Three lines of lyrics from the 1986 Johnny Paycheck-written Country music Classic known as "Old Violin" fit me the best on the day I absconded from Hermitage Hall.

Released on the Mercury Records label, "Old Violin" was recorded at the East Avalon Recorders Studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.

Those lyrics are:

"Well, I can't recall one time in my life
I've felt as lonely as I do tonight
I feel like I could lay down and get up no more"


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I LIKE MY PILLOW ROCK HARD, SOMETHING I CAN FIRMLY SETTLE MY THICK BLOND HEAD ON. Soft and squishy ones are not my cup of tea. Unable to drift off to Slumber Land, I watched an ant struggle to tote a wisp of grass. His labor bored me, therefore, his moments were numbered. I smirked and swatted the creepy-crawly with the palm of my hand. Not contented, I flicked the pest aside with a finger.

The blared horn of a passing truck was not loud enough to drown out the buzz of an aggravating mosquito. I realized the minibeasts nested in moist, stagnant bodies of water. Regardless of what the pesky nuisance claimed, the inner workings of my right ear were not the loathsome critter's private residence. From my viewpoint, I had no idea what triggered that truck's reaction.

I turned over on my back, interlocked my fingers, and placed them beneath my head. It did not take me long to recall three blocks north of where I bedded down I had turned right on Demonbreun Street, which in time became one of the main arteries through Downtown Nashville.

Some interesting history about the person Demonbreun Street was named after exists. His name was Jacques-Timothee Boucher, Nashville's first White citizen. His name became anglicized into Timothy Demonbreun. He was a French-Canadian fur trader, an American Revolutionary War Lieutenant, and an Illinois Territory Lieutenant-Governor.

Demonbreun was discovered in what was established as Fort Nashborough in 1778 by the Wataugas. These were frontier settlers from Elizabethton, Tennessee, who developed into the Volunteer State. The Wataugas were perhaps the first attempt by American-born colonists to form a democratic government independent of British rule prior to the American Revolution.

My throat parched from the walking I'd accomplished that afternoon, I ventured onto a Gulf gas station property. I saw the company's famous round orange disc logo sign that contained the bold blue lettering of its name. There were two stand-alone pumps with wide display screens, an eight-foot long rubber hose with a brass end for pumping gas, and a disc logo attached to the top. I had no money in my pockets, not even two pennies I could rub together for prosperity.

I discovered I had five sticky little fingers with an inclination to satisfy my needs. I strolled inside the building and hummed a Buddy Holley tune called "Peggy Sue." A brown-skinned clerk stood behind the counter. His eyes coal black, he had a flat, broad, aquiline Punjabi nose.

I noticed he donned a collarless, slim-fitting kurta that fell to his knees. The garment possessed a unique tie-dyed pattern. Recent study in my history class in school, when I paid attention at all, told me it was a Bandhani. I knew this pattern was created by plucking the cloth with the fingernails. In turn, this caused tiny bindings that formed figurative designs.

I told myself, "Sometimes, it does you well knucklehead to put forth a concerted effort to pick up what someone else is putting down. You know, ding-dong, listen." Though Big Bertha taught me a few, I could have used more lessons in that endeavor.

The Punjabi behind the cash register was distracted by a Black woman wearing a red, flower-patterned kimono. She attempted to purchase gasoline on a credit card that denied the sale. Like a bad headache, she grew more frustrated and obnoxious as they spoke.

"You better find a way to make this card work! I know there is still credit on this card!"

On edge, he explained much to her chagrin, "There is nothing I can do. You will need to contact our company headquarters in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania who issued you this card to find out why it will not allow your purchase."

Enraged, the woman bellowed, "Give me that worthless piece of crap!" She snatched the card out of his hand, puffed heavily, and blew out the door.

I thought to myself, "And, there she goes. Hurricane Mrytle!"

The only other customer in the store was an auburn-haired young woman. She had a baby in a stroller. Her desire was a carton of milk for the infant to drink. I watched her retrieve food stamps from her purse.

Made to myself, that act elicited the comment, "Must be nice to live on free food tickets."

Enough distractions occupied the clerk for me to remove a can of Pepsi from the cooler and head for the men's bathroom to consume its ice-cold contents. I entered an empty stall and closed its grey metal door behind me. In anticipation, I twisted the lock so I could be alone in privacy to enjoy my soda.

I sat down on top of the toilet seat and relaxed. The first time I'd done so all day. I popped open the tab on top of the can. Remember those funky little metal pieces Pepsi had on top of their sodas back then? Soon, a brown floatie magically appeared. Natural production everyone commits.

The cold liquid trickled down the back of my dry throat. It tasted as good as I knew it would. When done, I dropped the empty can into the toilet and waited for it to settle into the hole, then flushed the commode. Water began to overspill the bowl onto the floor. I leapt back out of the stall to avoid getting my boots soaked.

Gazelle swift, I exited the store. On my way out, the Punjabi stared at me. I'm sure he wondered what no good I had been up to? However, without proof he had no grounds to detain me.

Was I appalled by what I did? Let's see, Webster says appalled means, "affected by strong feelings of shock and dismay." Therefore, the answer was no. I was neither one of those. Although I never attended religious services, I was no moralizer. I left all that up to the preachers who visited Hermitage Hall on Sundays.

As I drifted off to fitful slumber, I felt like an exquisitely crafted Stradivarius, with its brilliant sound, about to be stowed away and never strummed again. I glanced in the mirror in the distant corner of my mind. That ancient question one often wonders in troubled times like these stared back at me. "Brett, where do you go from here?"

There wasn't a miniscule dime's worth of difference.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter Ten I will tell you about being devoured by a lion.