to get fucked and walk out of here.”

The Jennings Clan, pre-me. That’s Grandpa Gus on the far right.

The Shipleys at the turn of the 1940s. I’m standing hand on head,
posing on the left in the second row.

Mom, Dad, Tommy, and I in McAllen, Texas.

First grade.

Daddy and his boys. By now James D. is the littlest
(Bo was still a couple of years away), and I’ve learned how to roll up
my jeans.

July 1958

My first signature model guitar.