Putnam County
- Tom Waits
I
guess things were always quiet
around
Putnam County
kind
of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts
of the
2-lane, that was stretched out like an
asphalt
dance floor where all the oldtimers would
hunker
down in bib jeans and store bought boots
lyin'
about their lives and the places that they'd been
suckin'
on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work
they's
be suckin' on Coca Colas
and
be spittin' Day's Work
until
the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
the
taverns would be swollen until the naked eye
of 2am,
and the Stratocaster guitars slung over
Burgermeister
beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs
jacknifed
over naugahyde stools and the
witch
hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,
the
pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
and
the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
wearing
Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder,
smells
so sweet
I elbowed
up at the counter with mixed feelings
over
mixed drinks
and
Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall
concentration
as they knit their brows to
cover
the entire Hank Williams Song Book
and
the old National register was singing to the
tune
of $57.57
until
last call, one last game of 8 ball
and
Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,
someone
come in say "Hey man, anyone got
any
Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?"
and
all the studs in town would toss 'em down
and
claim to fame as they stomped their feet
boasting
about being able to get more ass
than
a toilet seat.
And
the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords
were
coughing and wheezing and they
perculated
as they tossed the gravel
underneath
the fenders to weave home
a wet
slick anaconda of a two lane
with
tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'
with
a tool box and a pony saddle
you're
grinding gears, shifting into first
yea
and that goddam tranny's just getting worse
with
the melodies of "see ya later"
and
screwdrivers on carburettors
talkin'
shop about money to loan
and
palominos and strawberry roans
See
ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.
money
to borrow and goodnight kisses
the
radio spittin' out Charlie Rich
sure
can sing that sonofabitch
and
you weave home, weavin' home
leaving
the little joint winking in the
dark
warm narcotic American night
beneath
a pin cushion sky and it's
home
to toast and honey, start
up the
Ford, your lunch money's there on the
draining
board, toilet's runnin' shake the
handle,
telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal
where
the hell are my goddam sandals
and
the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
staring
down from the knick knack shelf
with
the parent permission slips for the
kids'
field trips
pair
of Muckalucks scraping across
the
shag carpet
and
the impending squint of
first
light, that lurked behind
a weeping
marquee in downtown Putnam
and
would be pullin' up any minute now
just
like a bastard amber
Velveeta
yellow cab on a rainy corner
and
be blowin' its horn, in every window
in town.