Waylon (42 page)

Now Bill, about that tax cut …
(courtesy Skipper Gerstel)

The CEO of Waylon G-D Jennings Productions.
(courtesy Beth Gwinn)

Robert Redford gives me and Willie acting lessons for
Electric Horseman, (courtesy Jimmy Ellis,
The Tennessean)

Hank Williams Jr. and I trade licks in April of 1987.
(courtesy Jerry Floyd)

On the
Hee-Haw
set with Minnie Pearl and Roy Clark.

“Happy Birthday to me …”

Neil Diamond has always been a special friend.

I feel privileged to be in these gentlemen’s company: Bill Monroe, Porter Wagoner,
Carl Smith, and Little Jimmy Dickens.

The Highwaymen in the studio with producer Chips Moman, 1989.

Christmas with Shooter. He’s all of eight years old.
(courtesy Beth Gwinn)

The Jennings Clan, post-me: (
l. to r.
) Terry, Josh, Debra, Taylor, Julie, Buddy, Kathy, Tomi Lynne, Jennifer, B.J., Josie, Deana, Shooter, Jessi. Not pictured
are Johnny, Whey, and Ricky,
(courtesy Billy Mitchell)

My bride on our silver anniversary,
{courtesy Billy Mitchell)

No, he just liked my music, and as a theatrical movie agent with offices on Rodeo Drive, he was here as a fan. Bill became
one of the brightest spots in my life. He represented Jim Garner, and as I got to know him, I was able to confide in him about
the growing financial mess in which I was finding myself.

Richie had spoken with him as well. I had put Richie in charge of overseeing my business, in the same way that I’d produced
records with him. I’d get it started and split, leaving him to clean up the loose ends. Only now, those loose ends were unraveling
quickly, and out on the road with me, being my drummer, he just couldn’t be in two places at once. Richie would come off a
series of dates, cross-eyed from touring, and there would be five pages of decisions to be made. I looked to him to make sure
it was working, but even though he had the responsibility, he couldn’t have a clue about what was happening.

That fall it had come to a screeching halt. Payroll was due, and the banks had stopped what wasn’t left of our money. I tried
to get ahold of Neil and he had disappeared. Don’t ask me where.

He had been supposed to get the money from somewhere. Don’t ask me where.

I was supposed to have been one of the top-earning entertainers of the seventies, and the money had vanished. Don’t ask me
where.

Where, where, where. It was like I had woken up from a long sleep on the bus, between towns, and for a second you look around
and don’t know where you are. Removed. And when you do realize, a sense of stepping outside yourself, seeing the whole map
of where you’ve been and where you might be heading, then you really wake up and realize you’re there. Shits Creek.

Richie sent Neil a telegram: “We’re up to our ass in alligators. Where the hell are you?” There was no answer.

It was Bill who told me how much trouble I was in. There was a lot of income, but it was being shuffled around with little
sense of direction or organization. Publishing money was loaning itself to road expenses, which were being financed by advances
on record royalties. No one was watching the store. Bills would pile up unopened; fan-club mail lay stacked in boxes. There
were sixteen bank accounts. Nobody knew what was going on, or was taking the time to add up one and one and see if it equalled
two.